Mushroom, mushroom

It's 6:50am and I've been at my desk, working, since twenty past six. Only one or two others are here this early, and they're elsewhere on the floor. It's very quiet, and only every third or fourth ceiling fixture is lit. It's very peaceful.

I hear someone get off the elevator, talking loudly on her cell phone and jingling her keys. I hear the noisy flip-flap of sandaled feet approaching from behind.

Coworker: What are you doing sitting in the dark?
Foo: I'm not sitting in the dark.
Coworker: Sure you are. The lights are off.
Foo: Ah… you have infravision. Impressive.
Coworker: Infra what?
Foo: Infravision. You can see in the dark. That's how you saw me with the lights off, right?
Coworker: Oh… well, not all the lights. Some of the lights are on.
Foo: Ah.
Coworker: How can you see what you're doing?
Foo: I'm a touch typist. And see how this magic picture frame glows?
Coworker: …
Foo: My monitor.

Her cell phone bursts into a raucous, fully-orchestrated rendition of “Celebrate” (the Kool & the Gang one; not the Three Dog Night one). She looks relieved.

Coworker: Oopsie! Gotta go!

She jangles off, talking loudly, apparently to herself (ah, bluetooth). There's a loud “CLACK!” as she slaps the entire bank of light switches. Several dozens of harsh fluorescent tubes flare to life, and I feel a little like an escaping convict pinned by a searchlight's beam.

In ten minutes, if no one else walks through the area, the motion detection system will turn off the excess lighting. If I'm lucky.

Down to brass tacks

Or more to the point, tax.

I recently received an email that provided a comparison of the taxation proposals for the two major presidential candidates. I found this information to be quite nauseating enlightening, but these days there's no telling where the information being passed around in emails might have come from. I'm sure Snopes is getting a real workout.

Anyway, I checked out The Tax Foundation – that's the folks who bring us the annual calculation of Tax Freedom Day – and found their handy Presidential Candidate Tax Plan Comparison.

I encourage you, dear reader, to check it out. Preferably on an empty stomach.

Labial embellishment on a porcine mammal

Or maybe eye shadow on a javelina.

Aaanyway… it's not political. It's a new blog skin.

Now playing: Aimee Mann, I'm With Stupid

Wednesday Potpourri

Over on Pickled Beef, Tink asked for a little help in restoring her faith in humanity. I don't get out much and so didn't see any continuum-altering opportunities for good deeds, but I did what I could.

About half a mile from our house is a nice recreational park. It's mostly an open field used for kids' soccer practices and the occasional Sunday morning cricket match (seriously.), with a splash park and a couple picnic shelters plonked down in the middle.

The park also has a 1.55 mile long walking/jogging/biking path that runs all the way around its perimeter. At several points along the path, the city of Allen has provided permanent stations for dispensing doggie poo mitts and receptacles for the disposal of any such collected during one's walk around the path. Neat idea, huh? I think so, but the local pet owners apparently don't agree. Maybe it's in our nature to rebel against doing what someone else wants us to do (pick up after your pony-sized mastiff, in this case), or maybe it's just too much to ask people to hang up their cell phones so they'll have a free hand for a doggie poo mitt.

Either way, when Turtle and I went out for a ride this past weekend, I was dismayed to find a couple large piles of poo on the path. Not next to the path, in the grass. On the path. Instead of spending the rest of my ride fuming, I thought of Tink's post, rode to the nearest poo station, and grabbed a couple poo mitts.

“I'm going for another lap,” I called to Turtle. I held up my poo mitts and waved them. “I got doody duty!”

I discovered a few things over the course of that lap:

• The poo mitt is really simple to use. Just put it over your hand, pick up the poo, and (!important) turn the mitt inside out so that your hand is outside the mitt and the poo is inside.
• I intensely dislike [the behaviors of] lazy, self-centered people.
• Riding around with a couple bags of dog crap in the pockets of my cycling jersey makes me giggle. I even made up a song, to the tune of The Pretenders' “Brass In Pocket”. (I leave the lyrics to the reader as an exercise.)

It was easy and fun (almost). From now on, when we do the park loop, I think I'll grab a couple poo mitts and police the area as we go. No charge.

