Ride Report: Autumn In Bonham (Bonham, TX)

I didn't do the Autumn in Bonham ride last year, because of some sort of schedule conflict. This year, I wasn't planning on it just because I felt I'd maxed out my 2006 entry fee budget. However, word on the street is that it's a really nice ride, and I felt an obligation to take a crack at the Leonard Leviathans—three very large (for Texas) hills—after missing them during the Cotton Patch Classic, so I signed up anyway.

The drive up ended up taking less time than I expected, so I parked up close, picked up my ride number and t-shirt (my second favorite design of this season, by the way), and set about unloading and assembling my bike. The guy parked next to me turned out to be Blanca from over on BikeJournal.com, so we chatted with each other for a while and then with various other acquaintances as they arrived.

It continues to amaze me that I go to these rallies with hundreds of other riders and always seem to run into at least a dozen people I know (including Lance, Lance's son, Allez, and Allez's husband). I think that's kind of neat.

Shortly before 9 am, everyone lined up and we got under way. I started off riding with John, local legend and webmaster of the popular bicycle-stuff.com, but we got separated early, at an intersection where a police officer had his SUV parked right in the middle of the intersection and gave confusing instructions about which groups were supposed to go which way. I went left; John went straight, never to be seen (by me) again.

Almost immediately, we came to a long climb. And then another. And another. Cool, I thought. We're getting this all out of the way early, while our legs are still fresh.

But they kept coming... and coming... and by my first stop at the second rest stop, my quads were already grousing at me. I'd maintained a 16.3 mph average to that point, but I knew that I was going to have to back off my assaults on the climbs if I was going to survive the rest of the 64-mile route (which, in typical bike rally fashion, was actually .1 mile short of 67 miles).

While I was eating a banana and chatting up one of the grandmotherly volunteers, a couple of those acquaintances I mentioned before rolled up at the rest stop: Steve (who rides a fire engine red Bacchetta Café recumbent) and Peggy (who looks and sounds enough like our blog buddy, Allez, that they could be sisters) from Frisco. Knowing that I ride a more sane pace when socializing, I joined up with them and their friend for the rest of the hilly, energy-sucking-chip-seal-plagued, beautiful-scenery-having ride.

This was one of those routes that really made me wish that my digital camera weren't quite so bulky. There were surreal fields of some sort of golden-flowered weed clumps. There were barns and cows. There were interesting little near-ghost towns that just begged to have their weathered facades and peeling columns photographed. Everywhere we went, people smiled, yelled, and waved from porches and front yards.

I was impressed, overall, with how the drivers in the area didn't feel compelled to threaten us with their vehicles. In fact, the only close calls I had all day were near Leonard. In one case, I had come to a full stop at a four way intersection and awaited my turn to go. As I did, the elderly woman in the PT Cruiser decided she wanted to go. So I stopped. She waved for me to go, and as I did, she started to pull out again. So I stopped. She waved me on. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

The other was a police officer, who came within a foot of clipping me with his passenger side mirror as I balanced precariously on the white line along one of the few stretches of road that didn't have a nice, wide shoulder to retreat to. At the next rest stop, I mentioned this to one of the volunteers. When I described the guy to her, she told me that this was "the Leonard cop", that he was a jerk, and that he'd been buzzing the rally participants all day.

Way to serve and protect, Barney.

Finally, we came to the Leviathans, and I remembered what I'd been told by others who had ridden them. The first two were steep but made manageable by the fact that they were prefaced by nice descents. When I saw the big hills ahead, I shifted to the biggest gear I had and gave gravity a hand. I reminded myself not to overdo it on the way down because I'd need my quads and hamstrings for the climb, but I needn't have bothered. At 37 mph, I spun out (i.e., ran out of top end gears) and had to coast until I reached the point of resistance on the climb.

Two down, no problem.

But the third hill... that one was every bit as nasty as I'd heard. It wasn't preceded by as much of a downhill, leeched away all your momentum, and then got steeper as it turned. And all on that momentum-robbing chip seal. When I was already into my small ring by the halfway point, I knew I was in trouble, but I kept churning away. Two thirds of the way up, I'd run out of gears on the low end. With my mucles wrung out by all the day's previous climbs, I could no longer spin and was reduced to mashing on the pedals. Twenty yards from the top, I was down to about 5 mph and nearing my stall speed—you can't really track stand a recumbent—but my guts were telling my brain to tell my legs that we were almost there and to stop being such wussies.

That's when my right quad flew all of us the bird and threw a cramp.

