Populaire(ty) Non-Contest

After nearly a season's worth of encouragement from my friends and riding partners, The Stradas, I finally took my first taste of randonneuring. Granted, it was only a 100K (≅ 62.5 miles) “populaire” – next to nothing for these folks, many of whom hardly consider it worth getting out their bikes for fewer than 100 miles – but it gave me a sense of this type of riding.

We met in a school parking lot in the little town of Princeton, Texas. There, we signed our liability waivers and were each given a small, folded card printed with spaces to have initialed at each of the checkpoints along the route. To me, this seemed like a rather unnecessary bit of bookkeeping, but for the folks who are into this sort of ultra distance riding, the cards used to verify the miles they've ridden so they can earn points and win awards. At the end of the ride, each rider places his card in a freezer bag tucked under the wiper blade of the ride organizer's car so that he can award points – and also so that he has a head count of who made it back to the start.

For me, the ride was not unlike the training rides that I've done out around Celina with The Stradas. Unlike the pay rides, there were no huge crowds of inattentive cyclists to dodge and no racer wanna-bes. Instead there were laid-back ultra distance riders like RAAM veteran Mark Metcalfe who, despite his legendary status around these parts, was as accessible and nice as they come. For these riders, it's not about how fast they can go or how quickly they can ride the legs off the rest of the group. It's about pacing themselves, riding long, and enjoying the camaraderie and scenery along the way.

As recumbent numbers increase, some wedgie riders might start to feel surrounded; but the LSR folks don't seem to mind. (That's me on the far right, bringing up the rear as usual.)

I'm a long, long way from being strong enough for the kinds of distances these folks ride on a regular basis. Heck, I can't even figure out the differences between the types of rides, with names like “fleche”, “brevet”, “permanent”, and “audax”. It's all just so exotic and… well, French. But I'm glad I went out to get a little taste of what my friends are always on about.

P.S. – Some of you may be looking at the picture above and thinking, “See there? Those blasted bicyclists are always out there riding in the middle of the road when they're supposed to be single file.” True enough, but the picture you don't see is the one where the guy in the back has just hollered “Car back!” and the whole group immediately and smoothly merges back into a single line.

They like me! They really like me!

Okay, maybe that's overstating things just a bit, but I received an e-mail this morning from my manager that brightened my day. He says that I, along with the rest of my immediate project team, will not be among those to be laid off. I don't have any other details, since I've been off this week, trying to burn some floating holidays that I'll lose if I don't use them in a hurry. But knowing that I'm not about to become an unemployment statistic does a lot to settle my nerves.

Your prayers are working. Thank you.

()wn3d

I guess it's that time of year again. I learned last week that the company that acquired my employer a little over a year ago has itself been acquired. And all that that implies.

Right now, I'm enjoying the rudderless feeling that comes with not knowing whether or not I'm going to be one of the people who receives a job offer from the new owners. I guess I'm not overly concerned, since the buyer keeps saying, “expansion, not consolidation”; but I, along with my mortgage lender, will be a lot happier once I have an offer in hand. Meanwhile, it's like a ghost town around the office as many try to get in under the wire before the acquisition transaction closes and they lose unused vacation carried over from last year.

It's eerie.

The good news, assuming that I get an offer, is that our new owner is a much larger company employing tens of thousands of developers in lots of locations world wide. We're getting very little specific information from them yet, but from the provided FAQs and what we've been able to dig up by googling, it sounds like a positive change. Their dress code is relaxed, they're agreeable to employees working from home a couple days a week, and their medical plan is rumored to be much better than the one we have now. They state in their press release that they're planning to [*gasp*] pour money into our R&D right away, and they even provide educational reimbursement for courses applicable to our jobs. This in contrast to the current company, which was extremely frugal and whose CEO liked to brag that he knew nothing about software development.

I'm cautiously optimistic, although I said the same thing when we were bought this last time. Time will tell, but I have to get that letter offering me continued employment before I can stick around to find out. The letter that will tell me my fate is supposed to arrive around July 17. Fingers and prayer beads crossed.

Ride report: Collin Classic (McKinney, Texas)

The weather report for the 17th Collin Classic was for a 30% chance of rain with a high of 95 °F. No surprises there; the Collin Classic has a history of being the first ride of the season that really makes heat management an issue. I've participated in this ride each year since 2004, and I can recall a couple years when I took a little too long on the course and barely managed to drag myself back to the starting point under my own power. It usually ends up being hotter than predicted, and because she has had overheating problems* on this ride in the past, Turtle elected to skip it this year.