Other recent randomness:

• Turtle wouldn't let me buy her anything for her birthday or for our anniversary. Instead, she's had me testing my somewhat limited home improvement abilities. First, we rolled the dice on some decorative painting technique. Not a big deal, on the face of it; I'm proficient with both brush and roller. The risky bit was where I had to use a brown glaze and a rag to attempt an antiqued effect. The result was… acceptable. Then came the energy-saving window film. I've done two windows so far, with not too many bubbles but no small amount of cat hairs embedded like flies in amber. The jury is still out regarding the film's effectiveness at blocking heat.
• Last month, Turtle's hairdresser friend from St. Louis was in town and we got to meet them for dinner. During the course of their conversation, the two of them concluded that I needed a new haircut. Turtle's friend gave me clear instructions, which I passed on to my barber yesterday. After I'd signed the waiver, he went to work on me with the clippers and #2, #3, and #4 guides. The results? Well, it's comfortable; it will save some money on gel and electricity I would have used to run the hair dryer; it shows quite clearly where I'm going to go bald first; and it makes Turtle look really young.
• I had a really nice ride Sunday afternoon with the Recumbent Bicycle Enthusiasts of North Texas (RBENT). We met out near the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport and did a loop around the perimeter of the airport for a total of about 23.5 miles. It was a really good turnout, and it was great fun seeing such a large variety of recumbent bikes and trikes rolling down the road and turning heads. Oh, and the dinner at Hard Eight BBQ (Coppell, TX) afterward was really yummy, too.
  

So, like… Vote Texas? Okay?

I've been watching quite a bit of television this week. It's “National Stay At Home Week”, so I pretty much had a gun to my head. Maybe that's why I'm just now starting to see the adverts for Votexas.org (a URL so clever that my well-trained fingers find it difficult to type). So far, I've seen half a dozen of the TV spots and heard a couple on the radio. Of these, one depicted a male quadriplegic in a motorized wheelchair, urging people with special needs to visit Votexas.org where they can learn about their voting options. Good advice. Well done.

With that one exception, all the rest of the spots have featured young women who, based on what they say and how they say it, seem to have the intellectual horsepower of a mango. I keep expecting one of them to blurt, “Like, omigawwd! That Baraahk Obaahma is so. Sexay.” None of them does, of course; I'm pretty sure that “omigod” as an expletive is, like, totally 20^th century.

All of this leads me to wonder: Are these really the people we should be encouraging to vote? With so much on the line for our next president and the country he will lead, wouldn't it make more sense to let the clueless and the uninformed quietly sit this one out?

Meanwhile...

I'm intrigued by the design of the Votexas.org (Gah! Mistyped it again!) site. The web designers among you may find it interesting to ponder how the image map navigation bar has been designed so that a drop-shadowed check mark appears over the last campaign button clicked. Clean, minimalist, and effective – just the way I like it.

And now, the segue

Speaking of politics and web design, I found a real doozy of a post at Design View, the personal site of Plano web designer Andy Rutledge. I consistently enjoy reading the web site design makeover articles there, but the makeover of the USA.gov is, as John Cleese often said, “something completely different.”

Never reticent about making his opinion known – whether in the realm of web design or life in general – Rutledge has really outdone himself this time. The design analysis is informative, as usual, but is kicked to the curb by some pretty caustic political satire. Based on the couple of Rutledge's favorite comments following the article, it has succeeded in infuriating some readers – which, I'm pretty sure, is exactly what he was after.

I wonder if the young women in the Votexas.org adverts would get the point?

Now playing: Soundgarden, Down On The Upside

Welcome to The Matrix

As a consequence of our latest acquisition, we'll be pulling up stakes and moving to a new office again, in a couple months. The facilities manager for our region came and did a presentation a couple weeks ago and did her best to reassure us that the new quarters were going to be “really nice” – but I don't think my subconscious is buying it.

