The Old Crown Challenge

One of my 'bent buddies, who goes by the nom du gear [sic] "FlyingLaZBoy", passed along this link and made me ashamed to be associated with every ride report I've ever written. If you aren't interested in bicycles generally nor in recumbents specifically, you may not care. If your eyes glaze over at the thought of Shakespearean prose and you once had a brain aneurism after your latest good-intentioned run at the KJV Bible, you'll probably want to move along to some post about monkeys whacking a politician about the head and neck with wooden mallets (I'll be along later).

I 1 And it did come to pass, that on the nth day (no-one is quite sure which, but most theologians tend towards Thursday), the Lord did look down upon the Earth, and saw that it was flat, and really not very interesting. So he did cause parts of the Earth to rise up into the firmament. And the Children of the Lord did name the lumpy bits in the middle of northern England "the Pennines". And the Lord looked upon His work, and saw that it was good.

2 And in the evening did the Lord slump down in His favourite armchair, and did plant His feet upon His coffee table, and did scratch His balding bonce, and He did read the part of the Manual pertaining to the causing of the Children of the Lord to invent Things. And thus it did come to pass that the Children of the Lord did invent the recumbent. And the Lord looked upon His work, and saw that it was good.

Link

If this tickles your Monty Python schtick, do follow the link and read the whole magilla. Which is not, technically, a synonym for "entertaining ride report"—but it will do. 'Twill serve.

Like a bad penny

That's what one of the women called me when I showed up for yesterday's club ride.

"I thought we'd chased you off, since you haven't come around for, like, a couple months."

Her tone didn't register "curses, foiled again" between the lines, so I decided to take her overestimation of the time as meaning that the regulars on the ride had noted my absence and that I'd been missed.

"Actually, it's only been five weeks," I said, mentally counting back to the weekend before this year's Hotter Than Hell. "I was off growing new skin, doing a few rides I hadn't been on for a while. Had a great time fighting the wind on the Cotton Patch Classic, last weekend."

"Oh, you mean like today," she said. The wind whipped her hair across her face and she paused to pick a strand out of her mouth.

"Sort of." I watched the heavy black clouds zooming along at a pace that suggested Mother Nature had her thumb on the fast forward button. "Not so much threat of a Biblical downpour, last weekend."

The clouds had a silver lining, of course. Only about a dozen people had shown up for the ride, either fearing rain or not relishing the thought of battling the 18-29 mph wind. This was good, because it meant I wouldn't have to hang off the back to keep from getting caught up in a tightly-packed mob again.

The trip north was big fun with the wind at our backs. As we came through Allen along one of the highway frontage roads, I glanced at my computer ("digital speedometer thingy" to you non-cyclists) and saw that we were doing 25+ mph—and I was soft-pedaling!

In McKinney, we were warned by a police officer in an unmarked car after doing a rolling stop at one empty intersection. On the other side of McKinney, we were cursed energetically by a motorist unhappy with having to wait behind the group as we came to a full stop at an intersection, waited our turn, and crossed two at a time.

Heading south into Plano again, we enjoyed the challenge of climbing some of the steepest hills in the area into the same wind that made for such a quick trip out. I came within two bpm of my maximum heart rate in that section but still out-climbed three quarters of the group.

We ended up cutting the route to about 30 miles when the temperature started to drop and we started hearing some rumbling, so we made it back before the brief downpour started. It was a good ride, making up in fun what it lacked in distance.

I was waiting in line at Einstein's, afterward, and the two 20-something men in front of me started asking questions: Were we just getting back, or heading out? How far did we ride? Were we training for some kind of event? I explained that we'd just gotten back from a 30-mile ride, that we usually rode 45-50 miles, and that we weren't training for anything specific.

"Really?" he said. "You're riding just for the heck of it? That's wild."

They then explained that they'd just finished a training run in preparation for a marathon in December. I grinned, as this provided 100% of my minimum adult daily requirement for irony.

"Sounds like a lot of work," I said.


Now playing: Nickelback, All The Right Reasons

Highly motivated

It's spreading as quickly as a STD among Paris Hilton's boyfriends: the Motivator. When I saw Gwynne playing with it over on her blog, I had to have a go, too.

Post scriptum

I almost feel sorry for Keven, who sent me the spam entitled "defecate and squander". Maybe I should make up a motivational poster for him. You don't want to know the image I'd use, but it would probably tie in to this post rather nicely.

And in a perfect example of how honesty and optimism can be the main ingredients in a recipe for failure, we have Randy Gross, who suggests "Lets hook up tonight". Randy and Gross? As if.