The start of the ride is only about 10 miles from my driveway, so I got up at my usual 5:20, took my time getting ready, and still arrived at 6:45. Plenty of time to get a good parking spot, pick up my ride number, and watch for people I know to arrive. Speaking of which, it's interesting to me to see how many more recumbent riders there are each year. In 2006, when I first started riding my recumbent, I knew pretty nearly all of the other recumbent riders I saw on the charity ride circuit. Now, they – we – seem to be popping up everywhere, and I no longer know everyone.

Richard, another of the RBENT gang, was parked just across the aisle from me, and we spent some time socializing. I had made plans to start out the ride with Jason and The Stradas, but they didn't get there as early as I did and had to park at a secondary location. Fifteen minutes before the start of the ride, cars were still streaming in. The organizers announced that it was not looking good for an 8:00 start, because we couldn't go until all the cars were off the road and parked. I thought that this delay might allow me to find my group, but it didn't work out that way and I started on my own.

It was sunny as we headed out, but the sky started to look dark and ominous about 10 miles into the route (see the route map, if you want to play along at home). As I passed the second break point at Valdasta (≅ 17 mi.), it was pretty dark. I thought about stopping to remove my sunglasses and turn on my blinky taillight but didn't. The pack hadn't yet thinned much, and I didn't want to have to stop and merge again. I think it was somewhere between the second and third break points that I crossed paths with RCarlino and got to visit with him for a couple miles before we got separated in some rolling hills.

By the third break point (≅ 28 mi.), it was so dark that some riders who had headlights were switching them on. Headlights, for Pete's sake! But I was averaging over 17 mph and feeling good, so I didn't stop.

A couple miles later, at around Blue Ridge, the first fat raindrops began plopping on and around us. And then the sky opened up. Within a minute, we were straining to see in the dark, through sheets of rain and steamy, droplet-covered glasses. Most riders slowed; others (the usual suspects) insisted on whipping by and then cutting back in front to spray huge rooster tails in our faces. Meanwhile, the more sensible of us did our best to stay upright and watched for cracks and debris that might be obscured by the water. And at least one of us wished he'd stopped to remove his sunglasses and turn on his blinky taillight.

As I approached Climax, I was soaking wet and shivering.** The temperature had dropped significantly, and the sleeveless jersey I'd worn in anticipation of stifling heat no longer seemed like a good idea. The water that filled my shoes was running out the heels, into my socks, and down my legs. My seat pad was full of the dirty water being thrown up by the rear wheel and through the mesh of the seat. It squished audibly as I moved. As the cool air moved across the saturated chamois in my shorts, I was reminded of George Costanza's protest: “I was in the pool! I was in the pool!”

This time, I pulled in to the rest stop. At around 35 miles out and after battling the rain for nearly 10 miles, I was ready for some pickle juice and a rest. I ran into Nelson (another RBENT buddy) and felt envy as I noted that he had fenders fitted to his Bacchetta Corsa. Meanwhile, I listened as a 30-something man pleaded with the driver of one of the supply trucks to give him a ride back to the start. The driver explained that he couldn't oblige, because it was a safety issue; but there was a look in his eyes that suggested he might be more afraid of a stampede, should he say ‘yes’.

With the rain still hammering down in sheets, I got back on my bike and carefully pulled out of the rest stop. With the thunder rumbling in the distance, I kept thinking of something I'd heard from some meteorologist or another: “Just because you don't see the lightning doesn't mean you're safe. If you can hear the thunder, you're within range to be struck.” Nice.

And then the rain stopped. A couple miles later, the sun came out. I spotted a familiar mostly-pink bike and a Liquigas jersey ahead, and rode up to wait for a break in the riders' conversation so I could say hello to Allez and Lance NotStrong. After a couple minutes – about the same time as Allez and Lance figured out who I was – I heard Jason and The Stradas calling to me from behind, and we rode on together to complete the route.

Per the Collin Classic web site, one of the annual challenges for the organizers is to find new roads for the ride. Every year, Collin County repaves more of the smooth country roads with filling-loosening large-aggregate chip seal, so “Bikin' Mike” Keel and his helpers should be applauded for their efforts. There was some chip seal, but with the exception of one short medium-rough stretch, it was smooth, smooth, smooth. The chicken soft tacos after the ride were tasty, and there were enough for everyone. I don't really need another ride t-shirt, but considering that I was still very damp from being rained on, I was grateful to have the one that came in my ride packet. It was nice to have something dry to change into before going into the air-conditioned high school to eat.

Despite the seeming chaos before the start, this 17th Collin Classic was as well organized as any of the five I've been a part of. Every year, the organizers listen to the feedback they get from the participants, and the effort they put into addressing complaints is a big part of what makes this one of the premier rides in the area, year after year.

Summary

Distance: 53.52 miles
Total time: 3 hours, 8 minutes
Average speed: 17.5 mph
Average/maximum heart rate: 162/188 bpm


* Because of the level of her spinal cord injury, Turtle doesn't sweat from her upper sternum down.
** I know who you are, and you can just stop it. Break point four was at the town of Climax, TX.