When my alarm went off this morning, I was in the middle of a dream. In that dream, I was being instructed in the use of my new work space, which looked very much like one of those video arcade games where you sit in a 6'x4' (roughly) enclosure and pilot some sort of vehicle. Rows upon rows of these enclosures were packed side to side, back to front with only enough space between to allow some ventilation. The tops were open to allow employees to be lowered from above using a winch that moved freely from the entrance to any point in the room. To exit, the employee summoned the winch by pressing a small red button inside the enclosure. Once the employee's work day began, the button would not become operative until a minimum of 10 hours (less a half-hour lunch break) had passed, or the employee expired.

This enclosure was, the presenter explained, the very latest in ergonomic design:

• Its ‘compact’ design ensured that everything a developer might need was within easy reach.
• The oblong hole in the seat saved time-wasting trips to and from and in the washroom.
• Nourishment and liquid refreshment were provided by means of plastic tubes that extended from the side wall to a convenient position next to the employee's face.
• The sides of the enclosures were open so that the employee would have constant companionship of the employees on either side.
• Telephones were build into the enclosure and were conveniently designed to work only as speaker phones, thus avoiding the inconvenience of having to cradle a handset on one's shoulder to talk while typing. These devices had no volume control, the volume having been pre-set to an optimal level to ensure that any (and every) employee would be able to hear.

Meanwhile…

The large thermos-style coffee pot we have here at the office was empty, so I started a new pot. When it's brewing, the coffee maker turns on the water feed for about two seconds, shuts it off for about four seconds, and repeats. Two on. Four off. Two on. Four off.

It occurred to me that it kind of sounds like a hospital ventilator, which – at this time in the morning – seems entirely appropriate.

Now playing: Jet, Shine On

Yarrr! (A Timely Apparition)

I arrived at the office this morning, docked my laptop, and booted up the coffee pot. I had barely begun pulling down the day's latest code changes when I heard a noise – kind of a creaking screech, and only once. About 15 seconds passed before I heard it again.

Great, I thought. The A/C system's about to start making a racket again.

The third time, I stood up to try and locate the source of the sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some movement over at the window and stared in disbelief at the parrot staring back at me. A parrot, sitting on the narrow lip outside the window of my office building.

Inconceivable!

You just don't get a lot of that sort of thing in Frisco, so I grabbed my phone/camera and snapped a couple shots. They didn't come out particularly well, what with the glare from the fluorescent lights inside; but it's kind of a moot point since I don't subscribe to the value-added phone service that would allow me to upload them to this blog. However, thanks to Google, I was able to browse parrot pictures until I found a couple that looked like “my” parrot. As near as I can tell, he's a Jenday Conure and looks very much like this one.

By the time I'd ID'ed my little friend, he'd flown off. Later still, I recalled hearing somewhere that today is annual Talk Like A Pirate Day. How cool would it have been if I'd been able to make contact with my little friend and get him/her to ride around on my shoulder while I squinted one eye and announced to anyone within earshot, “Yarrrr! I'm a software pirate!”

Yes, there's a special place in heaven waiting for long-suffering bride as a reward for putting up with me.

Now playing: Zero7, Simple Things

Out of the loop

Jeepers! Blogspot hasn't deleted this thing yet?

When I recently came up for air and poked my head out of my cubicle, here are a few bits of interesting news that had transpired while I wasn't paying attention:

• Large Hadron Collider. Wait. There's a machine that could create an earth-devouring black hole? How did this happen, and why wasn't I notified??
• Lance Armstrong. Come on, now. You didn't really believe he was going to stay retired, did you? Although part of me suspects this may be a his way of capitalizing on the wave of interest in cancer research, the truth may be that he's just bored and hasn't enjoyed being so much out of the public eye.
• Changes at Dell. Some of this came as no surprise. I've been too lazy to bother changing the IE home page on my work laptop, so I've seen some of the stylish new desktop and laptop designs Dell is coming out with. What bothers me is that the next time I decide to order a new desktop machine, I may not be able to tweak the components like I've done in the past. Then again, by the time I reach that point, I may have decided to just invest in a good dockable laptop or… no. No, I don't think I could ever afford a Mac.
• Chrome. Another browser? Where do I sign? I installed this just the other day and really haven't had much opportunity to play with it, except to take a look at my web sites and verify that they render correctly. My initial impression is that it's a sparse little thing with not much in the way of extraneous buttons and toolbars. But that's Google's style, isn't it? I do kind of like the "incognito" feature, which is a browser window that supposedly doesn't keep track of history or cookies once you shut it down. I guess that could be handy for keeping things tidy on one's work computer.