Rather than risk the embarrassment of falling over or the embarrassment of tearing something and having to ride the SAG wagon (although, now that I think of it, I can't recall seeing one all day), I put my feet down and walked the short distance to the top. Meanwhile, Steve veered around me and cleared the top. I could attribute his success to slightly lower gearing or to slightly wider tires that roll better on the chip seal. I may have used up too much of my legs earlier in the ride, or it may go back to the hammerfest I did with a couple friends after work, two days earlier. The bottom line is that I didn't beat the hill, and that's a bitter pill for me to swallow.

The rest of the ride was no sweat. Once it had made its point, my right quad behaved itself. We had an enjoyable, uneventful ride back to the starting point, where we discovered that most of the cars were gone and the organizers had pretty much folded up their tent. We must have dawdled at a couple rest stops longer than I'd realized, because even with all the climbing I still ended the day with a 16 mph rolling average.

Bonham was certainly one of the most challenging rides I've done this season, but I enjoyed the route, the scenery, and the company. I'm just thinking maybe I need to find a leg press to work out on before I consider going back for seconds.

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www.lipsum.com

Those of you who know what to do with this sort of thing will find this sort of thing sort of useful.

He so horny

This is a short week for me (praise the Lord!) because I took a vacation day Monday. Originally, the thought was that Turtle and I might spend an extra day bumming around the New Braunfels area after attending a family gathering over the weekend, but events didn't play out that way. Instead, I had the luxury of a whole day during which I could whittle away at my endless list of Things That Need Done during the middle of the day—that magical time when crowds are thin and I haven't just spent an hour battling every Tomas, Rick, and Herold intent on fraying my last good nerve.

One of these tasks was the dreaded (by me, at least) trip to Costco for the next two months' supply of beer and wine, toilet paper, frozen boneless skinless chicken breasts and ground beef patties, fresh pineapple, and a half dozen bagels¹. Turtle, ever the compassionate one, offered to go with, but I turned her down. This was going to be a surgical strike. I planned to be in and out within half an hour, and I already had my path through the store mapped out in my head.

Into the parking lot, dodge the departing shoppers with their walkers and oxygen tanks, grab a cart (one with four round wheels, this time), flash the membership card. Hard left, down the aisle at a lope, weaving around the vacant-eyed, slack-jawed woman in curlers, executing a perfect bump and roll around the Korean national jabbering on a cell phone. Grab the beer and wine, and heave the cart toward the fruits and veggies. Grab a package of pineapple on the fly, swing right toward the freezer section.

Blast. What size bag of chicken breasts? Quick phone call to the missus.

Grab my breasts and my meat (Stop. It.). Hard right at the end of the aisle, and I had the skids of soft drinks in my si—ABORT! ABORT! Hauling hard on my cart, I screeched to a cartoon halt to narrowly avoid colliding with a cart that had appeared from a side aisle, followed closely by an elderly man.

Crisis averted. The old duffer shuffled his way slowly down the aisle in front of me and, with time on my hands, I found myself wondering... what the hell is he wearing on his head?

I dismissed my conclusion twice before accepting what my eyes told me, but perched on this adult's head was a child's toy viking helmet, complete with eight-inch horns.

I worked my way past him, ostensibly to get to the Diet Coke. In reality, I just wanted to get a better look at this guy. I expected to see him smirking, like he was just goofing. Or scowling like he'd lost a bet. Maybe drooling a bit. What I saw was a neatly-dressed man of about 70 years, with his spectacles perched on his nose and their case clipped in his breast pocket. His expression was neutral and—notwithstanding his unsignaled merge into my lane—alert. Wearing a viking helmet cocked at a jaunty angle.

As far as I could see, his cart was conspicuously bereft of SPAM.

---

¹ This didn't quite work out according to my plan. Turtle and I don't eat a lot of bagels at home, so I only needed a half dozen. Unfortunately, when I went to pay for all my stuff, the cashier informed me that they were "a dozen for [some amount of legal tender]" and didn't I want a full dozen? I told him no, thinking that I'd get my half dozen for half the price of a full dozen. Instead, he tossed my bagels to an assistant, who whisked them away somewhere. I asked what he was doing and only then did he bother to explain that it was a dozen or nothing. Not that I actually would have left my cart and all the people lined up behind me to go to the back of the store and grab six more bagels, but the whole business kind of left a bad, bagel-less taste in my mouth.

Now playing: Queensrÿche, Operation Mindcrime

Catty chat

Turtle sent me a link to this from another site, but it cracked me up so much that I went and hunted down a copy on Youtube.com to save here for posterity.

Watch it, but not with a mouth full of coffee or yogurt.

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.

Random... Friday

I've been criticized for talking about cats, bikes, old music, and my annoying co-workers—so I've been holding out until I had something else to write about.

Unfortunately, the only other thing that occupies my time is my work, and I'm pretty sure that the 5% who would understand what I was talking about don't want to hear.