Can't we all just get along?

A few months ago, the Norton Internet Security package that came installed on my laptop popped up a window and informed me that a free upgrade to the 2008 version was available. I figured this meant that Symantec was dropping support for the product I had installed, so I accepted and installed the 2008 upgrade.

I should have known better.

Since installing Norton Internet Security 2008, the most useful Norton program I have is the Norton Software Removal Tool – a Symantec utility that eases the surprisingly tricky task of eradicating their products from a computer. I've had to remove and re-install no fewer than six times because LiveUpdate failed and corrupted the installation. When this happens, Norton basically shuts down all access to e-mail servers, and the only way to clear the problem is to reboot. This is a hassle, since Norton Internet Security 2008 takes around 5 minutes to load.

“Why don't you just uninstall it and use something else?” you may be wondering. That's a fair question, and the answer is that I'm stupid. One of the other helpful features Symantec has implemented is an auto-renewal service that you're opted into by default when you install Norton. I forgot to log on to the Symantec site and opt out, so when I accepted the free 2008 upgrade, Symantec considerately signed me up for another year. I've been reluctant to simply flush away the $60 Norton subscription and pay another $50 for the fast, reliable ZoneAlarm Internet Security Suite.

So, this morning I'm uninstalling and reinstalling Norton Internet Security 2008. Again.

To add to my frustration, I discovered this article on WindowsSecrets.com:

Norton software conflicts with Windows XP SP3

Useful information, unless one doesn't stumble upon it until after he's applied SP3 without first uninstalling Norton.

It's a little troubling that computer software has become so complicated since the halcyon days when, despite having to tweak autoexec.bat and config.sys files, I actually had some idea what was going on in my computer. And who knew that the vandalism-by-virus would become such a problem – even for those of us who don't download cracked software from questionable bulletin board systems – that despotic anti-virus software would dominate the entire system?

None for me, thanks

I'm sure the notion of being able to interact with your Windows computer by poking and stroking the display sounds really great to a lot of people. Not me. I find overzealous co-workers' fingerprints on my monitor only slightly less irritating than the wingnut on the other side of my cubicle wall, who has recently added thunderous flatulance to his extensive repertoire of humming, slurping, pen-clicking and loud personal phone calls (in Mandarin).

I know everybody wants to be like the iPhone™ – but come on. No touchy, please.

Be Afraid

Okay, I get it. By the end of the summer, we spoiled Americans will be shelling out $6 for a gallon of gasoline. The Europeans must be giggling themselves silly, and they probably have the right. After all, even I (arguably an American) am appalled (chagrined. disgusted.) when I see all my fellow road hogs out there guzzling a couple dinosaurs a day, just so that they can drive their Expeditions, Yukons, and [*hack*] Hummers. And why? Because a whole bunch of us – none of my readers, I'm sure – are selfish jerks who would rather drive by intimidation than cooperation. Face it: when you can drive over top of a Yaris, why bother to use your turn signals or wait until it's safe to merge?

Uh… where was I? Oh yeah. Gas prices.

Everything's getting more expensive, and the evening news says it's all because of the rising fuel prices. At the same time, I'm working longer and harder, and my skinflint employer has recently rewarded those efforts by giving me half the usual less-than-inflation-rate increase that I've been accustomed to for the past 17 years. So, even though my little Dorian gets 29 mph to the gallon on the highway; even though the relocation of my company's offices knocked about 20 miles a day off my commute; and even though I can (in theory) work part of the time from home – I've been trying to think of how I can cut back on the amount of money leaking from my tailpipe every day.

You'd think that the answer to the problem would be pretty obvious for a bike geek like me: ride the bike. And I thought about it. The problem is that the neighborhoods between my Point A and my workplace's Point B are of that new design that creates a labyrinthine tangle of loops and cul de sacs best described by the quaint rural expression “you can't get there from here.” At least, not without leaving the side streets. It's great for reducing cut-through traffic in the 'hood, because it forces through traffic to use the main roads; but that's not so great for bicycle commuting. Taking the main roads on a bicycle during rush hours? No thanks. I have a wife and two kittens who need me.

The air-powered car is still some time away, and I don't really think I'll see the Jetson-esque flying cars we were promised back in the '60s. So what's left? A recent Google search pretty much tells you everything you need to know about why you (and my wife and, God bless her, my mother) should Be Afraid. Desperate times may require desperate measures.

Ironic, isn't it? Anne just got a bicycle, and now I'm considering a motorcycle.

Roll on...

