Wherefore art thou, muse?

I remember now: I have this blog thingy where I used to post my internal dialogue for the... well, entertainment might be too charitable a word. Amusement, perhaps.

Around 3:30 this morning, I finally gave in to concerns about lawn care that had been milling around in my head and keeping me awake. I crept out of bed and went to my office to look up some information about thatch control and core aeration, but I ended up playing around on Flickr. It's fortunate that web sites don't literally collect dust, but I could tell that it had been a while since I'd been on that site. As if it weren't bad enough that I haven't really uploaded much of anything since Turtle's and my Caribbean cruise last year, I also had a couple buddy requests (or something like that) in my in box.

I didn't even know I had an in box on Flickr.

Anyway, I discovered a new "blog this" feature that allows you to, with the click of a button, add many of the photos on Flickr as a blog posting. Even more exciting, this actually does work with the new and super handy (here's a tissue, in case any of that sarcasm dripped on your shoes) Blogger Beta. I promptly blogged a couple photos I found particularly interesting so that you could enjoy them too.

That lasted about as long as it took for me to get to work, have a cup of coffee, and pause to wonder about the copyright implications of my actions. Sure enough, "The Jimmer's" photos were marked "All rights reserved", so despite the fact that he (or she) hadn't disabled my ability to use the "blog this" button, I felt my only correct options were to either take down the images from my blog, or go through the whole process of contacting the photographer to ask his permission to display his (or her) work.

Frankly, that's just too much effort to go through just for an image of a dilapidated shack with a TV with the screen shot out in the front yard. Even if my alternate title was going to be "The Presley Homestead".

Meanwhile

I've been trying to take Tink's recent challenge to heart and return to noticing all the strange little things going on in the world around me.

• The beefy, early-middle-aged guy in the booth across from us at Chili's. The tribal armband tattoo was kind of cool. The spider web encircling the point of his elbow wasn't something I would have chosen—but then, part of the reason I don't have one is that I could never think of a design that represented something integral enough to Who I Am that I'd want to wear it for the rest of my life.
  
  Which brings me to the four-inch high "KISS" plastered across his bicep. Now, I can almost understand someone getting a tattoo of the Grateful Dead's iconic skull. For their fans, it's not just a band; it's a way of life. But KISS? Sure, I have a couple of their earlier albums (one within arm's reach), from before they got old and fat and couldn't carry off the whole rock-gods-in-makeup thing any more. But come on. Bands come and go.
  
  I bet the poor guy sees that tattoo in the mirror and wonders what he was thinking. Or worse, maybe he doesn't.
  
  
• Speaking of rocking out, I actually got on my desktop computer at home the other day and rediscovered the pile of MP3s I have on it. It occurred to me that it might be nice to put together some driving music to listen to during my commutes, now that I have a CD player in the car. The result? Commuter Sampler - Vol. 1.
  
  You'd think that I'd use lots of soothing ambient music and drowsy Rachmaninov... stuff. Nope. It's all high octane stuff. Counterintuitively, it helps my mood during my commutes, perhaps because I'm so busy howling along with Queens of the Stone Age's "No One Knows" or Dwight Yoakum's "Fast As You" that I can't be bothered to get pissed off when the dozenth butthead cuts me off without signaling. Or maybe there just aren't that many people willing to cut off the insane guy while he's yelling at his windshield.
  

Cut off

If it weren't for the fact that Blogger is a free service, I'd start to suspect that I'd forgotten to pay my blog bill. Sometime during the past few weeks, I've stopped receiving notifications about comments left by anyone who's logged in to Google. That means I get notices when rcarlino leaves a comment—anonymous, technically, since he's not logged in, but not really, since he leaves his handle—but never know when anyone else does.

Right about the time Emma Sometimes pointed out that one of my posts had got the comment link turned off, I noticed that other posts had received comments I didn't know were there. And here I thought I was just boring you all.

Are the rest of you having this problem, or am I getting the VIP treatment?

Meanwhile...

I wish I had more entertaining things to tell you about, but there's not much going on but work.

I'm overdue for a trip to Costco, so maybe something weird and blogworthy will come of that.

This morning, I saw three ducks foraging in the ground cover landscaping outside the big city building where I work. They were the tame white ones, and I have no idea where they might have come from.

Yep. I'm coming up dry, so in parting just let me share this thought with you: Я имеют жить форель в моем нижнего белья.

Ride report: Richardson Wild Ride (Richardson, TX)

For most of the early part of this year, I was focused on training and raising money for my MS 150 ride, but today Turtle and I took part in our first charity ride of the year.


The Richardson Wild Ride benefits the Richardson Regional Cancer Center and is held in conjunction with the Wildflower Arts and Music Festival each May. I rode in the rally two years ago, before I made the switch from my Trek 1500 road bike to the recumbent. That year, the weather was sunny and surprised a lot of us with a high temperature in the upper 90s. I went out fast with the long riders, bonked hard before the second rest stop, and barely managed to limp back to the finish for 40 miles. Still, what I'd seen of the event impressed me, and I was eager to see how things looked from the seat of my recumbent this year.

When we rolled out of bed at 5:20 this morning, I heard rain pounding on the roof. I groaned inwardly, because Turtle has a history of having to skip rides because of bad weather, and she was really looking forward to this one. But a quick check of the weather radar revealed that the rain was much lighter elsewhere and would likely pass through before the start of the ride. We continued our preparations, and by 6:30 the rain had stopped. At 8:00, when the ride started, the streets were still damp and puddly in spots, but we weren't getting rained on. And it was cool. Oh bliss!

Squirrel Bait—or as she has officially requested to be addressed, "Squirrelly Girl"—was there too, and we planned to start at the rear of the pack with Turtle so that we could ride out with her. Turtle was headed out to do the 16-mile route on her handcycle; SG and I would ride together as far as the second rest stop, which was the turnaround for the 40-mile route. I'd decide at that point whether to return with her or continue on the 64-mile route.

Starting at the back, we knew that we'd have to fight our way up through the slower riders, but by 15 miles the pack had thinned out a bit. When we go to rest stop 2, SG stuck to her plan and continued on the 40-mile route. I was feeling strong and headed into the hills to the east of Lake Lavon to bag my 5th metric century for the year.

At rest stop 3, I pulled in for a snack and a potty break, and I was pleased to see Mr. & Mrs P, a couple friends I'd met on a previous ride were standing next to their brand new, fire engine red Bacchetta Stradas. We rode on together, forming our own little pace line and having a ball.

See, one of the things about recumbents is that our ride rhythm is a bit different than wedgies. We tend to descend faster, while the wedgies are riding their brakes. Since we have to work harder on climbs, we prefer to fly down hills and use the momentum to reduce the amount of work we have to put into a following climb. So I often find myself penned in behind a glob of wedgies, losing all my momentum and then having to work my tail off on the following climb because the wedgies don't even start climbing until they absolutely have to.

It was quite relaxing to ride with a couple people whose rhythms and ability level were similar, so no one had to wait up for anyone else. And we got some strange looks from our fellow riders along the way, including a priceless moment during a climb when we passed a line of wedgies. On the way down the hill following the climb, MrsP rolled up next to me.

"Did you hear that?" she asked. I hadn't, so she explained. "I didn't get all of it, but one of the women in that group we just passed said something about us passing them, and one of the guys told her, 'Don't worry. They won't be able to keep it up for long.'"

They were right, of course. Once we got out of the rolling hills, we did ease the pace to 17 mph or so, but we never did see that group again. I guess they couldn't keep up our pace for long either.

When we arrived at the finish, we thought it would be neat to line up across the road, side by side, so the event photographer would get a shot of the three of us together. At least, until we discovered that there was no even photographer at the finish line this year. Ah well. We just consoled ourselves by sitting under a tree with Turtle, Sarah, and CliffyB while noshing on cold cheese pizza.

And the sun came out. It was a very good day and among the most fun of the rallies I've ridden during the past few years.