• I was leaving for work yesterday morning and saw the helmetless, clueless, in-the-dark guy. Turtle yelled at me for not pulling him over last Sunday when we saw him out riding around, so I thought I'd better flag him down.
  
  "Excuse me, Sir? Sir!" I yelled, cringing at what a dork I sounded like. Sir. But what could I do? I didn't know his name, and Mr. Organ Donor might not get us off on the best footing.
  
  After half a dozen times, he wheeled around, suspicion all over his face. I explained that I'd seen him out before and was concerned, and would he mind hanging on while I ran to the garage to get something to show him? Yeah, that'll put him at ease. Not.
  
  Cutting to the chase, I brought out a spare blinky taillight I had lying around. He said he'd never seen one of those (and I could see from his expression that he couldn't care less), but by the time I cut him loose, he'd promised that he'd start wearing his helmet. Since I hadn't even mentioned his lack of helmet, I guessed it was something he'd been feeling guilty about.
  
  
• Now that we've got terrorists trying to blow up planes using liquid and gel explosives in Gatorade bottles, I wonder if motorists will be so quick to harrass me on the road. Yeah, that's right. I've got two water bottles here. One wrong move, and it's to da moon for you, Bubba. Yeah, that's right, pal—I'm a dangerous cyclepath.
  
  
• My lovely bride apparently noticed my CD collection was getting a bit stale, so she surprised me with three selections from my lengthy Amazon.com wish list:
  
  • Third Day, Wherever You Are - awesome Christian rock for people who think Christian rock is for pu... er, wimps. Some of the best melodies I've heard, bar none.
    
    
  • Zero 7, Simple Things - acid jazz, downbeat... whatever you want to call it. I've been hearing cuts off this album for a few years now, and now I don't have to wait for it to come around the rotation on Rhapsody.
    
    
  • Jet, Get Born - Oh, you've probably heard a couple cuts on some Apple commercial or another. On the face of it, Jet is another band rehashing '60s garage punk, but I like AC/DC, Pink Floyd, and some of the other identifiable influences well enough that I don't really care. The exercise I get bouncing around on my chair and playing the air kick pedals help me to burn off calories I'm accumulating while it's too hot to get out and ride much. (Ha! Slipped in a cycling reference.)
    
  
  It's times like this that I would almost consider breaking my absolute rule about not riding with an iPod. Fortunately, the point is moot since I have the rule but not the iPod.

Now playing: Webb Wilder, Hybrid Vigor

"Light Up For Me"

Per your suggestions, I've selected as this post's title a song by Breaking Laces, the not-terrible art band that recorded it. Anyway...

About an hour ago, while it was still quite dark, I had just kissed my wife goodbye and was settling my commuter coffee mug into its holder when I saw a cyclist ride past the end of my driveway without so much as a blinking taillight to announce his presence.

I quickly flipped on the headlights in time to see a heavy-set, middle-aged man on a silver mountain bike. He was wearing shorts, a short-sleeved button-down shirt with the tail flapping, and no helmet.

In the dark.

My first thought was to jump out of the car and holler for him to stop so that I could suggest, with all the persuasive charm at my disposal, that he pick up an inexpensive set of lights and a helmet. But I was sleepy, and by the time the thought had gelled, he'd reached the end of the cul de sac, turned on to the sidewalk, and headed south.

I started the car, pulled out of the driveway, and made my way through the neighborhood to the main road. I had just stopped and flipped on my blinker, when the same guy zipped past my front bumper going against the traffic (i.e., "the wrong way") down a major four-lane divided street. With no helmet.

In. The dark.

I thanked God, on the rider's behalf, for the orange glow provided by the sodium street lamps the city recently planted all along the median, and then I tossed in a little bonus prayer that this clueless, clueless man would find his way safely home and not leave his wife a widow and his children fatherless.

"God protects fools and drunks," goes the old cliché. I just hope omnipotence comes with really good night vision.

I know you are, but what am I?

Hot and sweaty, still wearing my cycling clothes after yesterday's 50-mile ride out to the airport and back, I stopped by Schlotsky's to pick up a couple sandwiches for Turtle's and my lunch.

The kid behind the register asked, "To go?"

I chuckled. "Yeah. I wouldn't want to stink out your other customers."

"That's not what I meant," he said. "I just figured you didn't look like you'd be staying here and eating both of those sandwiches."

"Nicely done!" I said, impressed by his insight. "You're gonna do well."

While I was waiting by the pickup window for my order, I "overheard" a young woman at a nearby table talking to her male companion loudly enough for me to be sure I was meant to hear.

"Look at that guy. He looks ridiculous. I'll bet he's gay."

I ignored her. I mean, let's be realistic: grown men in lycra do look kind of silly and, yes... maybe even... effeminate.

"I mean, I'm sure he's a nice guy and all, but how gay does that look."