In 2001, Turtle and I were conducting our long-distance courtship and doing our part to keep TWA in business. A typical visit had me catching a flight to St. Louis on Thursday after work. We'd spend the weekend trying to soak in as much of each other as we could before Turtle dropped me off at the airport and send me back to Texas on Sunday afternoon. It got to be pretty routine, but there was one Sunday at the airport that sticks with me.

I was making my way briskly toward my gate when an athletic-looking young man blew past me in a wheelchair. And then two more, hot on his (w)heels. It was the sort of thing that caught my attention in those early days of getting to know my favorite wheelchair athlete, and I wondered what their story might be. But I didn't have to wonder long. When I arrived at my gate, I found the same three boys and about another half dozen besides, all milling about in wheelchairs and carrying duffel bags on their laps.

A basketball team.

Having put Turtle on a number of flights, I knew the early boarding drill and wasn't at all surprised when the whole pack of them headed down the ramp to board the plane about 15 minutes before the rest of us were called. Eventually, it was my turn to shuffle down the narrow aisle of the plane to my seat. Shuffle a few steps. Wait. Shuffle. Wait. Wait.

I craned my neck to see what was holding up the line. Instead of the usual clueless traveler trying to shove a foot locker into the overhead compartment, the hold up was young man hauling his heavily-braced legs down the aisle and laughing as he harassed a couple teammates already in their seats. A fifty-ish man ahead of me twisted in his seat to scowl at the boy.

“All right, that's enough,” he said firmly. “Find your seat and park it.”

The boy in the braces smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, Coach.”

The line started moving again, and I realized that I had the window seat next to the coach. I paused for a moment, giving him a chance to pull his legs back or half stand to let me by. When he did neither, I glanced down and noticed his wasted legs – at about the same time as he caught me at it.

That's how I met Jim Hayes, coach and founder of the UTA Movin' Mavs wheelchair basketball team.

During the flight, we had a very interesting conversation. He told me about his work with the team and about the tournament they were returning from. I told him about Turtle and her wheelchair racing.

Last evening, I was watching the news and learned that Jim Hayes had passed away this past Saturday, after a brief illness.

This evening, Anna Nicole Smith and Britney Spears were in the news again, and it struck me as very unfair that such shallow, wasted lives seem to get all the attention and that truly worthwhile, inspirational ones go largely unheralded. I know that this posting won't do much to balance the scales; but a little additional recognition for a life well spent is the least I can do for Coach Hayes. If I feel richer, having only spent an hour with him, I can only imagine the impact he must have had on the lives of those who really knew him.

The long and winding road '08

As I look back on last year's post-ride report, I can see that I waxed rather poetic about my first MS 150 experience. This year's ride, though no less deserving, won't get quite the same treatment mostly because it's more difficult this year to find the time to wax.

Last year, we had rain the first day, high winds the second day, and generally gloomy weather all weekend. This year, we had two beautiful sunny days, and the winds were relatively kind to us. Even on the first day, when we bucked a headwind for the first half of the day, at least it was the first half of the day. The weather was slightly cooler this year, which balanced the sunshine and made for very comfortable riding weather.

If it sounds like I'm spending a lot of time talking about the weather, maybe it's because as I type this, the view out the window of my office building is of heavy rain, dark as night except for frequent flashes of lightning. This could have been our fate for the MS 150 – but it wasn't.

I can't say enough good things about my Wheeler Dealer teammates and the time we spent together on and off the road. My plan when I recruited Mr. and Mrs. Strada to ride with us this year was to form a three-Bacchetta juggernaut. I always have a blast riding with those two, but while they spent the first few months of the year doing long-distance rides in excess of 100 miles, I spent my weekends and evenings sequestered at a keyboard, desperately trying to keep my head above the alligators. So the bad news was that I was in no shape to keep up with them for the MS 150. The good news was that I fell in with Squirrelly Girl and a couple of our new team members and had a great time with them for the better part of both days.

This year, there were eight of us all together as we rolled into the Ft. Worth city limits, and it was an incredible feeling to finish those last 100 yards to the finish as a group. Our tireless manager shuttled us off to stow the bikes on the truck and see to our carbohydrate replenishment needs before heading back to the finish line to cheer our remaining two teammates across the finish line.

I've struggled all year with my climbing and was feeling pretty apprehensive about the second day and those nasty hills I remembered from last year. But in the end, the only half hill I had to walk was the same one I had to walk last year. The same ones I ground my way up last year, I ground my way up this year. My first day rolling average was within a tenth of a mile per hour of last year's first day, and thanks to the lack of a 25 mph headwind my second day average was actually .7 mph faster this year.

So, another 157.4 miles under the wheels. More importantly, I was able to raise nearly $945 for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society – nearly double last year's total.

Correction...

I received my accounting statement yesterday, and it shows my fundraising total to be $977. Maybe someone sneaked a check past me by sending it directly to the MS Society.