Ride Report: Cotton Patch Classic (Greenville, TX)

The Cotton Patch Classic is one of those rallies that seem to largely depend upon word of mouth and reviews on sites like Bicycle-Stuff.com to get the word out, so it's not surprising that I hadn't heard of this ride until a couple months ago, when a riding companion gave me his glowing recommendation. I was initially skeptical, as the ride's web site is a bit sparse, providing registration information, route maps, and start time—but practically nothing about the Rally Round Greenville Celebration festivities that would be part of the experience. The map showing ride day parking scattered throughout downtown Greenville just shouted "CHAOS!", but I sent in my entry fee and waiver and made my plans to attend.

Greenville is between 45 minutes' and an hour's drive from my home, depending on who's driving. One of the nice things the CPC folks did for those of us who would travel from the Dallas area was to provide packet pick-up sessions at a couple local bike shops a few days before the rally. One of these was my own shop of choice, on my way home from work, so I just stopped by on Thursday to pick up my numer tag, map, and t-shirt. Having my number pinned to my seat bag before I ever left the house for Greenville this morning and not having to mess with packet pick-up when I got there was a thing of beauty.

I mentioned my concern about finding parking, but the CPC organizers had that figured out, as well. As I approached the downtown area on highway 380, a volunteer with a walkie-talkie and a flashlight flagged me down and directed me down the proper street to the next volunteer with a walkie-talkie and a flashlight—and so on. Within minutes, I was safely parked next to a bunch of racer boyz who were cranking techno music and debating which was better: depilatory cream or a razor.

It was a few minutes before 7:00 and I didn't have to pick up my packet, so I had plenty of time to unload and assemble my bike (I load it all in the back of my car if I have to drive more than 20 miles or so), apply sun screen, etc. By 7:30, I'd exited one of the provided porta johns and headed for the staging area provided for those of us riding the tour routes. The racers were being staged at another corner of the town square.

With time to kill, I spotted a couple people I know from the local bike clubs and just enjoyed socializing until a few minutes before 8:00, when I headed toward the rear third of the group. After my experience with a mass start at the Tour de Paris, I was hoping that by hanging out more toward the back I might find a little more room to ride during the first five miles. As it turned out, this start of 800+ people (I saw tag number 885, but there may have been higher) didn't stay clumped up long, so even that was a pleasant surprise.

Within a mile of the start, I'd spotted Raymond and Judy, a couple I met a couple weekends ago on a local club ride, riding with Dave, who was part of the small pack of recumbents I rode with for a while during the Collin Classic. I tucked in to make an even four, and we were having a good old time for about a mile.

"GLASS!!" I yelled, as I picked my way through the remains of a discarded Smirnoff Ice bottle.

"Pf-SSssssSSSsssst!" Dave's rear tire responded, as he rode right through the shards.

The first tube change took 10 minutes, and we made it about 25 yards before beginning the second. Judy and I had very carefully checked the tire for glass and hadn't found anything that might cause another flat, but with a second opportunity to take a look, we discovered a 3/8" cut in the tire. The four of us decided that this must've been big enough so that the new tube bulged out through it and flatted, so we applied a tire patch to the inside of the tire and booted it with a dollar bill. Dave didn't have another tube, but since I carry two and just happen to be one of the relatively few people who would carry the 650c tube he needed, we were all set. Karma cooperated by sending us the Plano Cycling & Fitness SAG wagon, so I was able to replace my tube. Just to keep the karma positive, I pressed a five-dollar bill into Jesse's hand (yes, I know the names of the PC&C employees).

Jesse pointed out that the shop doesn't charge people for tubes on rides like this. I pointed out that I appreciate the amount of time and expense the shop devotes to supporting charity rallies and that it made me feel good to know I was one of the few people who would ever consider paying for a tube. It's rare to catch Jesse without a smile on his face, but my comment got a real face splitter out of him.

Half an hour after the first puncture, we were back on our way. By then, even the woman who got a late start towing a baby trailer and shepherding a little boy on a bike with 10" wheels had passed us. We weren't going out of our way to make up time, but with a bit of a tailwind and all that clear air to ride in, we averaged over 18 mph for the first twenty miles and had begun to pass some stragglers. We just rode our ride, enjoying each other's company and the beautiful countryside.

I was enjoying the tail wind and taking in the rural sights when Raymond pulled up short after noticing his rear wheel was wobbling.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, Raymond and David had kludged the errant spoke back into the rim. At this point, we had a group meeting. We could either go ahead with our plan to ride the 63-mile route, climb the Leonard hills, get our metric, and never see another rider; or we could go a little shorter, ride the 54-mile route, and make it back to Greenville before all the smoothies and pizza were gone. Hmm... 54 miles won out, the ayes unanimous. When we got to Leonard, we turned east toward Bailey (map), skipping the gnarly hills and gaining about 7 miles on the 63-milers.