Oh goody. At least I was getting the benefit of doubt. I still pretended not to hear.

As the two of them got up to leave, they walked right past me. He was a dull-looking 20-something in a "wife beater" undershirt and baggy jeans. She was about the same age, wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. She was substantially overweight and plodded when she walked.

"So gay lookin'," she muttered under her breath as she passed.

I didn't ignore it this time. I said, mildly, "Look, I know I'm supposed to feel hurt or angry or something, but here's the thing: I'm just too caught up in the irony of it all."

Her response was to laugh disdainfully and waddle off.

I'm pretty sure she had no idea what I'd just said to her.

Taking the bad with the good

On the one hand, we have the disappointing news that 2006 Tour de France winner Floyd Landis is being investigated by UCI, the international governing body for cycling:

LONDON — Tour de France champion Floyd Landis tested positive for high levels of testosterone during the race, his Phonak team said Thursday on its Web site.

The statement came a day after the UCI, cycling's world governing body, said an unidentified rider had failed a drug test during the Tour.

Link (Austin American-Statesman)

The allegations haven't been proven, at this point, but I can't tell you how much this bums me out. Here, I finally thought I'd seen a clean race from a clean rider, and now this. It's... disorienting.

Meanwhile, another rider who's had his share of grief from UCI is also in the news:

Newton, Ia. - Lance Armstrong will dip his famous bicycle tires on both sides of Iowa next year, he pledged to an ecstatic RAGBRAI crowd of thousands Wednesday night.

"So this is RAGBRAI. I wasted all those Julys in France," Armstrong began, humoring the throngs of riders, residents and fans.

"This is my commitment," he said. "Next year, my rear tire is starting in the west and my front tire's ending on the east."

Link (DeMoines Register)

Very cool.

This your brain on Popeye's spicy chicken

More precisely, this is my brain on leftovers: Popeye's spicy chicken, green beans, baked beans, a hard biscuit, and an Oreo (which, in some parts of the world, is also a biscuit). Turtle, at least, attributes last night's dream—an unlikely mishmash of plot elements seemingly stolen from The Core, Get Smart, and Pee Wee's Big Adventure—to the choices I made when I prepared my own dinner last evening.

It all started when two men showed up on the stoop of my Miami-style bungalow. They were wearing suits the same greenish-yellow color that was all the rage at The Limited stores in the mid-'80s, which I think was called "mustard". Under their jackets, they wore t-shirts printed to look like a tie and vest.

They looked like live-action versions of Bert and Ernie, from Sesame Street.

"You have to come with us," Bert said. "Your house is the epicenter."

I glanced down and saw that both men were wearing red leather clogs. This rendered me momentarily incapable of speech, but I took a moment and finally found an appropriate response.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Ernie said, placing an arm around my waist and nudging me toward a battered tow truck that looked like it had been on its last legs since the early '60s. "You don't want to be here when it comes."

"'It'?" I muttered, reluctantly allowing myself to be led to the truck. "What 'it'?"

Ernie smiled the sort of reassuring smile usually reserved for small children and the very senile. "Everything's going to be all right," he said. "Everything's just fine."

"The hell it is," Bert said. "There's a space-time rift [insert dream-ish technical mumbo jumbo here] alignment that's going to cause a softball-sized tunnel all the way through the planet, and it's going to come out through your kitchen."

Ernie rolled his eyes and scowled at Bert, irritated. "You know he's not cleared for that information yet."

"Look, just shut up and get in the truck," Ernie said, not unkindly.

[At this point, some of you may be wondering where Turtle was while all this was going on. She wasn't in the dream, which suggests to me that she has a better agent than I do.]

The next thing I knew, we'd arrived at a checkpoint that looked just like the turnstiled entry gates at Disney World.

"Here you are," Ernie said. "ESCIA headquarters."

"What's ESCIA?" I asked.

"'Extra Secret Central Intelligence Agency'," Ernie said.

"Wait... if it's so extra secret, then why's there a big sign over the entry that says 'ESCIA'?"

"Shaddap," Bert said and slapped me across the back of the head. "Just go."

"Aren't you guys coming?"

"Nope," Ernie said. He pointed to a torpedo dangling from the tow truck's hook. "We have to get that over to research ASAP."

"It's a torpedo," I said.*

"Dang, this guy's good," Ernie said, poking Bert. "Poke, poke, poke."

I walked over to the turnstiles, where I became the charge of a guy who looked just like Francis, Pee Wee Herman's arch nemesis in Pee Wee's Big Adventure. He was wearing a gray suit, white shirt, red tie, and white patent leather shoes.

"C'mon," he said. "Let's get you checked in."

