I Guess I'm Easy to Keep Up With...

Well, the clock says I didn't go as fast as I did Wednesday, barely over 9 mph on average. Dad watched the girls, so I started out on Switzer, took it north to 67th and then went West to Lackman, down the big hill to Midland, up Renner, did a loop of Shawnee Mission Park, then back east on 79th.





Thing is, I felt stronger. I was cranking in areas I would have coasted a month ago, and I wasn't having to shift quite as low to get up some of the grades. There's still plenty of granny gear action, such as the hill coming up the far side of the dam in Shawnee Mission Park. I'd have thought this added strength would show up in my elapsed time, my pace. But then, crossing Quivira on 79th, for instance, took forever. I couldn't trip the sensor, so only the left turn signal was getting a green. Quivira was much too busy to even consider bolting for it. So I went over to the pedestrian light and hit it, but then a whole slew of cars wanted to turn right and I couldn't get back over to my lane, and I had to use the button again and wait for another light cycle before I could cross.



But that was the only big delay I had, so I guess I was just slow.








Anyway, from there we headed to my Mom's house. Her sister is in town and we had pizza, cake and ice cream, talked about all kinds of things and played Farkle. New game for me, but I enjoyed it. My brother, the actuary, decided to ignore all odds and roll the dice no matter what. It didn't work, and I pointed out this was how AIG got in trouble.

Am I In a Cult Yet?

My rack came in. Took me an hour or so to figure out how to install it because I made the bad choice to read the manual.



I hope a bike thief would aim higher than my bike, but I did find a way to weave a lock through the rack, the spoiler on my car and the frame & front wheel of the bike. I figure it will keep otherwise honest people from saying, 'Bless my lucky stars, a free bicycle!'



Plus, as long as my bike is mounted up, I can neglect renewing my plates since nobody can see the expiration sticker with the bike on the car.

Nothing's Worse Than a Good Idea

I heard this story on NPR as I made my way to band practice last night. I think it illustrates as well as anything my reservations about Obamacare. I know they don't seem related, California's prisons and their problems, and healthcare in America. But bear with me.

The long and short of it, if you don't want to listen to the clip: California once had a famously successful prison system. Low levels of inmate violence, lots of re-education and vocational training, and a low recidivism rate. They seemed to actually have the knack for rehabilitating offenders.

Fast forward a few decades and they are overcrowded, with a huge budget that strains to even maintain the basics of holding the doors closed and the walls up, and they have more repeat customers than any state in the country.

A lot of the blame, as the story unfolds, lies with that potent cocktail of inefficiency, a powerful union mixed with a government bureaucracy. The correctional officers' union had 2600 members making around $15,000 a year in 1980 and today boasts 45,000 members, many earning over $100,000 (which, even adjusted for inflation and an expensive state to live in, is a bit of a bump).

The union, it seems, has been active in lobbying and campaigning for such apparently good ideas as California's Three Strikes law. Laws that make people feel good because they're obviously 'tough on crime,' but which have the side effect of requiring an ever larger prison industrial complex. Of course the union denies there is any ulterior motive, and I give credit to NPR for asking tough questions such as 'Why are correctional officers union is involved in victims' rights at all all?'

The story includes heartbreaking details. There's a braille translation training program that not only provides the blind with reading material, but it's so successful that nobody who's gone through it has ever returned to prison. So how many slots are allotted for this ridiculously effective program? With a $10 Billion budget, they have all of 27 inmates in the braille program.

So, this is about healthcare, right? Three strikes and you're out is obviously a good idea. Who wants three time felons getting out to offend again? Mandatory sentences protect the public from lenient judges. But these obviously 'good' ideas aren't nearly as good as making the necessary efforts to make sure that first strike is the last one most of the time.

The idea that everyone should get the healthcare they need in the wealthiest country on earth is a good one, too. Double digit inflation in this sector of the economy is beyond bad. But much of that inflation is a direct result of the federal government's intrusion. Obamacare is like trying to put the fire out with gasoline.

The federal government is not the only culprit to our healthcare problems, but there isn't an area where it is a net positive. Anytime you concentrate decision-making, you'll draw powerful vested interests who will steer things their own way. To pretend otherwise is like arguing with weather.

Good ideas and politics don't mix. You don't need death panels to see that the 'overhaul' of healthcare being shoved down our throats and up our asses is a lot of well-intended bullshit about as helpful as a roadside bomb.