In terms of the ride organization itself, it's the about the best I've ever seen, from registration and packet pick up, to parking direction, to staging at the start. The rest stops are not as extravagant as some, but when you get to the finish, it's pizza and beverages galore. Traffic control on this ride is outstanding from beginning to end, with peace officers controlling most intersections and volunteer flagmen on some of the busier streets to make sure riders make needed lane changes in time. The only possible down side is that riders can become complacent and ride right through un-controlled intersections, assuming that they have right-of-way—but that's absolutely not the fault of the organizers. Another knock peculiar to Turtle's situation is that they hadn't provided a single handicap-accessible porta-john. She was pretty hot about that, but the ride director made it right, comping Turtle's ride fees for both this year and next year's ride, as well as giving his heartfelt promise that the oversight would not be repeated next year.

Thus making the Richardson Wild Ride one of the premier rallies in North Texas.

Just... a little while... longer

Just another couple days and I should get part of my life back. Brain cells and fingers left idle in the wake of my indentured web servitude... [sob] ...well, the mind bloggles at the possibilities.

In the meantime, check out this funky (in the words of the photographer) shot of the bunch of us waiting to roll out on the first day of the MS 150. I think it's rad.



...and one of my favorite shots from the whole weekend: Turtle congratulating me after I came across the finish line.

Copyright © 2007 Cessna395

Now playing: Drivin' and Cryin', Fly Me Courageous

The long and winding road

We've all heard the expression "as the crow flies", right? Well, it has nothing whatsoever to do with this past weekend's MS 150. If one were to pop up a map on Google or MapQuest or Yahoo!, he (or she) might be inclined to observe that there's no way the distance between Frisco and Ft. Worth adds up to 150 miles. I'm here to tell you that there most certainly is—if you take the scenic route.

Such a scenic route would include little-known dots on the map, such as Rhome and Dido. It would pass through the sleepy environs of Prosper and Ponder and Krum (but not quite Krugerville). It would cross Lake Ray Roberts and Eagle Mountain Lake. There would be an abundance of wildflowers and longhorn cattle and people waving from lawn chairs in their front yards.

There would be wind and rain on the first day, and long steep hills (and more wind) on the second. And at the end, there would be friends and family, some jumping up and down, some waving from their wheelchairs—but all cheering their faces off. There would be a jumpin' band playing, and tents with Cajun food and liquid carbohydrate replenishment.

And sore muscles. And a sort of vague sense of joy, not so much because the headwinds and hills were over, but because of a sense of having accomplished something for a worthy cause, in the names of others who could not do so for themselves.

We had a freakin' blast, wind and rain be damned.

Postus Scriptum

It has been brought to my attention that there was no comment link at the end of this posting, and sure enough when I looked I found that comments and backlinks were disabled. I didn't do it intentionally, so maybe Blogger burped. Or they've helpfully changed my defaults.

Foo needs...

No one actually tagged me, but Gwynne posted this meme, and I thought it would be fun. Go to Google and type in your name, followed by the word "needs."

• Foo needs a Bar to do some or all of it's work. You'll get no argument from me. However, I do object to your misuse of punctuation, as well as being reduced to an 'it'.
• Foo needs to actually perform, say in certain cases First only, in others Second only, in others yet, First then Second (if Foo never needs to call Second before, and First after, on its argument, then its unit-tests will not exercise that path). Your lips move, but I can't hear what you say.
• Foo$ needs. You've got that a little backwards. It's "Foo needs $."
• Foo needs to be abstract. Now you're just stating the obvious.
• External callers will have no idea that Foo needs swapped arguments. Maybe, but I find that having any kind of conversation with a telemarketer is rather like talking to a brick wall.
• Foo needs lots of extra page reads. Because it feels good to be needed.
• Foo needs to know how to provide a Bar. Look... if you let me know you're coming, I'll have some Shiner Bock on ice. If you want something with fruit or an umbrella, consult a professional.
• Foo needs to be shared between multiple components. Forget it. I'm, like, totally monogamous.
• Foo needs a stronger incentive. I said FORGET. IT.
• Foo needs to be foo. What else can I be but who I am?
• silly-foo-needs-meme.html — mumble mumble I resemble that remark.

I could go on, but I have things to do. Love ya... buh-bye.

T-minus three days...

Well, more or less. I could probably geek out and embed a sly little niblet of JavaScript into this post to accurately count down the hours until the Dallas/Foat Wuth MS 150's Saturday morning launch time. I could... if I weren't so dadburned busy.

Tightened deadlines and paring of the development staff at work means I hit the ground running every day and don't slow down until I've put in my 9½ hours. I'm not looking for sympathy. Save that for the folks who got the pink slips. All I'm saying is that some very prime blogging time is being utilized more productively than in the past.

When I'm not at work, I'm doing homeowner stuff and handling the conscripted webmaster duties for all the Ride of Silence organizers who have waited until the last couple weeks to submit their event information. That won't let up until after May 16.

But I'm still here, and I haven't closed up shop. I've actually had a few things I felt were interesting enough to post about, but I got to work, got busy, and by the time I was in a position to post again, I... uh... what was I saying?

My neck's back to what passes for normal in my (wait for it) neck of the woods. The legs are strong and ready to roll. I still need to give my bike and gear a final going-over, but it's supposed to rain for the next couple days, so I have time.

As long as the weather behaves itself, it's going to be a great weekend. The troops—Turtle and assorted other family and well-wishers—all have their marching orders and will be busy getting us riders where we need to go before heading out to the lunch stop to help make sammiches. To top it all off, we received our cool team jerseys from a generous benefactor. Sweet, no?

Besides looking cool, there's a bit of symbolism in the design. Red, if not the MS Society's official color, sure does show up on a lot of little rubber bracelets and on the Champions of MS bandannas. I'm told by people who actually have luck to test that black chips are $100, and green chips are $25. So the chips on the front of the jersey total $150. I hope I don't have to explain why that's a significant number.

On the back, four playing cards bear the faces of the five friends and loved ones for whom we're riding. I think that's the coolest part of the design, and it's kind of a shame that it won't be visible while I'm riding because I'm basically lying on my back.

Finally, I want to thank those of you who have sponsored me in this endeavor. My blogger friends have made up the bulk of my contributors, and I find that pretty darned amazing.

Weekend update

But you've already used that as the title of another post, some of you are thinking. Well, hush. It's descriptive, it's Monday, and honestly... what difference does it make? It's not as if anyone's actually going to go back through the archived postings and become confused if two of them have the same title.

Speaking of being confused, maybe someone can explain something to me (or at least provide a non-obvious explanation). When an Amber Alert is issued, we learn the general circumstances under which a child has gone missing. We learn the make, model, and color of the vehicle, that it has a dent in the left rear door, and that it has a bumper sticker reading "My kid beat up your honor student." With a bullet hole in one corner. We learn what the suspected abductor was wearing, down to the team logo on his ball cap, and that the child was wearing pink. Pink t-shirt, pink capris, pink tennis shoes.

Am I the only one who sees it as being rather disingenuous to omit the race of the child and/or that of the suspected abductor from their description(s)?

Yeah, yeah... I get it. The radio station doesn't want to risk being accused of perpetuating this or that racial stereotype. But if I'm supposed to be on the lookout for the child, wouldn't it be useful to have me looking for a white guy pulling on the arm of a black child, if that's the case? Sure, knowing that they're traveling in a clapped out, '90 Accord is helpful, but there are just so many of them smoking around the metroplex.

I'm just sayin'.

But I digress

With my bloodstream full of anti-inflammatories, I've officially lowered the Foo Irascibility Advisory System threat level to a more manageable yellow. I didn't go out for any significant training miles on Saturday, wanting to ease back into riding to see how the ol' C3-C6 would tolerate it. Instead, Turtle and I went out for a pleasant hour of tooling around the immediate neighborhoodplex. It was a bit windy (and what Spring day in Texas isn't?), so we agreed that I'd ride ahead, double-back, and repeat. That way we'd be sort of riding together, but I wouldn't have to ride at her pace, and she wouldn't have to push herself beyond what felt comfortable for her. 15 miles for me; 8 for her (though I'm sure she'll correct me if I've remembered it wrong). Lunch at Subway.

Sunday morning, it was time for Dawn Patrol and a metric century with St. Bob and Squirrel Bait. At 63 °F, the temperature was nearly 20 degrees warmer than when we started our ride last weekend, but the stiff southern wind and overcast skies made for a gloomy sort of day. That was good news for us, because it made for a good training day. The homeliness of the day kept a lot of the usual runners and wobblies inexperienced cyclists away from The Rock, and the wind made us work—for half the loop, at least.