Francis then proceeded to take my thumbprints using an electronic scanner, and then various other combinations of digit prints, including my pinky toes ("The most important ones!"). I was photographed and blood typed. Finally, Francis punched a button and a machine spat out an ID card with my holographic likeness, thumbprints, and transparent window with a drop of my blood all laminated in.

"Here you go," he said. He handed me my ID card and nudged me toward the turnstiles. "But before you go in, I want to share a tip that will help you to assimilate."

"What's that?"

"We all wear suits in the ESCIA, but the way you dress can make you or break you," Francis explained. "Take me, for instance. I've chosen my ensemble to convey a sexually disingenuous image that cuts way down on distractions on the job."

"I bet. But don't you mean 'sexually ambiguous'?"

"I MEANT WHAT I SAID!!" Francis snapped. "Now get in there!"

Next, I was taken to meet my mentor, a veteran agent played by Stephen Dorff. Dorff was wearing a black pinstriped suit, a black shiny shirt open at the collar with no tie, and full-quill ostrich skin boots with silver toe caps. His hair was spikey, and he slouched insouciantly with one hand in his pants pocket and the other holding a cigarette.

He took a slow draw and squinted through the smoke. "So you're the new guy, enh?"

I shrugged and looked at my surroundings. We were in an office building, in a common area that looked quite a bit like the waiting area at an airport gate. Off to one side, there were about a dozen men and women wearing brown suits, doing some sort of slow line dance to the tune of Trio's "Da Da Da".

"Weird," I said.

"Yeah, well don't let 'em fool ya," Dorff said. "They're the ones with the power around here. Those are the office manager moles. There's nothin' goes on that they don't know about."

"I always heard that you shouldn't wear a brown suit to an interview because brown gives an impression of untrustworthiness," I said.

"Shit, I don't know," he said. He paused for a moment to drop his cigarette on the floor, ground it out with the toe of his boot, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I always figured it was because office managers order the coffee service, and coffee's brown."


From there, I don't remember details. There was some business about crawling through ventilation ducts and having to time it so we were only moving when the fans were on, but my alarm clock went off before I had a chance to find out what that was all about.


* I know what prompted this, at least. Last night, I watched an old Peter O'Toole movie called Murphy's War in which O'Toole's character sinks a German U-Boat using a recovered torpedo, which he drops on it from a crane on a barge.

Weekend update

RBENT Ride

Bright and early Saturday morning, a group of us recumbent riders got together for our own little parade. About a dozen of us met up in Richardson and rode down to the head of the White Rock Creek Trail, where we met up with about a dozen more before continuing down the trail to White Rock Lake.

Unlike my usual club rides, this one included a fair share of the sort of slower rider that most people associate with recumbents—which was fine, because motoring along an eight foot wide bike path at much more than our 12-13 mph pace would've been irresponsible. There's just too much bike, roller blade, stroller, and pedestrian traffic on the trail to get up a good head of steam without the risk of hurting someone.

But once we got down to the lake, that was a different story. We split into a faster group and a slower group with the fast group taking to the road and the slower group sticking to the trail. Each wedgie that passed us and each remark like "Oh! Look at the senior citizens!" drew whimpers from my Corsa (or Ba-Cheetah, as some of the group refer to the highracers), but FlyingLAZBoy calmly reined us in until after the first rest stop. And then it was time to "do the demo", charging north along the west side of the lake into a slight headwind at around 20 mph, dropping wedgies like junk mail.

Photo by Paul Brown

After a couple passes like that, we'd gotten the demo out of our systems and made our way back north to the cars, after which we garbaged up on quesadillas and burritos as big as your head. Much fun was had by all (and I didn't fall over).

Out on a limb

Or, more to the point, up on a ladder.

Last weekend, Turtle and I bought a ceiling fan for what we affectionately refer to as the library. All week, it sat in the garage, and all week Turtle—either distracted by her own goings-on or simply displaying monumental patience—didn't harrass me about it.

Yesterday, I decided I was going to put the thing up.

Now, I've never been much of a do-it-yourselfer. I lack the necessary skill, tools, and extra hands necessary to complete most home improvement projects to my exacting standards. I'm also terrified of electrocution and drowning, so I avoid wiring and plumbing tasks like the Black Death.

However, after thinking about the installation process, I reckoned that the trickiest part of putting up the fan was going to be taking down the chandelier that was already hanging where the fan needed to go. At this point, I'll spare you the blow-by-blow of assembling and installing the down rod, blades, light kit, etc. and just say that after 2 1/2 hours of standing on a stepladder, grunting and (at times) cursing, Turtle and I stepped back to admire our new fully functional ceiling fan.

We were both impressed with the fact that it operated with nary a wobble, and that flipping the wall switch didn't start a fire. Probably because I had my fingers properly crossed.

I love a parade

Actually, I don't; but we sure had a doozy last night.