It turned out we'd made the right choice. Between the stiff south headwind, the long string of Escher rollers,* and (most significantly) the cramps that Dave was fighting with 15 miles to go, we were glad for a little less challenge and a lot more fun. The notorious Leonard hills will still be there next year, and taking the "shortcut" meant we ended up on the same rest stop schedule as Lancenotstrong, Allez, and Allez' husband—so I got to have some nice little visits with them.

When we arrived back in downtown Greenville, the party was in full swing. There were go kart races, all sorts of awnings sheltering people selling who knows what, top fuel dragsters and antique Fords on display, live music, and... oh yes: strawberry smoothies. And plenty of pizza. We chose to sit around a table and chat instead of indulging in all the happy chaos, but there was a great vibe in the air that capped off the day quite nicely.

I've mentally added the Cotton Patch Classic to my 2007 calendar.

* This expression is the result of a conversation I had with another rider, who wondered aloud, "How can we just keep going up without ever coming down?" I observed that I'd been on routes where I'd thought the same thing and that it was like riding in an Escher print.

Pseudo random Thursday

This morning, in keeping with the random acts of kindness theme of yesterday's When butterflies attack The butterfly effect posting, I did some paying forward of my own. Over the past week or so, I've started seeing a cyclist who seems to be on the same morning commute schedule as I am. It's not Suicide Boy. This guy is riding a racing bike with head and tail lights, wearing the de rigeur lycra clown suit, and traveling at just under 25 mph, so he's obviously no rank beginner.

I question the wisdom of riding through a single-lane construction zone in the dark, but if you're going to do it, doing it at 25 mph will probably keep you alive longer than doing it at 10 mph. And yet, as I found myself behind him I was rather alarmed to note that his taillight wasn't really visible until I'd gotten to within about 15 yards of him. If I hadn't seen him come through the intersection before I turned on to the street behind him, I might not have noticed him until it was too late. So, when we both had to stop at a red light, I eased up next to where he had pulled off to let the long string of cars pass, rolled down the passenger side window, and tried to get his attention.

"Dude!" I yelled, half awake and unable to think of some more intelligent greeting. "Hey dude!"

He turned, warily, and looked at me.

"Uh... you probably want to stick some fresh batteries in your blinky. I couldn't see you until I was almost on your wheel, and I was looking for you."

"Really?" he said and seemed genuinely alarmed. "I'll stop somewhere on the way. Thanks."

Pay it forward... dude.

September searches

For once, I've got a few that are, if not as hilarious as some of yours, at least mildly entertaining:

• mute the misfire How many times have I got to explain that I'm lactose intolerant? It's a medical condition.
• wwf thanksgiving 2005 pie fight Sounds a whole lot more interesting than a couple shiny, half-nekkid guys bludgeoning one another with folding chairs.
• random rash on the upper forearm So, what? It moves around from one day to the next?
• midriatics How the heck did that get in there? I don't even know what that word means (belatedly, "drugs that dilate the pupil"), so as with Susie's making me #1 on the fr@uterism search engine hit parade, I blame one of you guys.
• ez rider magazine Sorry, but I think that's a whole 'nother kind of biker.

It's only 10 o'clock...

...so how can I be hungry for lunch already??

[For those playing at home, that was the one truly random bit. -Foo]

Spamatazoa

• BIG PLANT STATE from Hoodia Weightless Yahoo Serious' cousin, I presume?
• Don't think youth can't be returned from Juana French Ya-wanna?
• don't be cooped up from Mandy H. Bender There's gonna be a jailbreak
• ru ready from Windy Knight [self censored]
• Great CAVERNOUS from Artichoke There's a joke in there somewhere... ere... ere... ere... ACK!

Now playing: Mazzy Star, So Tonight That I Might See

Recumbents are s-l-o-w. Right?

Not. All.

I usually try to refrain from posts that are nothing more than links to other blogs' postings about things on other web sites, but I had to make an exception since this is something many of my visitors would never stumble across, on their own.

Over on The Recumbent Blog, Alan has posted a video clip from Fast Freddy Markham's recent record-breaking ride. As a participant in the Nissan One Hour Challenge, Markham pedaled his ultra-aerodynamic, fully-enclosed recumbent bike for an hour and covered 53.43 miles.