Meanwhile…

Things are starting to settle down at work. We spent August in a kind of limbo, where we weren't the company we used to be but hadn't gone through legal entity combination and weren't yet the company we were going to be. But now (as of 1 Septemb3r), we are.

Most of administrative hassles involved with getting signed up for benefits, rolling over my 401K, signing up for a dozen or more new network accounts, etc. has been completed. There's still a bit of confusion as we try to figure out the culture of our new masters, and the future directions of some of our projects are still to be decided. But we're getting there.

The Olympic spirit

In honor of this year's hosts, I'd just like to say, “我有一個活鱒魚在我的內褲” 。

But seriously, the Beijing Olympics have been a lot of fun for me:

• I'm not generally a big fan of swimming – not watching it, and certainly not doing it. But seeing Michael Phelps' historic run has turned me into something of a bandwagon jumper. Just amazing.
• Ditto women's gymnastics. Never mind that part of me cringes every time one of them starts flopping around on the balance beam (I think you know which part). I just feel like I should avert my eyes or something. But again, with Nastia Liukin living and training in my extended neighborhood, I can't help but take an interest.
• I'm really looking forward to the upcoming women's sand volleyball semi-finals between May-Treanor/Walsh and whichever of the Chinese teams they'll face. Turtle thinks it's because I like Kerri's abs and the way Misty's bum fills out a skimpy bikini bottom, but the truth is that I just love watching them play. I love watching Phil Dalhausser and Todd Rogers too, but they don't seem to get as much TV coverage (perhaps because they don't have the same visual appeal as sand-covered women in skimpy bikinis). I used to play a lot of beach volleyball when I was younger, and the reflexes are still there. Every time one of the U.S. players shanks a pass, I twitch involuntarily, willing them to dive and dig it out.
• I really, really would like to see someone wipe the cocky smirk off Usain Bolt's face, but I somehow doubt I'll get my wish. That guy is scary fast. “Ruuun, Walter! Run!”
• Just when I'd begun to suspect that all there is to the Olympics are swimming, diving, gymnastics, volleyball, and track events, I got to see some coverage of horse jumping (or whatever it's called), table tennis, and trampoline. And now I understand why those events don't get any coverage.
  

The up side of the back side

The conversation went something like this:

Turtle: Did you put on a fresh pair of jeans today?
Foo: Yeah.
Turtle: …
Foo: Why? Is there something on them?
Turtle: No. Did you lose weight?
Foo: Some. I'm down to 160, last time I checked.
Turtle: Oh.
Foo: What is it? Are you saying these jeans look bagged out already?
Turtle: Well–
Foo: Wait… I'll put my wallet in my pocket. That'll help.
Turtle: Now your butt looks lop-sided.

It's a good problem to have. I think.

Now playing: The Contrast, Perfect Disguise: Introducing The Contrast

Ride report: Tour de Paris (Paris, TX)

This past Saturday was the 24th annual Tour de Paris, one of my favorite rides each season. This year was especially notable because Turtle decided to take advantage of the relatively flat route and go for a personal best distance on the 30-mile route. I was signed up for my usual 100K but had promised myself to back off last year's 18.9 mph pace.

We rolled out of bed at 4am, got everything loaded and were on the road by 5:30. A number of my MS 150 teammates were going up for the ride, and we were looking forward to seeing them there. As fate would have it, we didn't really cross paths with most of them until after the ride; but that's the way these things go.

The people who run the Tour de Paris were enthusiastic and accommodating as always. This year they'd added a twist to the route, taking us through downtown Paris (“Second largest Paris in the world!” according to the mayor) before heading out on the main route. But once out on the route, the ride just didn't seem the same as in the previous couple years. The roads seemed rougher this year, not so much because of the size of the chipseal aggregate but because they seemed to have been battered by traffic. Much the route was like riding on a washboard, so that even on the flat I had to keep peddling to maintain my pace. Rest stops were not as well stocked as in years past, which I attribute to soaring fuel and grocery prices (this year's entry fee was unchanged from last year's). That's not a big deal to me, except that there wasn't a bottle of pickle juice in sight – bad news for guys like me, who benefit from the cramp-fighting properties of the stuff.