By now, many of you will have heard about the slow-speed chase that wound its way through three north Texas counties yesterday evening, but for the benefit of those who haven't, here's the short of it:

• A 32-year-old man stuck a gun in the face of a customer in the parking lot of a Lowe's in Carrollton.
• He then proceeded to wreck the stolen car, and when a local pulmonologist stopped to see if he was okay, the gunman stole his car
• Next stop: Fairview, TX. Fairview is a very small town with practically nothing in it but farmland and very large, very expensive houses. It's also the northern neighbor of Allen, where Turtle and I live. We ride our bikes there. In Fairview, the gunmen left the doctor's car and hijacked a bright red semi (with trailer) owned by an Allen couple. He kicked out the husband and held the wife at gunpoint, making her drive the truck.
• From there, they headed south through Plano, Dallas, and Oak Cliff before heading west on I-20.
• The police spiked several of the tires, but the truck continued west, riding on the front rims, all the way to Ft. Worth
• After shooting out some more tires, the radiator and (according to one report) the gas tanks, the police finally got the truck stopped. The gunman released the hostage, and the police shot tear gas into the truck cab, forcing the gunman out. So no one got killed.

Link - Dallas Morning News (use BugMeNot to acquire a login/password)

Granted, this sort of thing has become sort of passé since the O.J.-in-a-white-Blazer incident back in '92 or so, and I'm pretty sure the Los Angelenos would tell me this is a daily occurrence there.

What bugged me is that, once the local TV stations started televising the progress of the chase from their helicopters, literally hundreds of people began lining the overpasses along the chase route, all straining to catch a glimpse of the truck. Turtle and I cringed as, at each overpass, people dashed from one rail to the other—oblivious to slow but still-moving traffic—to make sure they didn't miss one second of the spectacle.

What's wrong with people? (The question is rhetorical, for the record.)

Ride Report: Tour de Paris (Texas)

I've done more than a dozen charity rallies over the last couple years. Some have been scenic, others were challenges to my endurance and stubborness, and others just plain miserable. But yesterday's Tour de Paris was a new high point for me, because it was the funnest 62.8 miles I've ever ridden at one swat.

The Foo Family had originally planned on loading up The Grape with bikes and gear and driving up to Paris together. Unfortunately, Turtle came down with a sinus infection that turned into a once-every-fifteen-seconds cough that won't let her sleep, much less do a bike ride. That combined with the predicted triple-digit temperatures led to the decision that I should go on alone.

I woke up at 4am, half an hour before the alarm was set to go off, showered, finished packing my car (not a grape), and hit the road. The drive to Paris took me about 90 minutes, instead of the two hours that Yahoo! Maps had predicted, and I attributed this to the fact that there were few vehicles on the road, except for ones with bikes strapped to them. Unfortunately, there wasn't much of anything along the route and my plan to pick up breakfast as I neared Paris turned out to be a bad one. Clif bars and water for breakfast will get the job done, but Foo prefers to start a long ride with a bit of sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit percolating in his gut.

I arrived with plenty of time to pick up my and Turtle's packets (she might as well have her T-shirt, no?), get my bike set up, and apply sunscreen. I parked next to Safeman9, another BikeJournal.com member, and we had a nice chat while setting up. A friendly bumblebee became intrigued with my black and yellow bike and my black and yellow cycling duds. Too friendly perhaps. As Safeman9 noted, it appeared the little hummer was looking for a date.

The Tour de Paris is a mass start, which means that instead of the longer distances going off first, everyone goes off together. This has always made me a bit nervous, because it means that you spend the first five miles or so just trying to work your way through all the bike path wobblers and slow-paced social riders to find some "clear air" to ride in. On the recumbent, it's even dodgier because I'm just not as agile as I was on my wedgie.

But I got the job done and by about 20 minutes into the ride, I was in the open and cruising along the flats at between 18 and 22 mph. Soon after I hit clear air, I noticed a guy in full Liquigas kit riding with a woman in pigtails and a lot of pink stuff on her bike. Aha! I thought. Allez and Lancenotstrong from BikeJournal.

"Allez! Allez! Allez!" I yelled out, both because that's cyclist for "faster!" and because... well, I was trying to catch their attention. I think my sudden appearance was sort of a rolling non sequitur, because as I pulled up next to them, Allez gave me the sort of look one might reserve for something just scraped off the bottom of one's shoe. Lance, however, clicked on the situation right away.

"Foo man!" he hollered, grinning. We shook hands briefly, peloton style, and I rode on, not wanting to interrupt their conversation any more than I had. But how cool was that? Not even half an hour into the ride, and I'd already met three people I recognized from the BikeJournal forum.