Nature break (a gratuitous double entendre)

I think it was after our fourth loop (~36 miles) that we made a brief stop for potty breaks and energy bars. As I munched on a Blackberry Sawdust Clif bar*, a squirrel with a very puffy tail boldly scampered up to me. It sat up on its haunches and watched me intently, eyes bright and whiskers twitching.

"Hey, SB," I called to Squirrel Bait. "Your little friend's back."

"Ew! Make it go aw—"

She didn't finish, instead stopping to watch the squirrel. Sensing the potential for a handout, it had cranked the cuteness up to Full and would have batted its eyelashes at her (if it had any).

"Aw... he is kinda cute, isn't he?"

The squirrel puffed up its tail and shook it to signal its excitement and a desire to be our best friend. I broke off a chunk of my Clif bar and tossed it in the squirrel's direction, and it leapt into the air. Time slowed, Matrix-like, so that we could fully appreciate the back flip with full twist the squirrel executed before snatching the crumb from the air and landing in a graceful crouch on the sidewalk.

"Go, Neo!" I said, genuinely impressed.

The squirrel was busily munching its chunk of chewy energy bar, but spared me a glance and seemed to wink conspiratorially.

Meanwhile...

St. Bob had been on the phone, checking in at home. There was a smallish emergency that was going to cut his ride short—and Squirrel Bait's, as well, since they'd carpooled.

To make a long story a bit shorter, I ended up going off on my own so that I'd be sure to get in my metric before my lovely bride started looking at the clock and worrying (as she is wont to do). I considered going for some extra distance, but by the time I'd finished my seventh lap, I'd had enough of the wind and the racer wannabes and gave that a miss. I ended with 65.5 miles at an average of 16 mph.

Later in the day, I got a call from St. Bob who wanted to be sure I'd made out okay, finishing on my own.

I don't call him St. Bob for nothing.

He told me that when he and Squirrel Bait finished their last lap and returned to the parking lot, the park maintenance guy who had tried to help Bob with his mechanical problem last week was there. He asked about Bob's bike problem and whether they'd had a good ride, just making conversation.

Finally, he asked if they'd seen his squirrel, and it turns out that the bold little critter I'd fed isn't just some random rodent. Her name is "Sylvia".

Who knew?

Reporting in... Suh!

After bagging on the Colder Than Crap Century,* I turned right around on Sunday and logged my first metric century (100 kilometers or, in this case, about 65 miles) of the year. At 45 degrees, it made for a very chilly start, but the wind had blown itself out and the sun was shining. By mid-morning, we were stopping every 20 miles or so to peel off layers of clothing. I felt strong all day and had a great training ride.

Monday morning, I was well into my first major neck flare-up of the year. It had nothing to do with the previous day's ride, but with all the whipsawing of the weather I'd suspected it was coming. By that afternoon, I could no longer hold my head completely upright and could barely turn my head. The treatment options: a Turtle-imposed freeze on all evening laptop sessions, and a trip to the neurologist for some new prescriptions. The former (and my load at work) accounts for the lack of postings to this blog and the ones I visit; the latter explains why I'm once again able to turn my head without seeing stars.

Looks like I'm back in business.

* Polar opposite of the Hotter Than Hell Hundred, you might say. Get it? Polar opposite?

Bunny update

Some of you may be wondering about our nest of rodents little furry darlings. Last Friday, just as our nasty storms were rolling in, I went out to check on them. Their eyes were open by that time, and the biggest of the litter eyed me suspiciously as I approached.

A teenager already? Ah... they grow up so fast, I thought.

"Well, Señor Conejito," I said aloud. "Are you and your buddies ready? There's about to be a lot of rain, so you'll maybe want to climb off the other kids so they don't drown."

It eyed me for a couple seconds and suddenly scrabbled over the lip of the nest, scampered along the fence line, and wriggled under. I could see Turtle watching me out the kitchen window, waving her hands and mouthing something that looked like Go get him! Go get him! I shrugged at her and headed back inside as fat droplets of rain began plopping on the concrete patio.

Turtle continued to peer through my binoculars out the kitchen window as the rain pounded down. Two more... three more emerged from the nest and milled around in the downpour. We haven't seen a sign of them since, but I'm sure they're fine.

Probably digging an elaborate warren under the foundation of my house as I type this.

Best laid plans of mousey men

A few weeks ago, I was sitting at a table outside Einstein's Bagels with my buddy, rcarlino, and he asked if I was going to do the PBA's Spring Century ride. I remembered how much he and several other riding buddies enjoyed the Fall Century and, after a bit of discussion about whether or not I was in shape for it, decided I'd give it a go.

As of last weekend, the projected weather forecast for this weekend was high temperatures around 70, and sunny. By mid-week, it had changed to partly cloudy and low 60s. Last evening, a nasty band of thunderstorms and tornadoes rolled across the metromess with a cold front in its wake. By this morning, the temperatures were in the mid-40s with projected highs in the mid-50s.

But it was still supposed to be sunny, so even with the predicted 20 mph winds out of the north the ride was still doable, and the wind would be at our backs (bonus!) on the return leg. I'd just have to wear my tights, full-finger gloves, and my windbreaker. The thing is, once I was standing in the parking lot, discussing the situation with other riders, I started noticing that their tights and jackets were thicker than what I had on, and most were wearing at least two jerseys—and arm warmers besides. And still I tried to convince myself that I was being a weenie. I'd probably warm up once I got moving. 20 mph headwinds and 35 mph gusts wouldn't be that bad, right? Except I couldn't hear myself think over the chattering of my teeth.

I should have listened to Turtle when she tried to get me to buy some winter cycling gear on end-of-season closeout.

The short of it is that I hung around long enough for rcarlino to arrive, told him I was bagging it, and turned the car toward the house without ever unloading my bike. I felt kind of guilty about that. At least, I felt guilty about it until I checked Weather Underground and saw that the winds are only increasing, and the temperature's dropping.

Maybe I'll go to Hotter 'N' Hell 100 this year and try for my century. I'm betting it won't be too cold then.

New red shoes

With the MS 150 only a few weeks away, I decided it was time to go ahead and give the Ba-cheetah the set of spankin' new, red Michelin Ironman tires I bought last month. While I was at it, I cleaned and lubed the chain in preparation for this weekend's century attempt.

Here's my steed all gussied up and looking proud:

The Easter bunny cometh

Several bunnies, in fact.

Last week, I had finished mowing the lawn and was racing the predicted storms to get the trimming done, when I noticed a tuft of what looked like dryer lint lying on the grass. I looked closer and saw that it was rabbit fluff. I heard a tiny squeaking noise and followed it to a nest of tiny critters. I'd knocked open a bunny nest with the string trimmer. They were so tiny that their fur was still black and their little heads still had that sort of generic shape that could just as well have belonged to newborn puppies.

I consulted St. Turtle of Assisi. One of the babies had a cut across its belly, probably from the string trimmer, but the others looked fine so she suggested we should leave them alone so the mother would come back and take care of them.

As of this morning, they're still out there. They seem to be doing all right and are active enough that they keep knocking the fluff out of their hole. When I come out to check on them, they hear me and start climbing all over one another. Their eyes are still closed, but their heads look more like bunny heads now, and their fur has changed to a more recognizable mix of browns and whites.



In the first picture, you can see one of the bunnies' heads, facing to the left, with a little white stripe on top. The second picture shows one of the babies' bunny butt, as it attempts to burrow its way to the bottom of the pile to take its turn getting warm. To give you a sense of how little these guys are, the hole you see is only about four inches across.

I just hope that they don't decide to take up residence in my yard, tearing up the grass and burrowing under the foundation slab like their mother.

Bicycle Q & A

My previous posting triggered some interesting questions and commentary, and since I've been a bit low on interesting life events to post about...

Bret: What should I be doing after each ride (and what should I be doing it with)?

That's pretty wide open there, buddy. Particularly if I've had a hard workout, I like to make sure I get some protein in me within an hour of finishing. Chocolate milk seems to do well for me, and lots of people swear by it. Accelerade or some other recovery drink with whey protein is also good. You can also reduce some of the soreness by getting a massage or by using, say, a rolling pin to work the lactic acid out of your muscles.

