Seasonable suds

Last weekend, I volunteered to go along with Turtle to the grocery and push the cart. She can manage on her own – though the how of that remains an amazement – but I like to help out when I can. The one rule is that I'm only along to serve as brute labor. Requests such as, “Would you grab a package of macaroni and cheese off that top shelf?” are fine, but questions requiring decision making (a la, “Would you like [this] or [that]?” are strictly verboten.

Anyway, we had just survived the frozen food aisle and deftly dodged the UT alumni holding a reunion at the endcap when we achieved nirvana: the beer aisle. I had thus far on this trip suppressed the urge to inflict bodily harm on any of my fellow shoppers and decided I was entitled to a reward.

“I'll catch up with you,” I told Turtle. “I'm going to pick up a six pack of some fancy beer.”

What I ended up selecting was something called Winter's Bourbon Cask Ale. It wasn't my intention to buy a Michelob product, but I didn't notice that affiliation until later. At right, you can see how Michelob describes the brew on the side panel of the packaging. Hint of vanilla: check. Hint of bourbon: check. Their evaluation of the hoppiness seemed pretty on the mark, as well, and was more in line with Blue Moon or something you'd get from Flying Dog than I generally associate with “ale” – but maybe that's because I lean more toward a pale ale.

Anyway, if you like a little more adventure in your beer than just the typical Budweiser or Miller Lite, you might pick up a six pack. Winter's Bourbon Case Ale is a bit more desserty than I'd choose for my mainstay, but I enjoyed it for a chance of pace.

Weekend update

By this time last week, I'd packed up my desktop workstation, my technical books, and the rest of the contents of my cubicle. Unseen hands and backs were conveying these things to a new location about five miles down the road, in colorful plastic rental crates that smelled faintly of orange cleaner.

Based on the tour of the facilities that we'd received a couple months ago, I wasn't feeling optimistic. We were going from two floors to a small portion of one floor. The cubicles we were shown would be the same 6'x8' to which we were downsized in the last move, but the cubicles would be closer together. Along with various arbitrary-seeming restrictions, the prospect of being packed in with loud-talking groups like customer support and marketing convinced me that this move would be yet another turn in the downward spiral our work conditions have taken since 2005.

This week, I'm feeling much better about the situation. After a predictably loud and chaotic Monday, when everyone scrambled to get unpacked and resolve network connectivity issues, things calmed down quickly. To my surprise, it has actually been quieter in the new workplace. Part of this is due to the staggered work schedule that has split up some of the groups more prone to standing around and yukking it up; but I think that because we're all in cubes now and so close together, people are generally more aware of their volume levels. This is a Good Thing™. We were also pleased to discover that our 6'x8' cubes had magically expanded to 8'x8' (the company's standard size for developers). You wouldn't think that two feet one way or the other would amount to much, but it's significant when you've got a second computer and monitor taking up about two feet of space at one end of the desktop.

The facilities people at the new place have been stellar. One guy in particular has been running non stop since we got there, doing his best to get us everything we need to make ourselves at home. He's even promised to work on rebalancing the heating/cooling vents so that those of us who tend to be cold natured aren't freezing all the time.

Now playing: Queens of the Stoneage, Songs For The Deaf

Creative Pause

I've long felt that I do some of my most inspired thinking just after waking in the morning, while in the shower. On those occasions when I share this information with family or coworkers, the listener tends to smirk and imply that my inspirations may not be entirely technical in nature.

Which is why I was interested to find Cameron Moll's posting, “Why thinking in the shower may be an ideal model for ‘creative pause’” – and find comfort in knowing I'm not the only one.

Now… that dream I had last night about Madonna? That, I can't explain. Not that I need to – Turtle dreams of Vin Diesel and can't afford to be judgmental – but why couldn't it have been Jennifer Connelley or Diane Lane?

At the skate park

I was wondering what Turtle's up to when I'm not around…

On a piano

I need a break from all the election hoo ha. How about you?



Now, if you've got that song stuck in your head and need to dislodge it, I recommend this.

Home again

It's good to be home. It was good to be on vacation – even better than I expected, since I couldn't get a VPN connection and so couldn't do any of the work I'd intended to take on as a compromise to not going at all – but it's always good to be back home. Everything's still standing, which tells me that the cats didn't get too angry about being abandoned and that the neighborhood kids didn't trash the place as revenge for our not being here to hand out candy.