Not long after, a rider called out to me as I was overtaking him. It turned out this was royshiro, a BikeJournal member who had been trying earlier in the week to arrange for a group of us ride together. And so we did, Roy and I, and we had a blast just riding along and chatting. I've rarely had more pleasant company, on or off the bike, and it made for a very enjoyable ride.

By the time we reached the midpoint of our 100K route, the temperature had become noticeably hotter. My computer showed an average speed of 17.7 mph to that point, but we decided that we'd take it easier and conserve energy on the return leg. To punctuate the point, I had a concentration lapse as we were leaving the rest stop and promptly experienced a gravity failure that left me with a dinged knee and some road rash down the length of my shin.

Later, while cleaning that up, I came to understand that hardcore riders don't shave their legs to be more aerodynamic; they shave them because it's easier to clean road rash without all that fur in the way.

At about 9 miles to the finish, we came into some rollers, and I temporarily took my leave of Roy and agreed to meet him back at the parking lot. With the first climbs of any significance coming up, our rhythms were bound to get out of synch and I wanted to maintain as much momentum as I could. When I rolled up to the finish, the LED sign out in front of the high school read "106°", and the cheerleaders were bouncing around like they were at a cool autumn football game. God bless 'em.

I finished the 62.8 miles with a 16.5 mph average. According to my heart rate monitor, my theory that my max heart rate has dropped from 193 to 188 isn't worth the blog it's written on. After the ride, it showed my max for the day was 197. Must've been the heat, because I really couldn't recall any point in the ride during which I'd been working that hard.

After Roy arrived, we went inside to change out of our wet cycling duds and spent some time yukking it up with RBENT's Bob McClure (of yellow plasticard-faired recumbent fame) while cooling down. Roy and I then drove to Ta Molly's, a local Tex-Mex restaurant, where he graciously treated me to lunch using a gift certificate he'd brought with him. No quesadillas ever tasted so good.

After lunch, we said our goodbyes and I headed down the road back toward home. Heading west on highway 82 out of Paris, I passed an entire field parked hub to hub with rusted farm tractors and moved "compact digital camera" a position further up the list of things that I'd like to have once Turtle and I have more money than we know what to do with.

Tour de who?

To all my friends and acquaintances who have ever asked, "So what's up with that Tour de France thing?" I offer the following sublime explanation, courtesy of Bob Roll:

The hierarchy in the peloton has another parallel: "It's basically a penitentiary," says Bob Roll, a former Tour rider and an anchor for OLN TV. "You've got your walking boss, you've got that sneaky little bastard who was in The Longest Yard, you have the honorable veterans, and then the guys who are just doing time, which is most of them. Nobody wants to be anybody's boy, but sometimes you have no choice."

Link (FORTUNE)

If you've ever had even the slightest interest in what all the fuss is about, I highly recommend spending five minutes of your time to read this article. It's colorful and well written, and it's about as clear a capsule explanation of professional cycling (and yes, the free market economy) as I've seen.

Spelling with flickr

That's right: still no inspired amusement or wry anecdotes about postnasal coworkers. But I do have a new toy for you guys to play with.

Some mad scientist has used PHP scripting and random images from flickr to generate words like this one:



It's almost as much fun as composing refrigerator magnet poetry. Try it here

Best of FooMix #2 (sort of)

As I went to grab the next in the series of tapes, I discovered that #2 and #3 had gone missing. I've since looked every place I can think of, but it's probably a case of my having carted them along somewhere without putting them back where they belonged. Given my relative lack of participation in the packing process when we moved to the new house, the tapes could be anywhere, including in one of the boxes in the attic, dubiously-labeled "Foo's Stuff".

Mea culpa.

In the place of #2, I offer the contents of a mix CD I made much more recently, but which nevertheless spans the '60s and '70s, skips the '80s, and in one instance covers something from the '70s in the '90s:

1. Blackfoot - "Train, Train"
2. Bullet - "White Lies, Blue Eyes"
3. Cliff Richard - "Devil Woman"
4. Michael Nesmith - "Cruisin'"
5. Jerry Reed - "Amos Moses"
6. Manfred Mann - "I Came For You"
7. Ohio Express - "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy"
8. Cat Stevens - "Jzero"
9. Bread - "If"
10. Petula Clark - "I Know A Place"
11. Small Faces - "Itchycoo Park"
12. 1910 Fruitgum Company - "1, 2, 3, Red Light"
13. Webb Wilder - "Ain't That A Lotta Love"
14. The Buoys - "Timothy"
15. Focus - "Hocus Pocus"
16. Sam the Sham & The Pharaohs - "Wooley Bully"
17. The Nightcrawlers - "Little Black Egg"
18. The Castaways - "Liar, Liar"
19. The Blues Magoos - "We Ain't Got Nothin' Yet"
20. Desmond Dekker & The Aces - "Israelites"
21. Electric Prunes - "I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night"
22. Left Banke - "Walk Away Renee"
23. Bobby Fuller Four - "I Fought The Law"
    

Best of FooMix - #1 (ca. 1984)

Over on My Big Gobhole That Girl's Gobole Gobhole Girl, Susie put out a plea for '70s and '80s love songs and power ballads. I wasn't much help, since I couldn't remember any, off the top of my head.