Bret: Clean the bike? Lube the chain? (Clean the chain? Lube the bike?) Tighten x, y or z?

Ah. So it is about the bike.

I know a lot of people who lovingly wipe every speck of dust off their bikes immediately after finishing a ride. I'm not so fastidious. I typically try to give it a quick wipe down if I've been forced to ride on wet roads or if I've been using Gatorade (or similar) because that stuff will eat the paint. Other than that, I don't really do much in the way of post-ride maintenance.

Pre-ride, it's another matter. I don't yet have a rack for the new car, so I have to transport my bike inside the car. To do that, I have to remove both the front wheel and the seat. While reassembling the bike in preparation for a ride, I do a quick check of the various bolts (many of which aren't on a traditional bike). Every couple rides I check to make sure that the brake calipers and pads haven't worked loose. I also run the chain lightly through a rag to remove any loose dirt and gunk.

I clean and lube the bike on an as-needed basis. Frankly, I feel that oiling the chain before or after every ride is excessive—for a road bike, at least—and only serves to attract dirt that will wear the chain. Basically, if it's a) been a while, b) the chain is starting to sound a little gritty, or c) I get a link that squeaks a little, then I apply some fresh lubricant. Every once in a while, I apply a drop of lube to the... turny bits of the idler wheels and to the moving parts of my clipless pedals.

I'll return to the topic of chain lube shortly, but just a few more thoughts about cleaning. As I said, run the chain through a rag to remove dirt and excess lube. Clean your cogs by pulling a rag in and out between them. As you do so, the freewheel will ratchet a bit at a time, and you'll be able to work your way all the way around. Repeat for each cog. Also clean the gunk off the idler wheels in your rear derailleur. Just use a rag and sort of pinch the wheel with your fingers while spinning the cranks backward until there's more goop on the rag than on the idler wheel.

Occasionally, I use a chain machine and bio-degreaser to give the chain a good cleaning. I don't do this as often as I used to, partially because the lubricant I started using shortly after switching to the recumbent doesn't seem to gunk up and collect dirt like some others I've tried.

If I really want to give the chain a good cleaning, I remove the chain* and place it in a plastic jug. I like a square Planter's peanut jug because it has a wide mouth and sort of a hand grip on one side. I Pour in enough bio-degreaser to cover the chain, tightly close the lid, and shake, shake, shake. I let that soak for "a while" and then, if I'm in the mood, shake, shake, shake. When I've decided the chain is probably clean, I remove the chain, drawing it through a clean rag as I do so to remove as much of the degreaser as possible. Then I hang the chain over one of the garage door tracks (remember: my chain is twice as long as yours), dry it a bit more with the rag, and then leave it to dry. With the chain off the bike, this is a good time to clean the cogs, chain rings, and other parts that can be difficult to reach with the chain on.

Do not leave the chain to dry so long that it starts to think of rusting or you forget about it and open the garage door. Not that I've done this, but it could happen.

* Depending on what brand chain you have, this could mean using a chain break tool. It's not difficult, but if you accidentally push the pin all the way out of the link you'll probably be making a trip to the bike shop. If your chain doesn't have one special master link that can be taken apart without a chain tool, ask your local bike shop for a SRAM power link. They'll know what you're talking about, and it will make getting the chain apart and back together much easier.

"What's the best chain lube?"

The only correct answer is "Whatever works the best for you." Seriously. Ask a dozen cyclists that same question, and you'll likely get nearly a dozen different answers. My personal favorite is ProLink Gold. It's a light, penetrating lube that flushes out old gunk and bonds to the metal of the chain without making a sticky mess and collecting dirt. Before that, I used Purple Extreme, which is light and penetrating and smells like crayons—but it gets gunky fast and doesn't last for more than two or three rides on the recumbent before needing to be reapplied. I have the better part of a bottle left, if anyone wants it.

Eric: In response to Bret's question, while still deferring to your response, I highly recommend White Lightning as a chain lube. It's especially good out here in west Texas as it sheds or repels dust and dirt.

I've never used White Lightning, but if Eric says it's good stuff I figure it would be worth trying... if I weren't already such a believer in what I'm using. I've been told that it doesn't penetrate as well as lighter lubes but, as Eric suggests, what works for you will depend a lot on the climate and conditions in which you ride.

Bret: Something perhaps to add to your list -- an air hose adapter, if your tires are presta-valve equipped.

It's been so long since I've had anything but Presta, I didn't even think to mention this. But yes, if you think you might have to rely on the kindness of strangers whose pumps aren't designed to handle both Schrader and Presta, a Schrader-Presta adaptor would be a good thing to carry. Turtle keeps one screwed on to one of her valve stems. Also, as I added to my previous post, when you're shopping for an inflator or frame pump, try to make sure it will handle both styles of stems.

Eric: I take it your bike has wheels of the same size. I'm not so fortunate, so I have to pack two tubes. It's really hard to find someone to loan you a 16" presta tube on the roads around here.

It's true that I could get by with one tube, but I always carry two. And a patch kit for extreme situations. The seat bag I use has room, and that extra tube is worth its weight in not being flat. For the MS 150, I also intend to carry a spare folding tire that still has enough life left in it to get me back on the move, in a pinch.

If I need more than two tubes, a patch kit, and a spare tire it means I'm having a really lousy day and am probably ready to just bag it and have someone come and pick me up. More than two flats and a trashed tire, and I have to figure God is trying to send me a message.

Eric: I order bike stuff online only as a last resort. Such is my loyalty to our only LBS, but, then, it's probably harder to feel like you make a difference to the Richardson Bike Mart.

I agree with you, in principle. My local shop (Plano Cycling & Fitness) has been great to do business with, so if they're at all competitive on price I buy from them just because I want them to stay in business. But at the end of the day, I still have to make an accounting of my bike-related expenditures to The Boss, so for those items that are not available or are significantly more expensive at the LBS, it's the internet for me.


And that ought to just about do it for now.

Bicycle gear

I originally put together the following notes after a conversation I had with St. Bob and Squirrel Bait and am re-posting them here, in case they're useful to someone else.

Online retailers

Here are the online bike stores I use most:

Nashbar:
http://www.nashbar.com/

(Note the "Free Catalog" link toward the bottom of the lefthand navigation bar. You'll get mailings automatically if you order from them, but if you want to get on their mailing list right away, this would be the way to do it.)

Performance Bike:
http://www.performancebike.com/

Both of these are pretty comparable, price-wise, but they carry somewhat different brands. It's usually best to check both and compare prices. I'd say Performance has a larger variety of jerseys and tires, but they have an annoying habit of sitting on orders for a while, when you use standard shipping. I've heard this is to encourage people to upgrade to 2^nd day shipping. I don't know if that's true, but I do know that it's not unusual to wait an additional week for a Performance order over what it takes for Nashbar, who are usually pretty quick about shipping.

Universal Cycles:
https://www.universalcycles.com/index.php

This is a smaller outlet that I stumbled on when I was looking for the best price for my Crankin' Stein jersey. They don't have the selection that Performance or Nashbar have, but you can get some awesome deals, and they'll match the price for the same item from any other legitimate online retailer. They also don't charge sales tax to any state, have really prompt shipping, and depending on what you're ordering may even throw in a free pair of cycling socks. I was pretty darned impressed with the service I got from these folks from Oregon.

Pricepoint:
http://www.pricepoint.com

I've never bought anything from them personally, but they've got some good prices and I've heard others have had good results shopping there.

IN GENERAL:

Buying from these online places is kind of like shopping at Costco, in that just because they have better prices on a lot of items—especially if you catch them on sale or close-out—doesn't mean that they're enough cheaper than your local bike shop to offset the shipping cost and the potential wait time. If the item price less my bike club discount (10%) plus sales tax is pretty close to the online shop's price plus shipping (and, possibly, sales tax), I'll always support the local shop. Prices on a lot of items at the larger shops are often quite competitive, but you may find that the online shops have a lot better prices than the smaller local stores.