Considering that the chainring on this bike was the size of a serving platter, it probably took Markham a couple minutes to get up to full speed. If, by definition, he averaged 53.43 miles an hour, I just wonder how fast he was going at the time the video clip was shot.

The butterfly effect

I think we've established that I'm kind of an ornery, cynical cuss. This extends to my willful resistance to most television adverts, and I rarely remember the name of the company for even the ones I find amusing. I laugh out loud at the bankers' pen and the identity theft ads, but I have no idea whom they represent. I'm kind of over the talking gecko (Turtle's favorite), but the dorm-room-refrigerator-sized chocolate brownie with arms and legs cracks me up.

One recent exception to my advertising ennui is a Liberty Mutual ad that depicts various people performing small, random acts of kindness, which the recpients then pass on by performing their own random acts of kindness.

Every time it comes on, I have to stop what I'm doing and watch. It's such a positive message that I can't help but be affected by it. Do I believe that Liberty Mutual is more prone to "do the right thing" than any other insurance company? No. But I give full props to whatever agency came up with this pocket-size version of Pay It Forward.

I'm thinking I need to start off each morning by watching this, just to get me started on the right foot.

« Plus c'est la meme chose »

Tagged by Bret, I reveal all. As predicted, some answers are just as he posted them. I'm not going to make up something else just for the sake of being different.

1. Three things that scare me:
Motorists (both as a cyclist and a commuter)
The public education system
That I could die and only my wife would notice.

2. Three people that make me laugh:
Steven Wright
Douglas Adams
James Lileks

3. Three things I hate the most:
Hypocrisy
Arrogance
People holding cell phones to their ears while driving (get a headset!).

4. Three things I don't understand:
Religious fanatics with guns and high explosives
Federal income tax codes
The enduring popularity of reality TV

5. Three things I'm doing right now:
Sitting in my skivvies, looking for the two-month-old eyeglass prescription I need to have filled today
Reveling in the fact that I have all day to do all the things I have to do today
Wishing I had a Chick-fil-A^® breakfast sandwich for breakfast

6. Three things I want to do before I die:
Ride my bike 100 miles in one day
See something I write or photograph published
Give my wife the landscaping she desires and deserves

7. Three things I can do:
Install a ceiling fan
Change a flat tire
Make people laugh (when they know that doing so is the only way to shut me up)

8. Three ways to describe my personality:
Cynical
Detail oriented
Verbose

9. Three things I can't do:
Draw/paint/sketch/doodle
Play a musical instrument
Tolerate incompetence

10. Three things I think you should listen to:
The teachings of Jesus Christ
The people who love you
The strange noise that the car just started making this morning

11. Three things you should never listen to:
People who shout
Claims made on television infomercials
The voice in your head that tells you that you'll never be as good as the next guy

12. Three things I'd like to learn:
Patience
How to read and write German
To belch the alphabet like Bret's son

13. Three favourite foods:
Pizza
A nice juicy cheeseburger with a crisp salad
Chick-fil-A^® breakfast biscuit

14. Three beverages I drink regularly:
Diet Coke
Water
Beer

15. Three shows I watched as a kid:
Batman
Astro Boy
The Monkees

16. Three people I'm tagging (to do this):
Turtle, as if she needed something else to do
Tink, because she's bound to come up with something twisted that makes me laugh
Susie, because she carries a knife in her purse and may hurt me if I don't tag her

Hunter and the Harvest Breeze

Several weeks ago, Turtle convinced me that I'm not totally inept and that she had the utmost confidence in my ability to install a ceiling fan. So I gave it a go.

My first was a Harbor Breeze with a 52-inch wingspan and a light kit that included not only the traditional four lamps but also a globe above the blades, lit by four small, nearly inaccessible bulbs the size of Christmas lights. Not the little bitty things like you see today—the larger ones from the '60s that got really hot and burned the tree down (but looked really pretty).

The assembly instructions were clear: this was a job that would take an experienced installer 1-2 hours and a complete idiot 3-4.

It took me 2.5 hours, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The pictures and the instructions in English were clear, and the only real misstep was when I inadvertently put on one of the trim pieces upside down. This mistake probably made the difference between completing the job in pro installer time and ending up in incomplete idiot territory, but it wasn't particularly traumatic. The way the assembly was designed, I could hang the whole thing from its cradle, take all the time I needed to hook up the wiring, and use both hands doing it.

When I'd finished, the fan worked perfectly the first time and with nary a wobble.

Today, I installed my second ceiling fan. This one was for my office, so we went for a smaller, cheaper Hunter. Upon opening the box, I quickly discovered that the longer down tube pictured on the outside of the box was not included.