My Own Private Hill Ride

Wednesday night's Trek group is a hill ride so notorious my brother isn't sure he can keep up with them. And he placed fourth in his last mountain bike race. And he's been training hard the last year or so, compared to the previous 20 years when he only worked out like a maniac.

If he isn't sure he can keep up with them, I have no such doubt in my life. I know for a fact I couldn't even keep pace for the first couple of miles to make it look good.

I'm getting stronger and possibly even a little quicker, but with 40-something days to the MS ride (170 miles in two days, including a bunch of Ozark hills/mountains), I feel woefully unprepared. Roger is going to do this thing on a BMX with one gear and he'll smoke me with my 27 speed.

Anyway, I improvised my own hill ride tonight. Parked at the park at 87th & Lackman and went 87th to Candlelight and wandered through exurbian hills to 83rd to Pflumn. Took Pflumn to where it connects with Midland and rode a section of Midland I never thought I'd try solo. Climbed that unclefucker of a hill where Renner approaches Shawnee Mission Park. Gave a name to that hill, I call him Squiggy. And he didn't kill me this time.

At 67th & Pflumn, I saw the Trek Hill Ride coming across 67th. Fast.

Took Renner to 95th, wound Legler around to whatever connects with Santa Fe Dr., back to Pflumn and ultimately back to 87th.

Jennifer gave me a hard time for riding sidewalks along 87th, and since traffic had died down a lot, I went ahead and just hugged the shoulder instead of making myself a pedestrian. Light was fading, but my Aloha shirt was one of my loudest and at least I have reflectors. Gonna buy some flashy things since the days are already shortening.

After being buzzed by a high school asshead in a sports car, honked and yelled at, I went pedestrian and rode the sidewalk the last couple blocks to where I parked.

Those share the road signs? They have a silhouette of a bicycle on them, and I think a lot of drivers think the signs are an admonishment to those of us on two wheels. Because seriously, nobody tries to hog the road with a pedal powered machine that has no walls, seat-belts or airbags. Maybe we need share the road signs with a car's silhouette on it instead.

16.3 miles in 90 minutes. Roughly an 11-mph pace.

Recruiting Into the Cult

So we finally conned Julie into coming along on the Monday night ride with the Trek group. Complete with her sleek helmet, riding goggles and Bone Kitty bell. She claimed to be pitifully out of shape, but it's not true.



She did better than I did my first time out, anyway. She was trailing a bit, but when they asked her how she was doing about halfway through, she said, 'Super!' and sounded like she meant it. I think at that point I was gasping and talking about seeing spots on a grade that is actually borderline on flat. Julie sometimes needed a minute to catch our little peloton, but unlike my first time out, she didn't reach it in tears or make anyone wonder if she was about to go into cardiac arrest.

I found out Jennifer actually worried about that last one because, apparently, true to form for yours truly, between gasps of breath I talked about how I went into cardiac arrest mowing my Mom's lawn seven years ago. I can see how someone might think I was about to do a Dick Cheney impersonation.

After the ride, we also discovered that Julie had all of about 15 pounds of pressure in her tires. There are balloon animals harder than these tires. So not only did Julie survive a harder route than my first group ride took, and in better spirits, but she did it with an astounding handicap. She was impressed at how much easier her bike rolled home after I used my hand-dandy pump to put 60 lbs in them.

But then, my first Trek group ride, I had a bike in bad need of lubrication and with a front brake rubbing, and I rode at least once on under-inflated tires, though not that under-inflated (I think). When my brother tuned my bike up, got it rolling smoothly, I felt like I was cheating on my next ride.



I've passed the point of no return as far as cult membership goes: I ordered a rack for the back of my car so I can quit gouging my upholstery taking my bike apart and jamming it into my back seat. I've got my Bontrager bike pump with a lifetime guarantee, the padded gloves, the padded spandex shorts, the Trek Vapor helmet. Track shoes and Aloha shirts are the only thing preventing me from transmogrifying into one of those kooks you see hugging the right shoulder everywhere these days.

Now it's Julie's turn on the altar. Prepare the sacrificial wallet.

Actually, no need for the sacrificial wallet, as Julie has a talent for finding bargains. See her $30 Diamondback bike, for instance.



After we went to Julie's house for good beer & good conversation. And delicious stupice, purple heart and I don't know what-all kinds of tomatoes grown in her back yard, Tomato Town.

By the way, really, sponsor me in the MS ride. It's like six weeks off and I've raised practically nothing.

Square Peggy

Well, one of my band-name ideas was Chicken Suit For the Soul, but somehow I don't see our bassist going for that.

Then in church today, I had a vision. So I humbly submit my latest band name for my band mates to shoot down.

