Teatro de los artes marcial

Wanna see something really funny? Catch some cheesy old Hong Kong chop-socky flick on Telemundo, dubbed in Spanish. Say, Invicible Armor, the synopsis of which reads, "Falsamente acusado de asesinato por un corrupto oficial, un hombre usa las artes marciales para limpiar su honor."

The truly disconcerting part is that I actually got the gist of it.

iMania

It was only as I was finding my way back here to begin this post that the irony of the previous post's title hit me. After two solid weeks of rain and one of the wettest springs in the state's history, Texas is anything but dry. Waterlogged, maybe.

I think we can safely declare that the past couple years' drought is safely over.

Anyway, with more storms in the forecast and after... um... sleeping a bit too late to get myself around in time to go riding with any of the local clubs, I'm planted in front of the TV, catching up with what's going on in the world.

The iPhone

I want to preface my remarks by noting that Apple's new superphone does look cool. I know that Bill has been salivating over this thing for months, and I expect Eric has been eyeing his new toy budget, as well.

BUT... I guess I'm not the gadget geek I used to be. I just don't get what's so special about a phone that plays music and has fancy scrolling graphics that people would feel compelled to camp out in long lines, in the rain, for a chance to buy one. Maybe I'm just cheap, because when I see all these ads touting phones that allow you to browse the web or watch TV shows from the comfort of your phone, all I can think is, "Wow. The air time for that must cost a bundle." So cheap that Turtle and I don't even spring for the extra $15/month that would allow us to make use of our camera phones.

Which leads me toward another rant about how devious it is to make camera or music phones cheap, but design them so that the only way of getting content on or off of them is to upload/download them using costly air time. But I'll resist the urge and move on.

In the news

Just when I had begun to think that Americans were starting to wise up, it looks like some of us have rediscovered the joys of frivolous litigation. When I heard about the recent $54 million (note: not $54M) lawsuit brought by a D.C. judge against a dry cleaner who misplaced a pair of his pants, I took it in stride. I view our nation's capital in much the same way as I do Hollywood, each being in its own way a sort of common sense black hole from which only ridiculousness can escape. [link]

The next story was about a woman who is suing Mars, the makers of Starburst fruit chews, claiming that, "about 3 chews and it literally locked my jaw… and it just literally pulled my jaw out of joint." [link]

Lady, you've been around long enough and have eaten enough candy to have experienced Sugar-Daddy, Tootsie Roll, and Laffy Taffy (i.e. "old-timer candy"). If you can't figure out that something like Starburst could be hazardous to your crowns, you probably should be required to wear a helmet when walking.

Literally.

Dry Spell Outlasts Dry Humor. Film at 11:00

I know, it's unconscionable to go as long as I have without posting, but while my current work situation doesn't provide much in the way of entertaining anecdotes, I'm pleased to report that I seem to have appeared on my boss's boss's radar. Is it presumptuous of me to dream that I might someday battle my way out of the cubicle and into an office again?

Maybe not, but I'm far too occupied with exceeding expectations (and getting noticed for it) to concern myself with that, just now.

Meanwhile...

I rediscovered some bicycling poetry I wrote a couple years ago. Since I can't seem to keep track of this stuff, I'm archiving it here.

There once was a C++ coder
Who was known for his powerful odor.
He said, "I commute
And it's hot out, to boot;
But my bike, she's content 'cause I rode 'er."

I'm a big fan of Harry Graham, so...

Willie up the hillside spun,
The price his burning hamstrings paid.
When halfway up he said, "I'm done."
Poor William didn't make the grade.

Willie on a bike of red
Bonked because he had no Gu.
He wore no helmet on his head,
And now he's dead: he bonked it too.

And a wee limerick...

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose bike was so tough he could huck* it.
He rode off the edge
Of a very high ledge—
They retrieved his remains with a bucket.

* A mountain biking term meaning to... well, throw oneself off a cliff without a second thought, basically.

Ride report: Collin Classic (McKinney, TX)

The 16th Collin Classic was a very different ride from the 14th Collin Classic I first took part in, back in 2005. That one was beastly hot, the 50-something mile route was crazy with large-aggregate chip seal, and I was still suffering on a DF bike. After what seemed at the time like an ungodly amount of climbing, we had to battle up one of the vicious hills on the frontage road running south along US-75—only to arrive at McKinney High School to find that the Chipotle eats we'd been promised had been replaced with jelly sandwiches or rubbery hot dogs. Some people were irate because the t-shirts had run out, and they'd been given headsweats instead.

The Classic took a lot of knocks that year, and the ride director has since worked very hard to address the criticisms. In 2006, there was a lot less chip seal, the giant hill at the end had been deleted from the route, and there was pizza and fajita tacos for afters.

This year, the improvements to the 55-mile route (in fact, 53.72 miles) continued. There were still plenty of hills to climb, but I can't remember a ride route that had such a generous portion of smooth, well-maintained pavement. There was a small amount of chip seal, but it didn't feel particularly rough to me. Either it had been broken in, or running my tires a couple PSI softer this year helped. There was no wind to fight, and the heat wasn't too bad.

I had another very good day.

Mr. Strada, Corsa Ken, Mrs. Strada, and a boy named Foo.
(Photo courtesy of www.bicycle-stuff.com.)