Must-have items for your seat bag:

• At least one replacement tube and a small patch kit (in case you've already used the spare tube or—like the sap I am—given it away).
• Some sort of inflation device. Frame pump or CO² inflator with a couple spare cartridges. If you get a CO² inflator, try to get a model that accepts both threaded and unthreaded 16g cartridges. You may save a few dollars buying an inflator that only takes threaded cartridges, but the threaded cartridges are more exensive so you'll end up spending more in the long run. Also, make sure the head fits both Schrader and Presta valves.
  
• Tire levers. I like the inexpensive plastic ones that fit together into a storage sleeve. The sleeve not only keeps the levers together and but also provides something to wrap a length of duct tape around. Duct tape can be used in all kinds of creative ways to keep you moving long enough to get to the next rest stop or back to your car.
• A multi-tool. At the most basic, get one that has half a dozen sizes of allen wrenches and a phillips head screwdriver. The one I have in my has two pieces that stick together with a magnet. One half has allen wrenches; the other has box wrenches with a couple sizes of spoke wrenches built in. It's a $10 Bell model that I picked up at Wally World and works as well as the more expensive ones by Crank Brothers and Park Tools.
• A small assortment of band-aids and wet wipes. You could forget to unclip, fall over, and scrape your elbow. You could skin your knuckles while changing a tire. Whatever. It's nice to clean up the wound and stick a patch on so you don't bleed all over your best jersey. Or, I guess, get an infection.

Good-to-haves

• $10 or $20 in cash... just in case
• Laminated photocopies of your driver's license and insurance card (just in case)
• Cell phone. Program an entry with the name "ICE" (In Case of Emergency) and the phone number(s) you'd want called... well... in case of emergency. This is catching on with emergency personnel who now know to look for ICE in cell phone directories.
  

Now playing: Orbital, The Altogether

Some days you're the windshield

You get the idea.

This weekend's [attempts at] training have been a bit of a mixed bag. My master plan for Saturday was to go out on one of my usual club rides, a 32-mile jaunt through the rolling hills of Collin and Dallas Counties at about a mid-16 mph pace. Then, on Sunday morning, just as the sun had come up, Dawn Patrol with my MS 150 teammates for an easy 60 miles. Neither turned out as I'd expected.

Saturday

I rolled in to the parking lot about half an hour early and immediately sensed that something different was going on. Half the parking lot was filled with mountain bikes and hybrids, and the folks excitedly milling around didn't look like the grizzled veterans who usually attended the ride. Shortly, the ride leader arrived and told me that the PBA had agreed to shepherd some folks along with our group to train for the Lone Star Ride. The time for the ride to start came and went, but we eventually got underway at what felt to me like a snail's pace.*

The good side of all this was that it was kind of fun to see how excited these folks were about finishing 32 miles, a distance that many of us view so mattter-of-factly. And it was such an easy pace that I got a nice 40% fat burn out of the deal.

An amusing anecdote from the ride: We were pulling out from the filling station where we usually stop for a break, and several pre-teen boys were playing around with their skateboards on a side street. As the group approached them, I saw one of the boys pointing my way and telling his buddies, "Whoa! Look at that bike!" One of the others called out to me, "Dude! That bike is pimp!"

That's a good thing. Isn't it?


* I ended the ride with a 13.8 mph average, but only because the group eventually split and some of us dropped the hammer for the rest of the ride.

Sunday

This week's fun level was inversely proportional to last week's. Another way of putting it would be... well, I try to keep this to language I wouldn't mind my mother reading, don't I?

First off, we hadn't made it half a mile down the trail toward the lake when we discovered that part of the trail was covered in gooey silt left in the wake of this past week's heavy rains. Now, this wasn't my first trip down this road. I should have known that mud under one overpass meant there'd be more of the same, further along. But I was pretty cold at the time, and maybe my brain wasn't quite awake. The bottom line? We made it a mile or two down the trail and came to a 20-yard stretch of 4 inch deep mud completely blocking our way.

We'll turn around and just find a way around, we thought.

That's when my chain fell off, and while I was off the bike rehanging the chain... PFSSSSSSSSS! I "had a puncture", as the British say. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, I'd fixed the flat—but by then, we'd come to the realization that we'd probably hit more mudslides all the way down the trail. So we rode back to the cars, loaded up, and drove down to the lake to salvage what we could of the time we had left.

When we got to the lake, we noticed an unusual level of activity and discovered that there was a marathon going on. Still not ready to admit defeat, we unloaded our bikes and started out on our first lap of the lake. Between the marathon runners/joggers/walkers/shufflers and the usual crowd of wobblies, stroller pushers, and cloud gazers, we were lucky to roll along at 11 or 12 mph. It wasn't long before Squirrel Bait and I had lost our happy thoughts and decided to finish one lap before conceding defeat and calling it a day.

By the time we eventually made it back to the cars, we'd narrowly missed colliding with three different runners and bystanders who just... stepped out in front of us. Squirrel Bait had some... some... wingnut in a white Caddy pull right up on her tail and lay on his horn, nearly scaring her out of her skin and into the middle of the road. But we survived.

St. Bob considered trying to talk us into doing another lap but was overruled. It was time to go to La Madeleine for some sort of self-indulgent breakfast and coffees.

There's always next week.

Squirrels and hellhounds and mummies...

...oh my!

That's just my way of leading into saying that my first Dawn Patrol with a couple of my MS 150 teammates was good for a laugh or two. More, actually, but most of those were the result of offbeat conversations I had with the woman I've come to (and will henceforth) refer to as "Squirrel Bait". In other words, ya hadda be there.

To those of you thinking, "Aw for the love of Mike, not another cycling post", all I can say is that it's either a) this, b) yet another tired rant about Dallas drivers, or c) some rather dodgy commentary on Dancing With The Stars and Heather Mills' leg.

So there I was at 7:00 yesterday morning, sitting in my car, in the dark, next to a practice soccer field. I was waiting for St. Bob and Squirrel Bait to arrive so that I could join them for their weekly Dawn Patrol. Around 7:30, they rolled into the parking lot, and we made our final preparations.

As we headed down the White Rock Trail toward the lake, the sun had officially risen seven minutes earlier, but we only saw what filtered through a layer of thick, gray clouds. As we rolled down the trail, choking on a thick miasma of gnats, SB and I wondered what Bob had eaten for breakfast. St. Bob, who always claims to ride at a steady 13-14 mph, was 20 yards ahead, thundering down the trail at 17 mph!

How Squirrel Bait got her name

In previous conversations, Squirrel Bait had made comments about ninja squirrels leaping out of the underbrush. Hurling themselves at her wheels. Attempting to commit sudoku* in her spokes and launch her over the handlebars. I always smiled and nodded, but secretly thought she might be overstating a bit. After all, what cyclist hasn't had to dodge a squirrel or three? Well, I've never seen anything like it. Over the course of 3½ hours and 50 miles, I must have seen over a dozen squirrels make attack runs on poor SB. It didn't matter whether she was up front, in the middle, or sucking wheel at the back. The squirrels made a beeline for her every time.

Personal fitness and the undead

We saw and evaded enough joggers to populate the Boston marathon. Anyone who has ever ridden a bike around the roads and multi-use paths in and around White Rock Lake knows that les boyz de coureur de cycliste** are an irritant, but at least they are conscious of the other traffic. The roving packs of joggers are worse, because they stick their noses in the air, spread out across two-thirds of the breadth of the path, and simply assume that everyone else will get out of their way. [directive: abort rant - CONFIRMED]

After the first hour or so, the larger mobs of joggers had finished, and Squirrel Bait and I started observing the smaller groups we passed. One guy in particular caught our attention at the same time: keeping pace with a group of much younger runners, this guy looked like a Slim Jim with sticks for arms and legs. His gait was stiff and awkward, his mouth gaped, and his eyes were wide and staring. He fit perfectly my mental image of the lead character in the not-soon-to-be-released Sean of the Dead II: Let's Get Physical.

But note that I said "keeping pace." I should be so lucky as to still be out there getting it done, when I'm that old and dessicated.

Devil dogs

Just as we came off a crowded "multi-use" bridge, we rounded a bend in the path and came face to face with a pair of large, orange-furred, dogs being led on leads by an older gentleman. Short leads, fortunately. These critters didn't utter a discouraging word and didn't make any false moves as we rode by. But with their odd coloring and their matching orange eyes, they were... unnerving. My first thought was that this was what Cerberus must've looked like (except without the extra heads).