Ride Junkies

After the parade, we headed to the fair grounds, but the rides were closed. Until 6:00, because, get this: it's hot.



I inquired, as we got the essentials of life on an August day in Kansas: root beer, lemonade and junk food. The woman at the root beer stand said something about how when the ride operators get sued because someone got burned on metal parts a few times, they just won't run when it's this hot.



Allow me to translate this for you: the rides were closed because of lawyers.



I grew up going down metal slippery slides, and the lesson you learned, and it only took once, was don't put your bare skin in contact with metal that's been soaking up the sun all day. Coffee is hot, ice is slippery, knives are sharp, wood splinters in weather, and it's not anybody's fault. It is just the way life is, and you cannot eliminate all risk from it and probably shouldn't even want to.



In a sane world, the judge getting a case that the sun made the metal parts on a ride hot to the touch would say, 'No shit. Dismissed, don't waste the court's time with this drivel.' But then these ambulance-chasing jackals might have to find legitimate employment. Which should be easy: if you can sell old women legal services on the basis that she was the victim, not of her own carelessness, but of McDonald's neglect when she got scalded by a cup of joe she stuck between her legs and squeezed, you should be able to sell something people actually need.



Anyway, we probably would have thrown it in pretty early as hot as it was, so we went home and enjoyed the air conditioning until the rides were open. Which worked out better anyway, the rides are more enjoyable once the sun goes down and things cool off.



And we rode a ton. I bought the wrist-bands so we could ride as many as we wanted to. I think you break even in about five rides on that deal. It's expensive, but we're all three such ride junkies it's the only way to go. I think this is the only fair we're going to ride this year, if I can swing a similar outlay again it'll be to go to Worlds of Fun.



Though Worlds of Fun's rides lack a dimension of risk that a traveling carnival can't quite shed no matter how many lawyers try to destroy America. Take the Zipper, my favorite: this is easily the most terrifying ride in the world. I don't really fit in it, but the carnies running it are always game to jump on the door to get it to close on me even though this comes close to breaking my legs. You're locked in this cage and sometimes you're being crushed down, sometimes crushed up on your head, and in between, there are free-falls where it feels as if the car has broken loose and will smash against the earth. The creaks and pops the machine makes lend to this sense that you really are about to die.



And it's a machine that looks to be fifty years old and is maintained on the road by alcoholics. Nothing in any theme park is anywhere near that scary.



For that matter, the 'Cruisin' ride, a scrambler type thing, you'll find that in theme parks, but not this fast. I swear they set this sucker on Puree. I have bruises on my right side from being pushed against the wall so hard I couldn't inhale on the outward swings. I had to time my breathing, sucking air in on the returns. NASA could save a lot of money on things like the Vomit Comet by just turning the astronauts loose at a carnival with wrist bands. The wrist bands cost less than half what the Vomit Comet costs to operate every year.



I do wish they'd lay off the music. This isn't about the choice of music. I like Linkin Park, I like Ozzy, Bowling for Soup, even Alice Cooper, but blasting all of these at higher than concert volumes does not enhance the ride. It makes it necessary for me to take Mo out to the concourse for a break every few rides because as addicted as she is to thrill rides, the sensory overload is too much for me, so I know it's taxing her.



I did take advantage of those breaks to sample some of the most decadent junk food America has to offer. I had a fried Twinkie on one break (good, but the batter is too similar to the vanilla cake, a fried Chocolate Zinger would be better). On another I had a fried Snickers, which is just about as good as it gets. You know a chocolate chip cookie with the chips still melty? It's like that with melted caramel and peanuts thrown in.



And I have to almost admire the one ride I really hated: Deep Space. If the Zipper is the greatest thrill ride I've ever been on, Deep Space is the lamest. It's shaped like a rocket and you sit in tiny seats while a movie plays on a cracked screen at the front of the ship. The footage uses faded NASA stock and shots from 2001: A Space Odyssey, with a soundtrack that is scratchy to the point of incomprehensibility. The ship rocks and rolls to, I guess, create the sensation that you're not watching a shitty Sci-Fi short but actually flying in a shitty Sci-Fi short. I don't think I would have found it convincing even in 1975 when I would have only been five years old and the machine would have been brand new and the footage cutting edge.



At least Deep Space is the most of something. Risky for the carnival, though, because if I wasn't on a wrist band, if I'd actually spent three or four bucks worth of finite tickets, I'd be ready to punch someone.



But then, maybe Deep Space is just P.T. Barnum's legacy, like the Egress sign, come through here to see the Egress...