What did come out of all that was this notion that it might be interesting revealing to share the track lists from the mix tapes I started making sometime in the mid-'80s and continued through #26. By 1998 (or thereabouts), I had pretty much stopped. I can no longer remember why.

Anyway, here you have it: the track list from the first one.

1. Mountain - "Mississippi Queen"
2. Loverboy - "Teenage Overdose/DOA"
3. Dire Straits - "Espresso Love"
4. XTC - "Senses Working Overtime"
5. The Pretenders - "The Phone Call"
6. The Cars - "Moving In Stereo"
7. J. Giles Band - "Rage In The Cage"
8. Pat Benatar - "Out of Touch"
9. The Go-Gos - "This Town"
10. The Cars - "Shooby Doo/Candy-o"
11. Led Zeppelin - "Immigrant Song"
12. The Babys - "Anytime"
13. Nantucket - "Rug Burn"
14. Rossington Collins Band - "Don't Misunderstand Me"
15. Talk Talk - "Talk Talk"
16. The Romantics - "Rock You Up"
17. Baxter Robertson - "Green Light"
18. Rush - "Distant Early Warning"

Worth continuing? A show of hands, please...

When you're hot, you're hot

I received this from Turtle a while back. Since she's not using it, I will.

YOU KNOW YOU ARE IN TEXAS IN SUMMER [May - October] WHEN...

• The birds have to use potholders to pull worms out of the ground.
• The trees are whistling for the dogs.
• The best parking place is determined by shade instead of distance.
• Hot water now comes out of both taps.
• You can make sun tea instantly.
• You learn that a seat belt buckle makes a pretty good branding iron!
• The temperature drops below 95 and you feel a little chilly.
• You discover that in July it only takes 2 fingers to steer your car.
• You discover that you can get sunburned through your car window.
• You actually burn your hand opening the car door.
• You break into a sweat the instant you step outside at 7:30 a.m.
• Your biggest bicycle wreck fear is, "What if I get knocked out and end up lying on the pavement and cook to death?"
• You realize that asphalt has a liquid state.
• The potatoes cook underground, so all you have to do is pull one out and add butter, salt and pepper.
• Farmers are feeding their chickens crushed ice to keep them from laying boiled eggs.
• The cows are giving evaporated milk.

Ah, what a place to call home. God Bless the State of TEXAS!!

Turtle adds...

• You take out an equity loan to pay the AC bill.

The karmic bog roll

During yesterday's afternoon commute, I noticed in my rearview mirror a black Murano making multiple aggressive lane changes, and I prepared myself. Ommmmmm, I thought, imagining myself on my back patio, wearing shorts and sandals, drinking a cold Shiner Bock.

Sure enough, it came my turn, and as the Murano elbowed past to cut me off and brake hard to avoid hitting the car that was ahead of me, I noted with some smugness that the driver was as I had predicted: a crisply dressed Joe Cool with a flashy watch and a cell phone grafted to his left wrist.

Ommmm... The beer in my mind's eye mouth was cold and refreshing, and I wriggled my imaginary toes, noting that the nails needed trimming again.

And then I saw it: stuck to the rear suspension of Joe Cool's Murano was a plastic shopping bag, flapping in the breeze like a length of toilet tissue trailing from a Bruno Magli dress loafer. Karmic balance was restored, and I laughed out loud, quite happy to trade a few feet of pavement for a tasty helping of irony.

Random misfire

I was out riding my Corsa (a.k.a., "the rolling lounge chair") after work, when I rounded a bend to see half a dozen barely-teen boys making their way down the center of the street. Two were walking; the other four were on two BMX bikes. One of them must have heard the buzz of my rear hub and turned to look.

"[incestuous offspring]!" he yelled to his buddies. "Look at this [canine son]!"

I blushingly admit that I cut quite a dashing figure in my black lycra shorts, Canari-yellow sleeveless jersey, and red headband flapping Rambo-esque from beneath the back of my helmet, but I'm reasonably convinced he was reacting to the bike.

"Catch up with him!" one of the boys yelled, and I could see in my helmet mirror that one of the bike riders had stood up and was pedaling like mad.

Rotsa ruck. I was doing 15 mph when I passed them and 20 by the time I heard one of them (faintly) yell "Holy [excrement]! Look at 'im go!"

Don't mess with the bull, young man. You'll get the horns.*


* Fairly blatant toilet-paper-on-a-shoe reference. Anyone?