I started off with The Stradas and Corsa Ken, but that didn't last more than 100 yards. Thanks to the crush of riders and a mechanical glitch involving Mrs. Strada's computer sensor, I quickly became separated from The Stradas. Not long after, I lost Ken as well. Without any social governor to keep my hammerhead wanna-be tendencies in check, I set about the business of passing... well, anyone between me and a vacant stretch of road. I hadn't started out feeling particularly spry, but my legs warmed up and the HRM showed an average around 160 bpm (not unreasonable, for me). By mile 30, the crowd had thinned slightly, and I pulled in to the rest stop to wait for the Stradas so we could regroup. When they arrived, we compared computer readings and found we'd been averaging 18.5 mph to that point.

A bit further down the road, Mrs. Strada took a spill at a railroad crossing and got banged up a bit. She's a trooper, though, and after taking a few minutes to clean her injuries, we were all back on the road. We all made it across the finish line at around 3 hours and 15 minutes, in plenty of time to chow down on questionable-looking (but muy delicioso) soft tacos filled with a mixture of eggs, potatoes, and some sort of meat-like substance that may or may not have been chicken.

It was in the cafeteria that I finally caught up with LanceNotStrong, Allez, and Allez's husband. I'd run into rcarlino before the ride, and he said Lance was looking for me, but I never was able to spot their group during the ride. I took the opportunity to interrupt their conversation for a few minutes before leaving them to analyze the contents of their tacos.

Notwithstanding my glowing review of the Wild Ride, the 16th Collin Classic might have replaced it as my best for-pay ride experience of this season, if the route had been about 10 miles longer and if I'd spent less time separated from my riding buddies. As it is, I'm pretty pleased at having finished a ride of that length, with hills, with an 18.1 mph rolling average.

On the juice

Lest any of you be tempted to suspect that I'm kidding about the pickle juice that's become increasingly popular with cyclists over the last year or so, I present Exhibit A.

Or maybe Exhibit P. Or D. Just... look at the picture.

I know what you're thinking, because I thought the same thing: "Eww. Nasty." And yes, all else being equal, you won't catch me lounging in front of the TV, sipping this stuff after a hard day at work. That's what a nice, cold dunkelweisen is for.

On the other hand, when I'm 40 miles into a hilly bike ride and sweating like a pig, this stuff is a real picker-upper. Still doesn't taste great... but better.

Meanwhile...

I found this on my camera while retrieving the picture of the pickle juice. Turtle's out of town for the weekend and may enjoy this shot of her baby girl.

Ride report: Mesquite Rodeo Ride (Mesquite, TX)

I've been back on the bike and participating in charity rallies since 2004, but I had never tried the Mesquite Rodeo Bike Ride before. At the urging of the Stradas and a couple of DF buddies from the Plano club, I signed myself up for the 56-mile course. Turtle signed up for the 20.

It takes the two of us a bit longer than most to get our collective show on the road and to get unloaded and set up, so we arrived at the Resistol arena (or Mesquite Convention Center... whatever) at around 7am. As a result, we got a prime handicap parking spot next to the hotel and set about setting up her handcycle and my bike. And then we waited, watching for the RBENT bunch we were supposed to meet. And waited. By a few minutes before 8:00, Turtle had returned from her pre-ride pit stop, and we still hadn't seen a single familiar face on a recumbent. I later learned that this was because everyone else had parked on the complete opposite side of the convention center.

But no matter. With a few minutes to spare, we made our way to the starting pack where we got Turtle introduced to a couple RBENT folks doing the short route, and I hooked up with my bunch. The start was... awkward. Fred Flintstoning it up a grade to start on a wet street with a bunch of high-strung DF riders is not the ideal way to begin a ride, but we managed and set about picking our way through the pack toward clear air. The Stradas and I quickly got separated from the rest of our group.

Early on, I was impressed with the traffic control, not only for the motorists but also in the way that we cyclists were funneled to where we needed to be by means of liberal application of road cones. Sure, it made things a little dodgy having to at the same time avoid cones knocked over by inattentive riders and greasy-looking puddles on the streets—but there were half a dozen intersections and lane transitions that would have been much less safe without them. Route layout and intersection were, with few exceptions, better than for the Wild Ride, and that's saying something. I thought the route was a nice mix of urban and country riding, and while I could have done without some of the teeth-rattling, multiply-patched sections of pavement, sometimes that's just the price you pay for beautiful scenery and the not-entirely-unpleasant tang of cow poo in your nostrils.

Photos Copyright © 2007 by flyinglazboy

The route was, at once, less hilly than I'd heard in the past and more hilly than more recent reports had led me to believe. Maybe it was just that I was having an off day (or feeling the effects of not having ridden in nearly two weeks), but it seemed like we did an awful lot of climbing for the less than 1500 feet of elevation gain the ride is supposed to have. But it was all good, and the best part is that instead of getting smacked by the thunderstorms that were predicted, we got a nice, sunny day.

And Blue Bell ice cream for afters.

I kind of wish that there had been a chance to log my sixth metric century (100 km = about 62.5 miles) of the year, but given that I thought I might have to downshift to one of the shorter routes because of the weather, 56 miles and change is just fine. Motorists were sharing the road nicely (except the woman who nearly dislocated her shoulder rolling down her window to spit and scream obscenities at us), we didn't have any unpleasant encounters with racer boys, and the company couldn't have been better. Unless...

Nah. Scratch that. I don't know if Jessica Alba even knows how to ride a bike.