Off to Home Depot I went, and when I returned an hour later with two down tubes (did I mention that there's a Hunter waiting to be installed in Turtle's study?) and... uh... a new wire stripper/crimper.

As I began assembling the Hunter, realization slowly dawned that there was no nifty plastic cradle to screw to the electrical box. Instead, the bit that screws to the ceiling is not only ornamental but also supports the ball at the top of the down tube. More exciting than that, the way it was designed meant that I either had to leave the wires really long so that I could set the motor on the step ladder while screwing on wire nuts, or I had to somehow hold the motor up with one hand while connecting the wiring with the other.

That sounded like a good plan until I discovered the ground wires were only about 4" long, so I ended up hanging the blasted thing precariously off a couple hooks on the bit that attaches to the ceiling while noodging around with the ground wires and trying not to send the whole mess crashing to the floor with an ill-timed bump. But I managed, and then I crammed about 2½' of wiring up into the cup to keep the ball company.

After craning and straining for a while longer, I'd finally got the whole thing together. I went out into the garage, flipped the breaker, came back in the house, and flipped the switch to experience the reward for my efforts.

Nothing.

«Verdammt!» I yelled across the house.

"What's wrong," Turtle hollered back.

"'Nothing'. 'Nothing' is what's the matter," I muttered.

So back up on the ladder I went. I took off the light kit, all the blades, disconnected the ground wires, and set the misbegotten thing back down on the stepladder shelf ("Caution: not a step"). A wire had come loose, so I put it back very firmly this time and put everything back together.

Garage. Breaker. Switch. Success!

Except... the light came on when I flipped the fan switch, and the fan—well, you get the picture.

Afflicted as I am with a small dose of the OCD, I had to take the whoooole thing back down and switch the wires. Finally, the whole thing worked like it was supposed to (except for the part where it wobbles like a chandelier on the Titanic).

Tomorrow I get to do it all over again for Turtle's fan. Prayers and anti-inflammatory tablets are appreciated.

Fine tuning

A couple months ago, Turtle and I received notice that our reliable Comcast phone, high speed internet, and cable TV services would be replaced by Time-Warner Cable and their "high speed" internet partner, Road Runner.

Given the horror stories I've heard about these services over the years, I've been dreading the switch. However, we've received multiple flyers assuring us that the switch would be transparent—well, except for having to change all our e-mail addresses to Road Runner's goofy four-node domain name. Every five minutes, there are back-to-back 30-second ads on TV assuring us that this is a good thing, that Time-Warner is fine tuning our cable service, and the cheerful jazz guitar in the background, like something from an old '40s black-and-white Warner Bros. animation, reinforces this.

Maybe someone should clue in the Time-Warner folks that you don't "fine tune" your broadband network with a #*&% backhoe.

For twelve hours, yesterday, poor Turtle was stuck at home, totally cut off from the world because everything went down. No phone, no internet, no TV. She called me on her cell phone to let me know what was happening. I brought up Time-Warner's web page, found the Customer Service phone number, and dialed. Busy.

Oh, not just all-agents-are-currently-busy-please-hold-for-eternity busy. Busy busy.

After a while, I called Turtle and found out she had a different number off one of the We Have Assumed Control flyers. After a while longer, I finally got through to a too-cheerful Time-Warner guy who explained that McKinney, Allen, and one other city that may or may not have been Plano were all without service. A line had been cut, and they hoped to have service restored today (which was, you know, yesterday).

And it was, by around 10pm.

Now, it could very well be that some backhoe operator did dig up a line, but if cutting one cable can take out the broadband networks of three entire cities, some engineer ought to be taken out and shot. I think what really happened is that Time-Warner, with all of their braggadocio about a transparent transition just decided to flip the switch without telling us subscribers. Only someone wrote a bad line of code that bollixed the whole works, and because they were so over-confident about their seamless transition that they didn't have a fall back plan ready.

I'm trying to remember if Time-Warner is still owned by AOL. That would explain quite a bit.

Later...

After all that, Turtle has come through with the real story. So it wasn't a botched cutover, but I still find it alarming that the main feed is a single fiber optic cable, that it's not buried, and that there's apparently no redundancy. Of course, that's not AOL's Time-Warner's fault; they're just using the infrastructure they got from Comcast.

Rainy days and Mondays

It's a gloomy, rainy day in the Big D. Let me just say, without a trace of irony, "Praise Jesus."

The perfect soundtrack for a day like today? Zero 7's Simple Things.