I rode the first 20 miles or so with Mrs. Strada before discreetly pulling off at a rest stop to… rest – but mostly as a diplomatic way to cut her loose so that I wouldn't be tempted to try keeping up with her brisk pace. By mile 50 or so, I was beginning to suspect I was in trouble. Despite my backing off the pace, I was probably using the same amount of energy as I had spent going fast, last year. And the heat was getting to me. When I pulled up to the 50-mile stop, I felt uncoordinated and lightheaded, and I had started feeling chills – all warning signs for heat exhaustion. I sat down under a canopy and doused myself with cold clothes being passed out by the volunteers. After a while, I felt good enough to get back on the bike; but the loop around the town square had added roughly 5 miles I really could have done without, at that point.

So, just like last year, I was in energy conservation mode: not worrying about my pace, spinning smaller gears, and coasting at any opportunity. Finally, after climbing more rolling hills than I remembered there being on the Paris route, I rolled into the parking lot and was surprised to see that Turtle's wheelchair was still cable locked to the rack for her handcycle. That meant she was still out on the route somewhere, but I was more worried about myself at that point. I was fried. After fumbling in my seat back for the car keys and trying to see past the spots to unlock the car, it took me half a dozen tries just to get my bike into its stand so I could collapse on the grass.

About that time, a pickup truck rolled up with Turtle in the passenger seat and her bike in the back. She had started to overheat at around mile 26 and, true to her promise not to make herself sick, had SAG'ed the rest of the way. The driver got out of the truck and was saying something to me about how I needed to unlock Turtle's wheelchair, take it to her, and get her bike out of the back of the truck. As if.

“She's got the key,” I told the SAG driver, somewhat curtly. “You're on your own.” I wasn't sure I had the strength to hold my head up, much less stand, lift my wife out of the truck, and set her on her chair without both of us ending in a heap on the sizzling pavement.

Turtle got unloaded, and the SAG driver helpfully put her bike on the rack. She thanked them cheerfully and then turned her attention to me. “Are you okay? Honey, you look like crap.”

Normally, I'd have had some snappy response, but not this time. In the first place, I knew she was right; in the second, I didn't have enough mental reserves to think of anything.

She wanted to get someone to help with my bike, but I insisted on taking care of it myself. Finally, with the bike secured and Turtle keeping a close eye on me, I shambled slowly toward the high school cafeteria where I knew there would be Sonic hamburgers, lots of bottled drinks, and air conditioning. And I recovered.

Not one of my more enjoyable experiences, I'm afraid – but certainly memorable. One of my MS 150 teammates said the sign in front of the school read 99 °F when he finished. Despite my vow to slow the heck down, I ended up with a 17.7 mph average for the 67+ miles. Turtle wasn't too disappointed about not finishing the 30 miles, partly because 26 miles was still a personal best for her (on the bike) and partly because she'd done it without making herself sick in the heat.

Unlike her idiot husband.

Offered reprieve, a concerned laborer exhales

At around 1pm today, I received an e-mail with an offer of employment. Same salary, slightly reduced job title.

I guess I didn't realize how unsure I really felt about my future, because I actually got choked up when the letter came.

Thanks again for all your prayers and support. Maybe I'll type aloud the name of my new employer, once I know how the company feels about this whole blogging thing. I've heard that some companies actually encourage it (but none I've ever worked for).

Populaire(ty) Non-Contest

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

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

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

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

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

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

They like me! They really like me!

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

Your prayers are working. Thank you.

()wn3d

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

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

It's eerie.

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

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

Ride report: Collin Classic (McKinney, Texas)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summary

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


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

Can't we all just get along?

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

I should have known better.

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

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

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

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

Norton software conflicts with Windows XP SP3

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

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

None for me, thanks

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

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

Be Afraid

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

Uh… where was I? Oh yeah. Gas prices.

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

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

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

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

Roll on...

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

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

A basketball team.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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