I went Googling to see if I could round up a picture to share. My initial attempt came up with this, which obviously isn't any kind of dog but is still pretty cool (I think Gwynne will appreciate it). After a bit more digging, I found what I was looking for: my hellhounds were French Mastiffs. The third picture down does a good job of summing up my impressions as I passed.

In closing

We had a really nice ride and had an added cause for celebration, because it was Squirrel Bait's first 50-mile ride. I also rode on Saturday and ended the weekend with just shy of 100 miles under my belt. At this rate, and if I keep my pace down, I should be ready by the time the MS 150 ride rolls around in May.


* That's, ah say, that's a joke, son.
** Pseudo French for "the cyclist racer boys"—those overblown lycra-wrapped egos who seem to think that the stroller-strewn paths around the lake are their own personal time trial course.


Now playing: Dennis James, Cristal: Glass Music Through The Ages

Still cranking along

Anne's comment to another post, this morning, reminded me that I haven't darkened the doorway of this blog recently. Much of what's been keeping me away remains the same. However, part of it is the fact I've been publishing the only remotely postworthy material on the team blog I put together for my MS 150 teammates to share with our sponsors, and I just didn't think to repost the ride recaps here.

In brief (or in briefs, if that's the mental image you prefer), I had a couple really good training rides on back-to-back days, this past weekend. Both were roughly the same distance and pace, over similar routes, but with different groups. I more or less successfully reined in my inner Zoom-Zoom to keep my heart rate in the moderate zone, which meant that of the 2600-odd calories I burned, over 700 were straight from fat stores. From where I sit—which is to say "on the bike, laid back"—that's a good thing. Less weight to haul around; more Zoom-Zoom.

Work is still keeping me hopping. This has caused a few sleepless nights and, sometimes, longer hours, but considering that several more of my coworkers were laid off last week, in the wake of my company's recent acquisition, busy is better.

On the down side, my well of creativity (such as it is) drains straight into the computer code.

I did post up a YouTube video I found amusing but ended up taking it down. Like the joke about the robot bartender, the video was just too liable to spark political debate that I just don't have the time and energy to pursue.

But never fear: I'm still around, and I try to check in on you guys every couple days and post comments.

'Nuff said

Kicked off

That's the status of the 2007 Dallas Sam's Club MS 150, as of this past Saturday. That's when a parking lot full of the Dallas/Fort Worth area MS 150 riders gathered for a training ride, a barbecue lunch, and some speechifying—the last being more or less optional, if one managed to plan things so that he was still out on the course when it took place. And I did.

What a gorgeous day we had for it, too. Sunny, temperatures ranging across the 70s, and little to no wind. The event was held at Texas Motor Speedway, where we'll end up at the end of the first day of riding on May 5, and the course was a five-mile loop of road that surrounds the speedway. The organizers had arranged for police to be stationed at each of the intersections where those of us who abide by such things as stop signs would have felt obliged to do so. About half the loop was flat, a quarter was a long, gradual climb, and the rest was a slight downhill.

Boring, you say? Maybe. From where I sat (reclined on the seat of my Bacchetta), it was an opportunity to crank out 45 miles at a nice, easy fat-burning pace—not that I took advantage of the opportunity. In the end, the Go Fast part of my brain took over, and I logged a personal best rolling average of 18.5 mph.

At 30 miles, Cliff (one of my MS 150 teammates) and I noticed that many of the riders had called it a day, so fearing that we might miss out on lunch, we agreed to do 10 more miles and call it a day. Still, considering that it was the season's first ride of any decent length, I'd say 40 miles at 18.5 was a success.

Mazda sent me a "Zoom-Zoom" sticker a while back. I'm thinking of putting it on my bike.

Busy, busy, busy

Lots going on, some of it noteworthy, not much of it particularly entertaining. Still, the company I work for completed its "merger" with the much smaller company that bought us out, and I won't be one of the small number who became redundant. More good news: since the new, combined company is privately held, my outstanding stock options were paid out at a price sufficient to replace much of what I spent on the new car.

Coding, coding, debugging, and more coding. No blogging, but you knew that.

The weather shows signs of finally warming to temperatures that this weenie can ride in, and I've been taking advantage. I have yet to catch a weekend when the temperature hasn't dropped back to winter levels, but it's starting to stay light longer and I've been able to get out for an hour each of the past two nights after work. I take my full-suspension Humvee of a mountain bike because it's more nimble in the neighborhoods, and because its weight and higher rolling resistance give me a harder workout than the 'bent would in the available time.

This evening, as I was finishing up, I rode to the neighborhood Sonic for a toaster bacon cheeseburger. Yes, I probably more than replaced any fat I burned during the ride, but whatever. It was delicious. So, I was sitting at one of the tables, watching the traffic and having my dinner, when a co-ed pack of skate rats rolled up and loudly worked out what they were going to order. A couple of them kept eyeballing me in my lycra clown suit, and as I was getting ready to take off one kid finally decided I was ripe for some cool points with his buds.

"What a huge dork," he announced. He turned to his buds for approval and was rewarded with jeers and laughter.

"Yeah," I said. "These shorts don't leave much to the imagination."

More hoots and laughter. I like to think I scored with that one, but who knows.

Under the weather

I've never been able to figure out why "under the weather" means "not feeling well", but here I am again: under the weather and under my afghan. This wouldn't be particularly interesting to me or anyone else, but if one were to scroll back to last year's archives, he or she would see that it was about this same time that I was laid up, watching Olympic curling.

The worst part is that the weather I've been under since about midday Thursday has been nice. I could have been getting in some training rides, if I'd been able to draw a full breath without triggering a coughing fit. For now, though, it seems like enough of an achievement just to be sitting upright and typing on the computer.

Which brings me to something I meant to post earlier but didn't feel well enough to bother with...

More bathroom humor

Just when I thought I'd heard it all, someone went and upped the ante.

I was at work and decided it was time to return my first three cups of coffee to the wild. Almost as soon as I entered the men's rest room, I could hear music coming from the handicap-accessible stall—tinny, like someone was listening on headphones and had the volume cranked up loud.

Stomp-stomp. CLAP! Stomp-stomp. CLAP! We will... we will... ROCK YOU! Sing it!

And he did, sort of under his breath, tapping his feet. But not clapping. If he'd been clapping, I think I might have been tempted to sell tickets.

When worlds collide

As I sat down in front of the TV to drink my first cup of coffee and send a thank you note to a fellow blogger for her MS 150 sponsorship, I noted that the tube was still tuned to CMT, where I'd been watching an interview with Larry the Cable Guy, yesterday. There was Ricky Skaggs, looking ageless, paired off with Bruce Hornsby, not so much. I like Ricky's bluegrass, so I lifted my thumb off the remote and was rewarded with a rousing cover version of an '80s classic.

Rick James' "Super Freak".

The earth shifted slightly on its axis, and I felt the same sort of disorientation as the first (and only) time I heard Leslie Gore doing her rendition of AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" or The Oak Ridge Boys covering "Carry On Wayward Son" (both from the When Pigs Fly compilation).

I think I'm awake now.

One for Shoesie Badoozie

As promised.



Things you should know about this footwear:

• These boots were made for walkin'--not scootin'. The only boot scooting I ever did was when I found myself in such a crush of humanity that I was unable to take a full step. Not so much a scoot as a shuffle, really.
• Like Anne's, my feet have grown a bit since I bought the boots over 15 years ago.
• Unlike Anne, I'd still wear them if they fit. I've lost about 1 1/2" in height due to my degenerative disks and could use the elevation. And wouldn't it be easier and less humiliating than having to change the information on my driver's license?

My first MS 150

Donate Online!

As I mentioned in one of my earlier posts, I'll be riding in the Sam's Club MS 150 (Dallas) on May 5-6, 2007. Over two days, we will ride 150+ miles. Starting from Frisco, Texas, we'll ride to the Texas Motor Speedway on day one. The next day, we'll start at the Speedway and end at Sundance Square in Ft. Worth.