Judging the book by its cover

There's been quite a bit of talk about profiling, in the wake of several recent events that may not be related to terrorist threats but certainly look suspicious. In one case with ties to the Dallas area, three men were arrested in Michigan with 1,000 cell phones and pictures of the Mackinac Bridge in their van. Authorities later determined that the men were guilty of falsifying information about their intended use for the phones, but no terrorism link was proven.

Now, of course, the men's families are all over the local media, expressing their outrage over racial profiling and vowing to bring the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee to their aid. And while it's entirely possible that the three men are merely criminals gray market entrepreneurs and not terrorists, I think that Cox & Forkum very neatly summed up my feelings on the profiling question in yesterday's editorial cartoon.

One of the things my parents taught me very early in life was not to "judge a book by its cover". I'm sure yours did too, and it's generally good advice. Unfortunately, there's no postscript to advise the adherent that he should not completely turn a blind eye to probability and pattern.

A novel whose cover depicts a woman in the throes of passion, swooning in the arms of a bare-chested, leather-booted archetype of male dominance may not be a cheesy bodice ripper, but one shouldn't discount the possibility. Certainly, if one is in the market for phrases like "her heaving bosom" and "she closed her eyes and reveled in his musky scent", books with such covers get the first look. Don't they?

I liken the problem to the one I face every day in traffic. Turtle has at times accused me of being biased in my evaluations of my fellow travelers, based on such factors as vehicle type, gender, race, and bumper sticker content. We've had more than a few conversations that went something like this:

Foo: Here we go. The guy in the silver Mercedes.
Turtle: What did he do?
Foo: Nothing yet... but he's getting ready force in front of the woman in the blue Hyundai, and she's going to slam on her brakes. So hang on.
Turtle: Why do you judge people like that?
Foo: Twelve years of daily commutes?
...
Turtle: That doesn't mean—aggh! Look out!
Foo: Toldya.

I guess my take is that looking at someone and rubber stamping him or her as this or that is wrong and should be avoided. At the same time, anyone who doesn't learn from past experience is liable to spend a lot of time thumbing through the dog-eared copies of Golf Digest and Popular Mechanics in Darwin's waiting room.

And the bleat goes on

“If I ain't too stove up. I ain't like you. I'm old and give out.”

–Karl Childers, when asked if he'd like to play football every Saturday

This angry-looking raw spot on my thigh doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry to lay on some new skin, and I'm beginning to get irritated. It's not that the dressing changes are a big deal, and it's not even that I'm in a lot of discomfort, but I haven't ridden all week and will probably miss this weekend. Why? Because the bloody (well, seeping) thing is in such an inconvenient spot that the dressings loosen and slide down if I move around much.Furiously pumping my legs would qualify as "moving around", so it looks like I'm going to be off the bike for a while longer.

Meanwhile...

• I finally got to see V For Vendetta last evening and thought it was really well done. When it first came out in theaters, there was a lot of outrage on the part of conservative talk show hosts, who took the position that the film glorified terrorism. I think they were largely (perhaps disingenuously) missing the point by choosing to focus on the word terrorist. I mean, isn't the point of terrorism to strike terror into the hearts of the general populace? Yet, as I watched, it seemed to me that the only people V was terrorizing were the corrupt, tyrannical government muckety-mucks.
  
  Perhaps the movie was best summed up in what was, for me, its most memorable line: "People should not be afraid of their governments. Governments should be afraid of their people."
  
  The fine point this makes, and which I think the talking heads missed, is that a foreigner flying a jet into the World Trade Center is only a terrorist. A citizen of England who blows up the Old Bailey in an effort to bring down a corrupt government is, by definition, a terrorist—but he's also a revolutionist.
  
  V For Vendetta was definitely about revolution.
  
  
• As I was walking in to my office building this morning, I passed a guy carrying a large box. It had printed on the side, in six-inch lettering, "CDW", which I read, at first, as "COW". My immediate reaction was, "Gee, I didn't know they came unassembled."
  
  I know my ear-to-ear grin was discomfiting to the woman in the elevator.
  
  
• Speaking of cows...

  They have one word in their vocabulary and it's a single syllable at that.
  
  But farmers claim cows appear to 'moo' in regional accents, despite their limited conversational skills.
  
  Herds in the West Country have been heard lowing with a distinctive Somerset twang - prompting some to claim the sound is more 'moo-arr' than moo.

  Link (Daily Mail)
  
  Well, duh.
  
  Haven't they been watching the Real California Cheese ads? In the one where the New Cow is talking about snow, for example, she's obviously speaking with a Wisconsin accent.
  

Is it lunch time yet?