Parade

The Johnson County Fair parade is something we don't generally miss. For one thing, it's one of the few things Mo doesn't sing-song 'No-no' to when you ask her if she wants to go to it.



'Wanna go to a parade?' gets 'Yess' in a growling grunt that reminds me of the voice they give the Incredible Hulk in the Ed Norton movie, the scene where the monster says, 'leave me alone' from the darkness.



But this year, Em was in the parade, marching with her cheerleading squad. This meant that instead of just getting up, dressed and downtown by 10:30, we also had to get Em's unruly mane into a high ponytail and get her to the staging area before 10:00. Which was a bit of an ordeal. Tears were shed, accusations of cruelty and hair-pulling were leveled against me. I knew part of it was just her nerves, and I knew that for any thirteen year old girl, Daddy helping you get ready for something so purely girlish must be awkward.



But I've had long hair, I've worn ponytails, and it's just a hair brush and a tie. Oh, and a ribbon, I've never worn one of those. Once it was done, she did one of those bipolar-esque 180's she specializes in and was thrilled with how she looked.



It seemed like we'd left plenty of time, but by the time we were actually in car with canvas chairs for me and Mo, morning meds administered to everyone including the dog, the dog's food and water put outside with him, etc., we were cutting it close.



As I crossed the viaduct, I saw they were already blocking off Main St., and I had to get on the other side of that to get us to the staging ground. Which meant a detour out to Waverly and over on Madison. I'm guessing this is five or six miles out of the way. I was stressing at that point, I'll admit it. I reasoned that since the entire law enforcement community was downtown blocking off the parade route, I could safely push the speed limit.



I looked down and realized I was doing 65 in a 35. I kept it under 50 over on Madison, if barely. I'm not clear on where the threshold between ordinary speeding and criminal reckless driving charges is, but driving highway speeds on a two-lane in town seemed like it might be on the far side of that threshold.



So then there's traffic, others trying to get to the same place, of course. And I understand that, I do. But then our luck is to be behind a truck who stops to let a stagecoach in to traffic. I know the stagecoach is getting ready for the parade, but couldn't it have cut into Madison two cars later?



Then they separate traffic for the horse-drawn stuff and the cars as you enter the staging grounds. But the guy in the pickup in front of me (an 80s Ford that had Cash for Clunkers written all over it) stopped to talk with the first traffic-direction guy for a long time. Then when he finally did move, it was barely. The horse-drawn lane was moving faster. Em is in the back seat stressing that she was supposed to already be there five minutes ago and this guy is driving like he doesn't want to get where he's going. Then there's another traffic guy with the glowing vest, and the truck stops to talk to him. And talk, and talk.



I laid on the horn. And kept laying on it. I don't know if the old fart in the truck had official business with the traffic control people, but if he needs to have a conference with them, he should find a parking space and walk over to them. He didn't move on account of my honking, probably to make a point about how he couldn't be hurried, and I wished to be a Coast Guard cutter so I could declare his truck a hazard to navigation and sink it.



I know I shouldn't have been running late. Story of my life.



Anyway, got Em dropped off, got parked, got our spot along the parade route staked out. Took a spot near the end, in the shade of the library. A mixed blessing, the shade was nice, but being at the end of the route, the various floats and entourages had quite a bit of separation by the time they got to us. And, once the tail of the parade had made it down Main, a lot of people came from there to get to their cars and walked through the parade itself. And a few cars pulled out into the parade before the motorcycle cops caught on and sealed off the library parking lot they were cutting through.



Em did a great job. The cheerleaders were hot and sweaty but still moving with precision and chanting loudly. Gotta be hard to keep that up for an hour as the mercury threatens 100ºF (it was 93ºF when the parade started, 98ºF when it ended, on its way to the 103ºF high we logged yesterday).



And as usual, a good parade. Saw my old friend Michelle from my last place of employment proudly riding her Harley. Well, I think she and her husband share it (read fight over who gets to ride it, but in a cute, playful way).








Saw some really cool bicycles, too. I think I recognize the guy on the upside down bike from Big O Tires, I'll have to stop in and ask him if he'd be interested in applying his welding talents to the front-wheel-drive recumbent I want...

A New Kind of Suck

I'm not so delusional as to think I'm wildly talented. I'm well aware of my musical deficiencies: poor sense of time, an uncanny ability to get lost in the changes of the simplest standard when soloing, tendency to play too loud, etc.

And despite how it seems from how much I talk, I'm not in love with the sound of my voice. If I was to be the voice of a Muppet, I'd have to name the character Dork.