Making adjustments

I've been having a disappointing amount of trouble (or a troubling amount of disappointment, perhaps) getting my climbing legs this year. Last season, I felt like a mountain goat; this year, I just feel like an old goat. I haven't had to walk this many hills in the entire time since I switched to the recumbent bike.

To say I've been feeling dispirited is an understatement. Turtle's gotten tired of hearing me kvetch about feeling like a loser, so when my recumbent-riding buddies, The Stradas, told us how ecstatic they are with their chiropractor's work with Mr. Strada's IT band and Mrs. Strada's back, she made an appointment for me and made me promise to keep it.

So I did. Yesterday, after work, I showed up at the chiropractor's office and spent half an hour filling out reams of forms promising that no matter how severely I might become temporarily or permanently disabled, I wouldn't hold the practitioner responsible. No big deal, I thought. It's not as if I'm here to have my broke-down neck and back worked on. He's just going to help me clear the lactic acid from my legs.

After a while, I was shown to the examination room. The doctor came in and I was immediately struck by how triangular he was. From shoulders to waist, like a pyramid stood on its head. Neck like a bull's; biceps as large as my thighs.

“Haveyoubeentoachiropractorbefore?” he asked, speaking so rapidly that I had to play the question back in my head before I understood what he'd said.

“No,” I said. Then, ignoring the little voice that warned me not to provoke someone who twists necks for a living, I felt somehow compelled to add, “I've always felt like chiropractors were more or less on a level with witch doctors.”

He smiled, flashing me his perfect, too-white teeth. “Ah,” he said, completely unperturbed. “I'lljusthavetoseewhatIcandotochangeyourmind,won'tI?”

He had me lie face-down on the padded table and told me he was going to do his very best to get me fixed up. Now we're cooking, I thought. Work those hamstr–

CRRUNCH!!

“Unf!” I said. Holy Mother of Pearl!! I thought.

“Now we're cooking,” Dr. Crusher said.

“Hey, I–”

CA-RRUNCH!!

“What the–”

KRAKK!

Well, you get the idea. The good news is that we're still a one-paraplegic household. The better news is that last night I had my first full night of sleep (without the aid of drugs) since last September's bike crash.

I went back today for my second session and informed Dr. Crusher that, in light of last night's pain-free sleep, he'd advanced a couple positions up the line of respectability, past voodoo priests and snake oil salesmen to just ahead of acupuncturists. He smiled, crunched my back and neck a bit more, and then went to work on my legs.

Dinner in the Sky

And you thought eating at Jack In The Box was a death-defying act.

Dinner in the Sky

Ruffled but unscathed

Spring in Texas means storms. Lots of storms. Noisy, windy, disconcerting storms in such quantities that one is tempted to mute the alarm on the weather alert radio just to avoid being wakened every 15 minutes, as some squall line or another claws its way inexorably eastward from Weatherford to Paris. “One” being me, in case that one got by you.

So it was business as usual when last night's news was filled with dire pronouncements of thunderstorm and tornado watches – and yet something told me I should unmute the weather alert radio before going to bed. And sure enough, the thing started going off at around 3:45 to tell us that Ft. Worth was getting hammered. I put it back on standby and got back in bed. The weather alert went off again a short time later, this time to inform us that the storm was dropping large hail and threatening funnel clouds in the neighboring county. This time, I put on my glasses and turned on the TV to see what the radar said.

The radar was very red with lots of little spinny things indicating areas of rotation that were moving at about 60 mph toward my little town. The radar was telling me, "Roust the Turtle out of bed, grab the kittens, and get ye to the guest bathroom away from the windows. Take ye also the little Casio TV and a candle.

“P.S. - Don't forget matches.”

About five minutes later, the storm hit. I wasn't sure if the roaring was the wind, or hail, or just a whole bunch of rain; and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. The power went out, so I lit the candle and switched the TV over to batteries. By 4:15, it sounded safe to come out and go back to bed.

I rolled out of bed about 7am – an hour and a half past my usual weekday wake-up time. The power was still out, and as long as that was the case I wasn't going to work anyway. I pulled on a pair of jeans and headed outside, bracing myself for the sight of tree branches and shingles and sections of fence lying in the street. Instead, I was relieved to discover that not only was my house and yard intact, but so were the neighbors' places.

When I heard voices down the cul de sac, I shuffled that way and found one of the neighbor ladies and her kids taking stock, as I was. She was on the phone with the power company and had been, off and on, since 5:30. I successfully fought off the temptation to observe that the power company, having taken down her report once, might just have more pressing concerns than answering her repeated phone calls. Across the street, a large trampoline lay, mangled, in the middle of the entrance to the alley, apparently having failed to stick its landing after a successful leap to freedom over a back yard privacy fence.