“I C,” said the blind man

Notion swiped from Bill:


Which Programming Language are You?

I'm a little disappointed by this revelation, as I tend to think of myself as PHP.

Speaking of disappointment, I went a-Googling for "annoy your coworkers day". I figured surely someone had thought it up already. After all, there are people who actually celebrate Festivus, for crying out loud.

But no. The closest I came was some lists, like this one.

What good is a list of ways to observe a special occasion without the official, Hallmark-approved, made-up holiday?

Now playing: Talk Talk, It's My Life

A tough scrape

I headed out this morning with the intention of meeting the RBENT for another leisurely White Rock Lake ride, but I never made it. As I was headed to the appointed meeting place, I passed where my customary PBA Distance Builder ride starts and thought Aw, what the heck. I really wasn't in an altogether leisurely mood, and I'm determined to keep showing up for rides with all those "normal" cyclists so they'll eventually get used to me—so I turned in.

We headed out promptly at 7am and headed north toward Frisco. My legs felt strong. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood. My arch nemesis on the rainbow LeMond harrassed me for a mile or two, just to make his point before becoming bored and moving on.

As we rolled into Frisco at about 20 mph, it was a tightly packed peloton and a stretch of new pavement. In the split second after the rider in front of me yelled "Crack!", I had about enough time to think Oh cr— and then I was sliding along the pavement. After about 15 feet, I stopped.

The first thought that occurred to me was that I smelled scorched metal with just a touch of burnt hair.

I had been taken down by a 1" wide uncaulked expansion joint running parallel to the lane. The wheels dropped in, and that was all she wrote. It might have helped if the riders ahead had been calling the hazard down the line, as we're supposed to do, but it might not have done. Packed together as we were, I don't know if I would have had room to avoid it anyway. It's just one of those things.

Those tender hearted or squeamish among you will want to avoid this link, and this one as well—but it was my first crash and as such must be documented.

From this experience, I learned that unless you're bleeding profusely or have bits of bone sticking out somewhere, you might as well get back on the bike and continue your ride. Except for a badly scraped left brake lever, my bike was okay, so continue my ride is exactly what I did.

And I enjoyed it.

No flaccid clocks

However, when the alarm clock went off this morning, I was having the strangest dream...

I'm riding with a group of cyclists down a city street—the extra wide two-lane kind, shaded by a canopy of trees and the curbs lined solid with parked cars and trucks. Traffic is light, the temperature is perfect, and the pavement is dappled with little dancing flecks of sunlight that have trickled past the leaves.

Suddenly, pulling up beside me on my left is a woman who introduces herself as Jennn. I have no idea how I know that she spells it with three ens, but she does.

"Why isn't it pronounced 'Jen-n-n'?" I ask. "Then your name would be like a sound effect from The Bionic Woman."

"Because it's just not," she says, rolling her eyes. "The second and third ens are silent."

She's not riding a bike. Instead she's reclining in an medical examination chair with her feet out front in the stirrups. She's wearing a hospital gown that comes down to her knees, and her legs are covered by a layer of tightly-stretched, semi-opaque plastic wrap that I conclude must be meant to be a fairing.

"Do you guys mind if I ride with you?" she asks.

"No way, eh," the ride leader says. "You'll never keep up on that thing."

"But I am keeping up," Jennn says.

"Well, it's not a proper bike, is it?" the ride leader counters.

The debate is abruptly ended as most of the pack turn right on a side street, leaving Jennn and I to continue toward a city park that's visible a couple hundred yards ahead.

"Race you," Jennn says.

I notice that I'm not riding a bike (was I before?); instead, I'm belly down on a hospital gurney in my lycra, craning my neck at an unnatural angle to see the road ahead. As Jennn picks up her pace, I begin vigorously shoving the gurney forward beneath me, then pulling it back—like pro cycling sprinters do at the finish line—trying to squeeze out some additional speed. Somehow, I manage to match Jennn's pace, and as we arrive at the park she splits off, saying she has an appointment she forgot about.

I have no idea what that was all about, but it was good for a chuckle on the way to shower and dress for work.

I generally try not to waste too much time analysing my infrequent dreams, but I did put a little thought toward this one, while showering. The examination chair is a pretty transparent metaphor for a recumbent, because of the position and the fairing. Why an OBGYN's chair? Maybe it had something to do with the surplus of estrogen floating around the home last evening. Who's Jennn? I have absolutely no idea.

The gurney and my positioning on it may represent my potential for neck injury on a standard road bike, but I'm still wearing my lycra, so that suggests this as merely one of many possible futures.