I've been having fun being in a band and all, and I loved the song Code Monkey so much I wanted to sing it. I've never learned to sing and play at the same time before this, so it's been a fun challenge. Very hard to sing while chewing your tongue...

Anyway, at band practice tonight, we did Code Monkey and once again I felt like the tempo was all over the place. This is a chronic complaint from me, I feel like we speed up and slow down an awful lot playing this number. Melissa thought maybe it was my nerves affecting my perception, so we recorded a run-through to see...

I'm not sure about the tempo issue listening to the playback because I was not prepared for the horror of hearing my tone-deaf vocals. The skin on my neck and head crawled, and I got a little nauseous. I'm not exaggerating.

If pitchy singing were an Olympic event, I'd have more gold medals than Michael Phelps. It was so bad I spent the whole drive from Independence trying to think of something horrible enough to compare it to and came up blank. Kim Jong-il, school shootings, the fuss over Michael Jackson's funeral, nothing I came up with was bad enough.

To take a line from Tim Wilson, it's like being too old for Lawrence Welk or not old enough for Mickey Mouse, too steppen to Steppenwolf and to greasy for the Waffle House. Too dirty for Larry Flynt, too ugly for the Rolling Stones...

My band mates were very encouraging. Offering to, for instance, post this recording on the internet. Jamie insists its because without in-ear monitors, I can't really hear myself sing over the drums and my too-loud guitar, and I pray he has a point. Because hearing this, I think 'a guy who can't sing any better than that should know to stay away from the microphone.' The way a fat man should know not to wear a Speedo.

The real horror was realizing I'd sung this badly in front of friends a few weeks back. And I have to say, I'm grateful to have such good friends that they'll still talk to me even after they sat through what can only be described as a musical terrorist attack.

On the plus side, Jamie's 'God Song' (whatever that means, I can't hear his vocals either when we play, so I don't have any idea what the lyrics are) turned out to be pretty fun. I found some sounds that worked with it and with one of the covers we're doing. Had so much fun with that it almost made up for being physically ill at the sound of my own voice.

Can't Imagine Anyone Questioning His Motives...

Gringos Ride

At Jennifer's suggestion, I tried a different Monday night ride. One that leaves from Gringos in Olathe, wanders south into the country and back. I was told the short route was 16 miles, but I drove it after and my car's odometer says it was 18.5.

It was cool. A dude on a bent was there, and there were two tandem bikes on the ride.



A couple on a tandem were the appointed tail-gunners and they hung back with me. I was riding faster than usual, as fast as I could, really, but Trigger's still the slow kid.



I was hungry before we set out, so it was an easy sell to sit in the cool bar after the ride and have all you can eat tacos for six bucks.

I'd gotten spoiled by the cool weather lately, I was definitely glad for my second bottle on this ride.

Camp Encourage

Mo went to camp. This whole deal is amazing: it's for kids on the spectrum, and to give you some idea what that means, there were literally more adults than kids here.



Rode horses, swam, climbed a tall tree to a zip line but didn't quite get on the zip line. These aren't really experiences I can relate to since I didn't grow up going to camp, but I'm so glad Mo got to experience them.



And this is the kid who answers 'no no' to any open ended question, and when asked if she wanted to go to camp again next year, she grunted 'Yes!'

You Asked For It

Me in my spandex riding shorts, Hawaiian shirt, padded loves and helmet before attacking the Indian Creek trail.

13 miles in 1:10, not a long ride but faster than my usual pace.



Hope you chicks enjoy checkin' out my package... I know I'm a sexy bitch, I'm just not used to my women friends hounding me for documentation.

Daddy Date

I remember when Em was two or so, taking her to McDonald's against my will. I detest McDonald's, but that was where the child wanted to eat.

We were sitting at the table, having gotten our dubious grub, and she exclaimed 'Daddy and Emmy!'

Which somehow made the whole golden arches experience sublime.

Fast forward to today and the kid has developed some taste buds. She still likes McDonald's, don't get me wrong, but she is absolutely nuts about Five Guys.



Mo was at Camp Encourage, so it was just Daddy and Emmy on a Friday night, an unusual occurrence. So I took her to her favorite restaurant. Tried to take her to a movie but the only thing that hadn't already started and was even possible was the new Potter movie, and she insists she can't see that until she's seen #5 even if I'm willing to see it not having seen any of the previous ones clear thorugh.

We rented Knowing from the Red Box instead, her pick. No popcorn because neither of us had room after Five Guys...