We went to Destin again this year to spend a week with my in-laws. The weather was a bit chilly, but unlike last year we had all sunny days. Turtle and her mom got out a couple days to lie by the pool absorbing carcinogenic rays and did some shopping. Meanwhile, I hung out with my father-in-law. Like me, he generally prefers to just hang out, chatting and catching up on reading; but on Thursday we took a little guy excursion to the Air Force Armament Museum at Eglin Air Force Base.

Like a lot of guys, I've always had a certain fascination with planes and guns. When I was a kid, I was particularly interested in WW I and WW II aircraft. I read the stories about Eddie Rickenbacker and Jimmy Doolittle and became somewhat familiar with the planes they flew and the weapons with which their planes were armed. It's one thing to read and look at pictures, but it's way cool to see the planes and weapons up close. Antique Vickers and Spandau machine guns, General Electric gatlings ranging from the smallish helicopter mounted variety to huge ship-mounted specimens with barrels 20 feet long. And bombs of all shapes and sizes with explanations of what they were for and how they worked. On the one hand, it was disturbing to think about the destruction of which their live counterparts were capable; but from an engineering perspective… fascinating.

Outside, I got to see and stand under the wings of an SR-71 Blackbird, a B-25 bomber like the one Jimmy Doolittle flew on his historic raid, and a B-17 “flying fortress” like the one on which one of our friends from church was a ball turret gunner during WW II. Talk about claustrophobic! The ball is so small even with the guns and seat removed (was there a seat?) that I couldn't imagine how someone could fit in it, much less track and fire on enemy aircraft while hanging exposed under the belly of the plane.

And then there was the MOAB – the emerald-green, schoolbus-sized bomb of the type used in Afghanistan for bunker busting. The thing was so huge, I can't even picture how something like that would be deployed. If you want a look go here and mouse over “MOAB” on the map.

I'm still kicking myself for forgetting my camera.

Renewal

I got a card in the mail last week notifying me that it was time to renew my driver's license, and would I kindly take time off from work to schlep to the nearest outpost of the Texas DPS to address the matter. No biggie. I took today off so that I could prepare for tomorrow's drive to Florida in leisure, so I got myself around, rounded up the check book and my social security card (do you know where yours is?), and headed up county.

At the DPS, the line was mercifully short, and the only real delay was the time required to fill out a form with a bunch of yes/no questions (in English, and also in the official language of Texas) that seemed very interested in establishing whether or not I'm prone to various sorts of seizures. As if anyone wanting a license would actually answer “yes” if he/she were. Personally, I'd rather have questions regarding the applicant's legal status and whether or not he/she were entitled to hold a license. But that's just me.

Over the years, I've seen the renewal process change. First came the electronic signature thingy, which inexplicably provides no visual feedback so that the result always looks like something forged by a crack addict in the midst of withdrawal. Then came the requirement to be thumbprinted – in ink, initially, and now electronically. Sometime in the last ten years or so, subtle, hard to fake designs incorporating the state seal were added to the license itself.

This time, there was a new twist.

“Please take off your glasses and stand with your toes on the white line so I can take your picture,” the unusually pleasant clerk directed.

I did as I was asked and removed my glasses. Unfortunately, having done so I was no longer capable of discerning where the white line might be, much less whether or not my toes were on it. After a few uncomfortable moments, the clerk suggested I put my glasses back on, stand with my toes on the white line, and then remove my glasses. Which did the trick.

Next, the clerk used a big pair of scissors to cut the top edge off my license to invalidate it and then gave me a receipt way too large to easily fit in my wallet, which I was to carry in my wallet to make my invalidated license kind of valid until the new one arrives.

“So, why did you have me take my glasses off?” I asked. “I'm not vain about them; that's just the way I look.”

She explained that “we” – by which, I assume, she meant herself and the rest of Texas DPS and not including me – are using face recognition technology now, and that doesn't work with the glasses on. Face recognition?? What's up with that? I can't even figure out how to use T9 to compose a complete text message, and we've got face recognition data being tied in to our drivers' licenses?

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.