“Ah well,” said the trampoline's owner, who had just come outside. “We were wanting to get rid of that thing anyway.” When we and her son picked up the trampoline to move it out of the alleyway, it dutifully fell to pieces.

“Well, there you go,” I said. “So much for having to disassemble it.”

One of the neighbors said that the expensive new development three or four miles to the west of us had been hit hard and that she'd heard that a category one tornado had touched down there. I said a little prayer of thanks and headed back to my undamaged home where my wife and pets were dry and safe to wait for the power to come back on.


Now playing: Remy Zero, Villa Elaine

Brian Dettmer: Book Autopsies

Brian Dettmer slices away layers of pages in books to expose the interior illustrations and create from them layered three-dimensional sculptures. I admit to being a bit squeamish about the notion of carving up the New Testament, but this is amazing stuff.

See at Centripital Notion and Aron Packer Gallery.

Does that make me a transvestite?

In the interest of full disclosure – and because I don't really have anyone else to make fun of write about, just now – I feel I should share something that happened this past weekend.

It was a bit brisk outside when I started getting myself together to ride Saturday morning, so I was procrastinating a bit about getting my stuff together. Finally, I'd convinced myself that it really wasn't that cold; and anyway, because the ride starts at 9:30, it always (okay, usually) warmed up nicely by the end of the first 10 miles or so. By the time I'd reached this decision, I was running close on time and dashed around the house preparing energy drink, putting my bike in the car, and finally throwing on the first jersey and shorts I found.

At the parking lot where we meet to ride, I finished the breakfast biscuit I'd picked up along the way and started unloading/assembling my bike. At the last minute, I thought to spray on some sun block and I remember thinking to myself that the elastic leg bands on my shorts seemed tight. Must be the hill training, I thought. My legs are getting bigger. The shorts also seemed just a bit shorter than I remembered. Woo-hoo! I thought. I finally must be getting my growing spurt!

We were about 10 miles into the ride (it had warmed up nicely) when my brain, in shuffle mode, replayed a conversation I'd had with Turtle off and on for a couple weeks.

Turtle: I'm missing a pair of my bike shorts. Do you think they might have gotten mixe in with yours?
Foo: Mmmm-hmm... that sounds fine.
Turtle: Seriously. I think they might be in your closet. Are you listening?
Foo: Huh?
Turtle: Would you check your closet to see if you got a pair of my bike shorts?
Foo: Why on earth would I have your shorts?
Turtle: [sighs]
Foo: Okay, sure. Just let me wrap up this bug fix I'm working on, and I'll go check. But I'm sure I would've noticed if I had any of your shorts.

When we stopped for a break at our usual spot, I dug out my cell phone and called Turtle to tell her I'd found her shorts.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't the first time I've worn women's clothing. There was that time back in the mid '80s when I dressed up as a nun for Hallowe'en (going to hell; got it). I guess what I found just a little amusing is that I almost couldn't tell the difference between a pair of women's shorts and my own.

Fontish self indulgence

I know that I sometimes veer a bit too far into the realm of geekdom for the tastes of some, but I hope you'll bear with me today, as I share a couple links.

Scratch, Chicken. Scratch.

Sometime between when the nuns gave me poor marks on my report card for holding my pencil “wrong” and my twenty-something years, I developed an artish passion for handwriting and calligraphy. The most significant result of this was the not-infrequent comment from others that my handwriting looked like a girl's – their way of saying that my script was, at the same time, pretty and legible. Later, I took an interest in the study of graphology and became reasonably adept at it (but that's another story).

Over the years, the advent of e-mail and an increase in the amount of time I spend keying computer code have taken a toll on my handwriting. While still arguably feminine-looking, my script now appears less like that of a sophisticated Jane Austen type and more like that of a psychotic ex-girlfriend who provides the inspiration to pack everything in the car and just skip town in the middle of the night.

It seems the folks at Smashing Magazine share my nostalgia for the bygone days of handwritten correspondence. Check it out.

Got Grunge?

At the other end of the spectrum are those fonts that have been created to intentionally create the impression of crud and untidyness. You see them everywere, from the handbills advertising bands at the local rock clubs to the titles for televised sporting events.

While I was at the Smashing Magazine site, I just had to check out the link for one of their earlier postings, “63 Must Have Grunge Fonts”.

I can tell the available hard drive space on my home computer will be decreased by several megs, because there are more than a few of these I'll have to have.

The home stretch

With about four weeks to go until the Frisco-to-Ft. Worth MS 150, things are finally beginning to fall into place. On the hells heels of a two-week period when I worked over 140 hours, my manager assures me that we're out of panic mode. That means I should have a few full weekends when I actually get to try to put some miles under my wheels instead of sitting inside, pecking away on my laptop.