I'll be riding with The Wheeler Dealers, an MS 150 team founded in 2005 by my friend Bob. I'm pleased to be riding with them this year, not just because they have so much fun but because I've seen firsthand the debilitating effects of multiple sclerosis. You see, Bob's wife, Gerry, has secondary progressive MS and has been confined to a wheelchair for the past eleven years.

Turtle and I first met Bob and Gerry in 2002, and each year we've seen Gerry lose a little bit more of her mobility and strength to the effects of MS. She's a lively, outgoing woman who handles her disease with aplomb and courage, but it's tragic to see her increasingly become a prisoner of her own body.

Then there are our friends Barb and Joe, another couple who both suffer from MS. Joe was diagnosed first, and was already using a motorized wheelchair to get around, by the time we met him. Barb is able to walk using a cane, but has an entirely different set of symptoms than Joe's.

MS is a wasting disease that presents itself differently in each of those afflicted with it, and it takes away dignity and mobility. If I can do a little something to help by just riding my bike—because I can ride my bike—then I'm in.

But I need your help. If you feel, as I do, that finding a cure for MS is a worthy cause, I hope you'll help me to meet my fundraising goal by sponsoring me in this year's MS 150. It's easy to make your donation online, and it's tax deductible. It doesn't even have to be a lot of money. $10? $5? Every little bit helps. And if you know others who might be interested in helping out, please refer them to this posting or to my official MS 150 donation page.

Thank you.

The web we weave

More than a decade after my first faltering attempts to get connected to "those internets" using Spry's Internet In A Box, I've become a little jaded about the wonder of the web's interconnectedness. But every once in a while, I still find myself marveling at how Al Gore's creation has brought the world closer together.

Case in point: I was working my way through my blogroll and several twists of the rabbit hole later found myself at Pink Ginger's Sketch of Life 珂琳随笔: Why Must I Eat With the 2 Sticks ??. A native of China who doesn't take eating with chopsticks as a given? Mon Dieu! Who would have dreamed of such a thing?

As a fledgling Foo-let, back in the '60s, it was not uncommon for me to find myself scowling into a plate of chipped beef on toast (a.k.a., "s--- on a shingle") or staring down the barrel of a stuffed green pepper. On those occasions when I dared to think I might simply wait Mom out and sneak away from the table, she was quick with the standby admonition that so many of my generation heard: "There are starving children in China who would love to have that food."

"Can't we just send it to them?" I said, taking a philanthropic tack. But Mom wasn't buying it.

"How do you know that Chinese kids even eat this kind of... of... stuff?" I parried, hoping a social studies/world geography approach might work. It didn't.

In the end, I tended to find myself sitting alone at the table, mournfully picking my dinner into smaller and smaller pieces in the vain hope that they'd go down easier that way. It was at such times that I wondered if some Chinese kid was sitting at his table, with something I liked on his plate and wishing he could find a way out of eating it.

I wish I was a Chinese kid, I thought. 'Cause if I had to eat with chopsticks, it would be a whole lot easier to get away with dropping a lot of this stuffed pepper on the floor for the dog to eat—and get away with it.

The inner nerd

Thanks to okkernoot.net blog for this:

One of the most frightening things about your true nerd, for many people, is not that he’s socially inept—because everybody’s been there—but rather his complete lack of embarrassment about it.

- Randy Waterhouse in Cryptonomicon

Look to the future

Over on Write Lightning, Deb suggests an interesting visualization technique that might be used in clearing away emotional clutter when one is faced with a decision. The short of it is this: you imagine walking in to a house, then into a room where you sit with an older, wiser version of yourself and discuss the situation.

Some of you may recall from one of my earlier postings that I have not been, historically, a huge believer in visualization techniques; but I've been trying to decide whether I really need this [some nondescript luxury item that won't distract from the point of the narrative], or if it's my inner child whinging down the aisle of the virtual toy store, so I gave it a whirl.

I walk up to the stoop*—my imaginary old folks' home has a stoop—and knock politely on the front door. No answer. Old Foo must have his hearing aid turned down again, I think, so I try the knob and find the door locked.

Curses.

I take off my t-shirt, wrap it around my knuckles, and clench my teeth as I punch through one of the door's glass panes. No burglar alarm (not that the old codger could hear it if there were). Older and wiser, my hindquarters.

After reaching in and unlocking the door, I step into the foyer, grimacing at the sound of crunching glass and feeling guilty about scarring the hardwood floor. I make my way toward the living room and spot my older, wiser self. He's sound asleep in his chair, with a crocheted throw pulled over him and a laptop computer on his lap. Tropical fish swim across the LCD display, uninterested in my arrival.

"Old Foo?" I say, tentatively, not wanting to startle him.

No response.

"HEY OLD FOO!!"

The old fart duffer jumps, blinking his eyes, disoriented. "Huh? Wha--?"

His eyes focus and I see recognition dawn in them.

"You! GET OUTTA MY HOUSE, YA LITTLE BASTID!!"


Seems I'm 0 for 2 in the visualization exercise department.

* n. Chiefly Northeastern U.S. - A small porch, platform, or staircase leading to the entrance of a house or building.


Now playing: Kansas, Song For America

Cartoon Network ad campaign bombs

Over the years, I've pretty much stopped tuning in to Cartoon Network. With the exception of South Park, which I'll occasionally watch when Turtle's out of the house, most of their offerings are either insultingly mindless or far too arty and hip for an old fart like me. Or both, maybe.

I stumbled on Aqua Teen Hunger Force once while flipping channels and found it to be pretty stupid (or maybe too hip), so I'll admit I don't really "get" the show. Maybe that's why I can't imagine what the show's creators were thinking when they decided to promote it by planting suspicious black boxes all over Boston and other cities.

"It is outrageous, in a post 9/11 world, that a company would use this type of marketing scheme," Mayor Thomas Menino said. "I am prepared to take any and all legal action against Turner Broadcasting and its affiliates for any and all expenses incurred."

The 1-foot tall signs resembled a circuit board, with protruding wires and batteries. Most depicted a boxy, cartoon character giving passersby the finger — a more obvious sight when darkness fell.

Link (AP, via Yahoo! News)

Nice.

Now playing: Trevor Rabin, Can't Look Away

The flip side of Mac & PC

No matter which side of the issue you come down on—or if you're like me and don't really care—you've got to admit that as spoofs go, these have the originals dead to rights.

Now playing: Spock's Beard, The Kindness of Strangers

Transform yourself

It really was wrong of me to show you my M&M alter ego and not tell you where you could go to reinvent yourself. Enter the M&M Character Creator:

Now... go forth and get candy coated.

P.S - Here's my sweet wife...

Random Thursday

Wear Yellow

My life as an M&M:

Pizza what?

After a brutal, wreck-littered, stuck-behind-aimless-wanderers commute home from work, I stopped at a Pizza Hut a block up from our house. The traffic held me up long enough that I didn't get to see Turtle before she had to leave for her meeting, so she told me to fend for myself.

That's okay. I like pizza.

I walked in, and the gal at the counter promptly told me to wait. So I did. And I did for five minutes, while she was back in the back visiting with someone. When she finally got around to waiting on me, I asked for a supreme personal pan and laid my cash on the counter.

"Your phone number?"

"You don't need my phone number," I suggested, adding the Jedi Master wave of the hand to reinforce the point. "I have cash."

"I have to have your phone number, or I can't enter the order," she said.

I thought about that briefly. There I was, standing right in front of her with cash in my hand, and I had to give up a phone number too? I could have given her the number for time and temperature, but I didn't.

"I see," I said, pulling my legal tender back across the counter and stuffing it back in my wallet. "Well, you have a nice day. Bless your heart."

Twenty feet away, the neighboring Subway shop was perfectly happy to take my order without a background check. The young woman just smiled, welcomed me, and efficiently made me a tasty sandwich. The only questions I was required to answer were "What kind of bread would you like?", "Would you like it toasted?", and "What kind of cheese?" Those seemed relevant, so I happily answered them.

A Subway club was probably better for me than a supreme personal pan pizza anyway.

It's official

Back before the holidays, I made the decision to join a friend's small MS 150 team and ride in honor of his wife (also a friend), as well as several others in the same circle of friends, who also live with multiple sclerosis. We're the Wheeler Dealers, a reference to poker and The Gang's love of gambling. The jerseys are snazzy, with the faces of the folks we're riding for emblazoned on playing cards over a green background.