The dismissiveness of the ride leader toward Jennn and her exam chair are pretty obviously inspired by my ongoing group ride experiences and a recent BikeJournal thread about why recumbents shouldn't be allowed to ride in groups.

Most important, Jennn didn't manage to drop me, and the park was really nice.

Landis's father-in-law found dead

Floyd Landis's father-in-law was found dead in his car after committing suicide, coroner's officials said Wednesday.

The body of 57-year-old David Witt was discovered at a parking garage Tuesday afternoon, said Paul Parker, an investigator with the San Diego County Medical Examiner. He had a gunshot wound to the head, and the death was ruled a suicide, Parker said.

Link (Associated Press)

Is it just me, or does it seem like we're supposed to draw the inference that Witt killed himself because of Landis' doping allegations? Because I'm thinking if that's all it took, then the poor guy was already pretty close to the edge.

This whole doping business looks really bad for Landis, I admit; but it sickens me to see the way the international media not only convicted him before all the information was in—not that all the information is necessarily in—but continue to take every opportunity to throw fuel on the fire.

Proof of his innocence could be found tomorrow, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. His reputation is ruined.

Morning miscellany

Enlightened self preservation

I had a pleasant surprise as I headed out for this morning's commute. The "suicide rider" came tooling by, and not only was he wearing his helmet but he also was lit up with a taillight and a headlight.

And I thought no one ever listened to me.

CQ... CQ...

As a licensed (but inactive) ham radio operator since around 1975, I tend to take notice of vehicles with amateur radio callsign license plates. In the days before the internet came along, I used to think it would be cool to have one—if being a ham could ever be considered "cool". But now, with the internet making it possible to look up any ham's callsign and get his/her full name and home address, it doesn't seem like such a good idea.

Maybe Thomas J. from Richardson and Robert W. from Lucas would do well to keep that in mind. It might make them think twice about blocking two lanes of rush hour traffic, doing 10 mph below the posted limit (20 mph below the practical limit), driving side by side so that they could eyeball each other while having their little QSO ("conversation" to you civilians).

As well, James T. from McKinney—who nearly took off my right front fender one afternoon last month—should consider putting a leash on the NASCAR instincts and ponder the fact that if the meek little geek in the Civic can look him up, so might Sasquatch's cousin in the Dodge monster truck with the No Fear and Texas Trophy Hunters Association stickers in the rear window.

73. Let's be safe out there.

Surreal thing

Who Should Paint You: Salvador Dali

You're a complex, intense creature who displays many layers. There's no way a traditional portrait could ever capture you!

What Artist Should Paint Your Portrait?

I don't know about you, but all that stuff about intense layers makes me think of an onion—which may be a fair point, since Turtle says I make her eyes water after I've been on a bike ride or out mowing the lawn. "Complex", on the other hand, is really just a polite euphemism for "difficult", and the reason no traditional portrait could ever capture me is that I tend to fidget.

However, I do like Dali's work. Or as Karl would say, "Ah do kindly like them pitchers he paints quite a bit. Mmm-hmm."

Now playing: Third Day, Wherever You Are

The mathematics of progress

I went out this morning with the PBA for their Saturday morning distance builder ride. By the time we headed out at 7am, there had been scattered [gasp!] rain showers in the area and ominous flashes toward the north, where the planned route would take us. Hoping avoid a dousing, we headed south and east instead—and promptly got soaked.

But that's not what this post is about. This post is about how a group of half a dozen of us got split from the main group at a traffic light and dropped. They didn't wait, but fortunately the area is part of many popular ride routes, so it wasn't a question of finding our way back. After a couple miles, I got antsy and upped my pace so that before long I was on my own. That made me paranoid about the traffic, which in turn made me up my pace again.

When I rolled into the parking lot with 51.75 miles and a rolling average of 16.5 mph on the computer, I was cooked. I headed over to Einstein's for the customary bagel, coffee, and post-ride visiting, during which one of the guys mentioned that we'd averaged 14.5 mph to the rest break. I said I thought that was at about 33 miles, if memory served, and my tablemates thought that was about right. That would mean that the second leg was 18.75 miles.

Now, about that algebra (Turtle! Look away!!). I was curious about my rolling average after we got separated from the group, so I trotted out the following equation:

(33 miles * 14.5 mph) + (18.75 * x)
----------------------------------- = 16.5 mph overall average
        51.75 miles total

...then...

(478.5) + (18.75 * x) = 853.875

...and...

18.75 * x = 375.375

...and finally...

x = 20.02

That's, ah say, that's miles per hour, boy.


Nah... that's got to be wrong. The data must be flawed.