Yesterday, I got out for a beautiful 40-mile group ride on a route with plenty of rolling hills. My legs felt good all day, so if I can manage to get in a metric century at next weekend's Lancaster pay ride and then 50+ miles at the next weekend's sanctioned MS 150 training ride, I should be good for the distance. I'll just have to rein in my need for speed and avoid hammering along at 20+ mph like I did last year. If I do that, I may not have two 75-mile days in me.

I ran over something during yesterday's ride and put a half-inch cut all the way through the tire. When you've got a hole so big that you have to line the inside of the tire with a folded energy bar wrapper to keep the replacement tube from herniating out and flatting again, the tire's a goner. So I have a new set of Hutchinson Fusion 2s on the way, and I need to restock on C02 for my inflater. Strange... I seem to have gone through a lot of those this past year.

Meanwhile, today's the big day for the MS 1.5 kids' ride, here in Allen. Since the one in Flower Mound last month, Turtle, Leggy Peggy, and Squirrel Bait (who now prefers to be known as “Squirrelly Girl”) have been working really hard to put together this second event to raise funds for our MS 150 team. Prayers and other good thoughts are appreciated because, even though the ladies have planned their butts off, this is still going to be a lot of work.

Since my work load has been such a thorn in my tire for this year's MS 150 effort, keeping me off the road and away from blogging, I felt it only fair that I plaster fundraising flyers in every break room and restroom in the office.* I used one of those crappy glue sticks – the kind that don't stick very well – to stick little strips of paper across the bottom with my online donation link printed on them, so people could pull them off and not have to remember the URL as they dash to their computers to shower the MS Society with filthy lucre. That's my plan, and the plan is working to the extent that I can tell my coworkers are taking the URL strips; but I guess they're waiting until next pay day for the showering part.

I've even been contacted by the woman who does the company newsletter, who wants me to be sure to let her know how many employees contributed toward my MS 150 efforts and how much, after the ride. If I'd known, I might have been able to convince her that getting the word out before the ride might have gotten more donations from more employees so that she'd have even more to put in the newsletter, where the company likes to list all the ways in which it helps the community.

So I'm off to drink a cup of coffee or two before diving into the preparations for today's MS 1.5. Wish us luck!


* You may be wondering how my flyers got posted in the women's restrooms. Let's just say I get in to work much earlier than most of my coworkers.

Rockin' the red

The last time I can remember the WKU men's basketball team getting this far in the NCAA tournament was in the last century. I was living in Dallas in 1992. WKU alumni made up about a third of the 80 or so employees at the company where I worked. My best buddy from college lived on the other side of town, but he came over and joined the bunch of us to watch the game at Joe Willy's and cheer on the team.

I still remember feeling that WKU was robbed, more or less literally beaten by a Florida team whose full-contact style of play went largely unpenalized by the officials.

Sixteen years later, Joe Willy's is gone – locked out of their building for non-payment of their lease, according to one report. I've lost touch with most of the WKU folks who used to be my coworkers. My college buddy and I are both married and overworked, so I'll be on my own for tonight's game – assuming the network doesn't replace it with some other game I couldn't care less about.

That's why I was so excited when I got home from work and discovered the package that had come in the mail from my mom and dad. Curious, I opened it up and pulled out a very red t-shirt commemorating my alma mater's return to the Sweet 16. I was so touched by the gesture that I promptly put on my t-shirt, trotted out my Red Towel and my Big Red drink hugger, and had Turtle snap this pre-enactment shot of me rooting for the Hilltoppers.

Epilogue

The game started 40 minutes later than scheduled, and our local programming carried UofL and Tennessee as the primary game. I got to watch the first half on my computer before having to go to bed, but WKU was always outmatched by UCLA.

At least I have my commemorative t-shirt.

Stuff it

(I admit it. This started as a comment on another blog, but these days I have to fan my faint sparks of inspiration as I find them.)

I ended up having to spend most of the long weekend working, but on general principal refused to crack open the work laptop on Easter. So, while I was flipping channels, trying to find something interesting to watch while waiting for the NCAA game between WKU and USD* to come on, I stumbled on an infomercial for some sort of… well, kind of like a grilled panini maker. Just the sort of thing that looked really cool and easy to use but which would probably sit in the back of some closet until meeting its ignoble end in a garage sale 15 years down the road.

But it wasn't the panini iron that piqued my interest. When they got to the “But wait! There’s more!” part of the spiel, one of the bonus items offered to entice the unwary impulse buyer was a “filling injector” – a sort of large gauge syringe that purported to be the ultimate solution for filling cupcakes with sugary goo, hot dogs with cheez whiz, and…

Well, perhaps it’s best not to dwell on some of the other possible uses.