As of this evening, I'm officially signed up. It's time to start getting back in shape (I haven't been on the bike, on the road, since November) and start figuring out how I'm going to meet my minimum fund raising requirement without having to reach too deeply into my pocket. Any of you MS 150 veterans with an interest in sharing your tips? I'm all ears.

I feel for you (but don't tell anybody)

Every now and then, my lovely bride reacts so strongly to something she sees on TV or hears on the radio that I'm left feeling like I might have spent too much of my time in the company of machines. It could be argued that this is less the cause for my apparent lack of empathy than a symptom, but the fact is that I often take as facts of life the same things that nearly reduce Turtle to tears. Driving down the road, I see a bag of trash that fell off the back of someone's truck; she sees someone's German shepherd, hit by a vehicle and left for dead. She hears about someone setting a cat on fire or sticking a dog in a laundromat washer and turning on the hot water and is furious; I hear the same story, and I'm disgusted but not surprised.

That's why I found some encouragement in a chance encounter I had during Monday's icy slog home from work. At a stop light,* I found myself behind a black Kia Spectra hanging off the back of a tow truck. The right rear taillight was obliterated, as were parts of the rear and quarter panels surrounding it. I could see that the hood was buckled and most of the right front of the car caved in. Ouch.

As I waited for the light to change, I also noticed that there was a sort of fuchsia-furred tribble-like thing hanging from the rearview mirror. Young woman, I inferred.

The temporary license tag on the back read "1-29". When I bought Dorian, my temp tags were only good for about three weeks, so I further concluded she'd only had the car for about a week and a half.

That sucks, I thought. On my mental movie screen, I saw the Spectra's driver headed to work at The Gap (probably because I was stopped alongside a mall at the time). She'd rather not, because she's nervous about having to drive her new car on the slick roads with all the maniacs, but she has to. She has a car payment now, and she can't get off work. Suddenly, brake lights flash in front of her, and she steps on her brakes—new, unfamiliar brakes that work much better than the ones on her old, clapped out Toyota. The car starts to skid, the rear end slowly swinging to the right.

WHAM! She slams into the rear of the car in front of her. The slide turns into a spin, slamming the right rear of her car into the side of a car in the next lane. What a tragic mess, I thought, giving the unfortunate Kia owner a mental pat on the shoulder.

As the light turned, some young chicklet with a cell phone pressed to her ear whipped her Honda Civic between the mashed Spectra and Dorian's front bumper. My imagined scenario with the Kia driver changed, and my newly-rediscovered empathy evaporated as quickly as you could say "Hello... State Farm?"

NOTE: Apparently, that last paragraph was just a bit too poetic to be clearly understood. Dorian is not wrecked. Quite dirty, still, but unharmed. My State Farm comment was made in reference to a future that might have been, if not for Dorian's four-wheel disc brakes and what's left of my aging reflexes.

* Some people call them "traffic lights", but if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, I say it's a duck.

Winter Blast!

[cough]

To hear the local news stations tell it, the Dallas/Ft. Worth area is entering a second ice age. I guess they have to do something to stir up some excitement, but it's not really necessary. Just trying to get from Point A to Point B is excitement enough.

I got suckered twice this week. First, on Monday, when we had an "ice storm" that turned out to be significantly less severe than the meteoroligists had been trumpeting for the previous four days. I was at work by 7:20, but the office didn't open until noon. Today, we awoke to "snow" (in fact, a sort of airborne slush that only looks white when it accumulates), and not a warning shot from the weather persons. The sand truck drivers must've been depending on the TV weather, because when I hit the roads at 6am, there wasn't a sign that any of the overpasses had been treated.

Not that I cared. I took to the side streets where the only hazard I had to face was the frozen stuff, not some moron in an Econoline talking on his cell phone instead of concentrating on my brake lights. By 7:30, I had arrived at my office, where I immediately called Turtle to let her know I was still alive. Then I went looking for the usual idiots stalwarts who show up regardless of the crap on the roads.

My boss's boss looked up from his desk. "What are you doing here? The office is closed."

"I could ask you the same thing," I said. "But the fact is that the message I got when I called in to check said the office would be open at 9am."

"You're the third person who's told me that, but the office is closed." He then dialed the main number and let me hear for myself. Obviously, it had been changed since Turtle had checked while I was en route.

So I checked a few emails, drank a second cup of coffee, made a trip to the men's, and turned Dorian north again.

My morning in a picture:



(Hmm. That's interesting. Looks like Blogger's using Picasa for images now. Google truly owns my soul, now.)

I know: it doesn't look like much, but there's enough on the roads that I had to chip the slush dingleberries out of Dorian's wheel wells before tucking him in to the garage.

Maybe I'll go take a nap with the kittens...

Yes we have no words today

Sorry. Nothing new to report, because I used up all the best words writing novella-sized comments on other people's blogs, today.

Are you pondering what I'm pondering?

Why is it that spammers like Alexandra, who keeps e-mailing me about "emaciate whirlpool", constantly warn that "This is our final attempt to reach you"—but it never is?

Meanwhile...

The latest batch of search terms (not including the poor souls still trying to figure out how to make their cars and their RoadRunner internet service work):

• sasquatch's cousin Yeah... you know, I can't remember her name either. We only went out a couple times.*
• carrie underwood's nickname in college Just because we drove past her home town on the way back from our holiday trip, that makes me an expert?
• road rage shooting plano texas I could see that being a possibility...
• b48a7bb1654c8f50f2e1aee00dcb99828be05147360a Oh yeah? Well, 6120686578206f6e20796f7520746f6f.

* And having said that, I'll probably receive a nasty letter from the same lawyer who's representing the cavemen in those Geico ads.


Now playing: Coldplay, X & Y.

Down with those *&%#@ cyclists!

I know that some of my accounts of encounters with hostile and inattentive motorists have been met with some skepticism—and I really do understand. How can one guy have that much bad luck with his fellow humans unless he's doing something to bring it on himself?

That said, I'd like to provide an illustration of at least one instance of the sort of thinking that keeps me on full alert every time I go out for a ride. Check out the first comment in response to a posting about a proposed safe passing bill, on the local paper's cycling blog.

Ahhh...

The first week back to work after the holiday trip was reasonably calm; but after being off work for ten days and quite a few days during November, as well, four days seemed like a very long week. I'm getting back into the swing of things, though.

Turtle and I have been chipping away at the task of getting our new laptops set up the way each of us like things. Unlike Bret's new baby, ours aren't the fanciest or the fastest of Dell's line (or anyone else's), but they're nearly as fast as the four-year-old machine I use for my daily development tasks at work. That's a huge improvement over Turtle's old Toshiba, which had a pronounced tendency to lock up while trying to load just the antivirus software.

Aside from the speed increase and the ability run applications that were unavailable to us with the old Win98 machine, the most pleasant surprise is how much more sensitive the internal wireless card seems to be than the Linksys wireless-g card we were using on the old laptop. Add to that the relative simplicity of connecting to a new wireless network under WinXP using Dell's wireless connection manager, and life is going to be much easier for Turtle. One of the main reasons for her getting a new laptop was so that she could use it from her rented office space and... oh... the sort of upscale coffee shops where she tends to meet with prospective clients and collaborators. She never could get the old laptop to connect, because the process was just too fiddly.

For my part, I'm quickly becoming spoiled by the wide, crisp LCD display that at the same time is sharper and brighter than my flat screen monitor at home and handles wide content better than my cathode ray monitor at work. The Synaptics pointing device was a bit awkward, at first—I was used to the old laptop's "nubbin", which I could use without moving my fingers from the home position—but I'm getting used to it. Enabling the scrolling gestures and modifying the hot spots to my own preferences helped.

The new machine's battery actually holds a charge, and with that comes previously unexplored mobility. Unless it's during the day when I'm at work, you'll never know where I might be blogging from. This has been quite handy, this weekend. We've kicked off the new year for the Ride of Silence™, which means that I've had a torrent of e-mails from event organizers confirming their information. Each of these must then be update in the database and activated for display on the site. I've been hauling the laptop with me wherever I go in the house so I can keep working. Sweet.

And the heat generated by the thing keeps my lap warm.