Anyway, I got to thinking about a discussion Turtle and I had had a couple days earlier about the pros and cons of solid chocolate Easter bunnies vs. the hollow ones. She prefers the solid ones, which she likes to chop into chunks and tuck away, Dahmer style, in the freezer. I prefer the hollow ones because they're easier to eat without dislodging a tooth and, really, what 47-year-old man really needs anything to be solid chocolate?

Filling injector. Hollow chocolate Easter bunny. Marshmallow cream. Chocolate Easter bunny filled with marshmallow cream. Makes you want to throw up just thinking about it, doesn’t it? Or run up the wall, across the ceiling, out the door, and around the house about a dozen times to work off the sugar buzz.

* As listed on ESPN's web site, it was supposed to be on CBS; but the local affiliate apparently decided that the game between Miami and Texas would be more interesting.

I have a dream

(I actually began this posting on 2/29 and am only now finding time to get back to it. I hope it's not too dated.)

Last night was another of those nights. You know the kind: you sleep solidly, but your subconscious comes up with such such a full itinerary that by the time the alarm clock goes off, you're ready for a nice nap. On last night's agenda: primary elections.

I dreamed I'd gone down to my precinct's polling place to cast my primary ballot. After standing in line for half an hour or so, it was my turn to vote. A young, earnest-looking Julia Stiles type handed me a booklet the size of a large road atlas.

“What's this?” I asked.

“That's your ballot,” she said with a look that pitied me for being so old and out of it.

Not wanting to appear any less on top of things than I already had, I took my ballot, my No. 2 pencil, and my place at one of the dozen or so long, cafeteria-style tables. I opened my booklet and scanned the first page, which contained a series of statements. Next to each statement were two small ovals, labeled with “Yes” and “No”.

“You like to be engaged in an active and fast-paced job. Yes/No.”

“You usually plan your actions in advance. Yes/No.”

“You are strongly touched by the stories about people's troubles. Yes/No.”

“You prefer to spend your leisure time alone or relaxing in a tranquil family atmosphere. Yes/No.”

Weird, I thought as I began flipping pages and penciling in the ovals.

After a couple dozen pages of this, I reached the back page, expecting to finally have the opportunity to vote for my favored candidate. But instead of a list of candidates, there was only the phrase

THANK YOU FOR VOTING!

centered, bold, in all-caps 48pt Helvetica (or Arial; I'm not sure).

I picked up my booklet, spotted the young woman I'd spoken with earlier, and walked over to hand her my booklet. “I don't understand,” I said. “I couldn't find any place on the ballot where I could mark my choices of candidates.”

She smiled patiently and explained that it had been determined that most of the voting public really weren't capable of making an informed decision. They were easily swayed by campaign rhetoric. They voted one party line or another out of habit or because that's how their parents had always voted. They chose the candidate who looked the most like they did. As a result of this, the election process had gone to a system similar to a Briggs-Myers personality survey so that the voter could be paired more accurately with the candidate whose values and ideology most closely matched his or her own.

I woke up thinking it was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever dreamt up, but as I took my shower, I got to thinking. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe some sort of test was the way to go – but only if the candidates were required to take the same test so that they couldn't fake their own beliefs and motivations.

Snow job

Conventional wisdom has it that if we're going to get any snow here in Texas, it's going to happen in February. Riiight...


Don't get me wrong. I'm not under any illusions that this is a noteworthy snowfall in any locale that actually gets snow more than once every other year, but considering the amount of chaos that even rain causes around here, it's enough to turn a half-hour afternoon commute into a four-hour slog.

That's why, when the sleet started coming around noon (instead of 6pm like the weather experts predicted), pretty much everyone at my office who had the ability to do so packed up and headed home. It may sometimes seem like being issued a laptop is more of a curse than a blessing, but it sure was nice to have the option to pack it up, beat the nightmare traffic, and finish out the second half of my workday from the comfort of my own kitchen.

We didn't even get as much as a couple days ago, but look at the size of those snowflakes... no! Snowglobs!

Update...

My Allen homeboy, Chip, lives only a couple miles from me and observed that he got a lot more snow on Tuesday than you see in the pictures above. That's because those are from Thursday when we didn't get as much snow, but what we did get came faster and in bigger chunks. Here's a shot I took Tuesday morning:


There's a mildly amusing footnote to this picture – besides the fact that I was out in the street at 6am in my Jack Daniel's pajama bottoms, goose down slippers, a fleece pullover, and my winter coat. As I gingerly picked my way down the driveway, I noticed one of my neighbors from a couple houses down was doing the same thing (except that he was dressed for work). I hollered to him that it was kind of pathetic that this amount of snow was enough to bring us out at dawn to take pictures. He laughed and agreed. He was snapping a picture to send to his brother in Wisconsin, where they had three feet of snow.

I guess it's all relative.