The More Things Change
As faithful readers may remember, last year during the Phoenix Rock 'n' Roll marathon (January 2009), I was injured, so I volunteered to be the TNT "Pacer" for the first half of the marathon. This meant that I was supposed to walk at a 16:40 pace while carrying a balloon, and as long as people stayed in front of me, they would reach the halfway point before the cut-off, which meant that they would be able to complete the race (as opposed to being pulled off the course and bused to the finish. As it turned out, this was a very lonely and somewhat humbling experience. I was way behind everyone else, walking alone, being bonked on the head by a stupid balloon and showered by pity cheers as I plodded along, and, since I wasn't used to walking so much, developing pretty decent blisters on both my heels. Which brings us to this year. I was assigned a post between miles 7 and 10, which meant I had to get there before our fastest runners, which meant I would need to leave the starting area early in order to get there before our fastest runners. The race was scheduled to start at 7:40, so I took off at 7:15 and headed out on the course. Just like last year, I found myself traveling down the road all by myself. This time, though, instead of trailing 8,000 marathoners, I was actually in the lead. That's right, for the very first (and possibly last) time in my life, I was leading a race. And the best part of this was that quite a few people along the course actually thought I was in the lead - for real. "Way to go!" they shouted. "You're way ahead of everyone!" And I was. I'm not sure why they thought I - who was running 9ish-minute-miles - was actually leading this thing, but it was still a pretty cool feeling, so I just smiled and waved and continued on my merry way. Until about mile 6 or so, when I heard a commotion behind me - more specifically, a voice on a loudspeaker saying, "Please clear the course. Everyone must move to the sidewalks." And that was when the elite pack of runners whooshed by me like I was standing still (actually, I was standing still, because I had moved over to the sidewalk as directed). Thus ended my one and only "leading the race" experience.
A slob by any other name…"
Last week, I had an interview after school, so I dressed to kill by wearing Dockers, a collared, long-sleeved, buttoned shirt, and hiking shoes (as opposed to my usual t-shirt or untucked golf shirt and running shoes). When I left my bedroom and said goodbye to my children, Connor said, "Why are you wearing a suit today, Dad?" Then when I got to school, the kids said things like, "Why is your shirt tucked in?" and "Why are you so dressed up today?" and (my favorite) "Why are you dressed like a teacher today?" Hmm. What do you suppose they're trying to tell me?
Another Dr. Jekyll* Moment
There was an article in the newspaper the other day about the inaugural Mt. Lemmon Marathon, which will be held in October of this year. I'd heard a little bit about it before this, and I have to admit that something about it seemed strangely appealing to that deep, dark part of me that mulls over deep, dark things. So I went to the website yesterday and checked it out and found that, yes, it is a marathon that it starts at the base of Mt. Lemmon and ends at the top of Mt. Lemmon, which means the route follows the Mt. Lemmon Highway as it twists and turns, and most significantly climbs (6,000 feet in the 26.2 miles). And climbs. And climbs. I've ridden up the highway on a bike, and it's quite a haul, so running up it? Even so, while the sane and rational side of me said, "You'd have to be crazy to do that," the crazy part of me said, "That sounds really cool - plus you get two shirts and a medal at the finish," and since the crazy part of me was, for whatever reason, able to overpower the sane and rational side of me at that moment, I went ahead and signed up. Yikes. What have I gotten myself into?
*Please note the correct spelling of "Dr. Jekyll" in this posting. Apparently, I spelled it wrong in an earlier entry which some anonymous person pointed out in an anonymous comment - hey, I'm just glad somebody's paying attention.
That's all for now - it's cloudy and cool this afternoon, and I've got a five-mile run waiting to happen - so until next time, may your cloudy days be filled with sunshine, may your ties remain on their racks where they belong, and may your Dr. Jekyll moments fill your life with excitement and whimsy.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Excuses, Clunkers, and the Final Miles
Mea Culpa
As was pointed out pointedly by one of the many faithful readers of this thing-which-is-not-a-blog, I've already failed to hold up my end of the bargain when it comes to posting entries here, which I said I was going to do (and it's not even the end of January yet). I have absolutely no excuse, other than a new season of 24 started and they cram the first four hours into two days, which not only takes up that four hours, but also requires at least that long to recover some semblance of normalcy as my adrenaline level comes back down to normal. I should point out, though, that this isn't the only area where I've fallen behind. We still haven't gotten out all of our Xmas cards (they're on their way, though, I swear), and the Xmas lights are still hanging from the house. Somehow, I've become that person I always kind of sneered at as I drove through the neighborhood - the one with an old junky vehicle parked out front and Xmas lights up year-round. Oh well.
Speaking of junky vehicles…
And of getting things done after putting it off for way too long. Six months after purchasing our new vehicle, we finally sold the old one it was replacing. We dithered, we dallied, we procrastinated, and we made up excuses for week upon week, until finally Katie took the bull by the horns and placed an ad - although I do feel the need to point out that she told me, "This is a waste of time, nobody's going to want a '94 Dodge Caravan. We should just donate it to charity and get the tax write off." But I, being the the eternal optimist (and miserly miser) insisted that we give it a try. Lo and behold, we received a call from an interested buyer almost immediately, set up a meeting, took a quick test drive, and it was a done deal - for our original asking price (which was, admittedly, a bargain). And once the vehicle was sold, we continued to receive call after call (according to Katie somewhere around 120 of them). Which is kind of scary, when you think about it. Who knew '94 Caravans were in such demand? Here I was thinking it was a piece of junk, when all along it was a vintage vehicle. But I'm just glad it's no longer parked in my driveway.
In my defense
I have been fairly busy with work and helping my team get ready for the Phoenix Rock 'n' Roll Marathon, which was held this past weekend. 536 TNT volunteers from all over the country converged on Phoenix and we found out that as a group, we'd raised around $1.6 million for the fight against cancer. As always, I came away from the weekend feeling a huge sense of accomplishment as well as a renewed sense of purpose. There is nothing like running the last few miles of a marathon with people who are struggling to finish (and if you've ever run a marathon, you know that pretty much everyone is struggling to finish over the last few miles). Whether is was finishing with Katie, who was suffering from cramps, or jogging/walking with Jerry, who lost his 18-year-old daughter to cancer ten years ago and has been fighting against it ever since, or watching Elba cross the finish line with her arms held high as her family, the announcer, and the rest of the crowd cheered her on like she was the winner (and she was the winner, even though she finished long after the elites). There's nothing like watching them struggle to keep going when everything hurts and everything is tired, but there's no way they're going to give up. It's inspiring, it's humbling, and it's an honor to be allowed to be a part of it.
Next up
We've already started holding information meetings for our next season, which starts in just a couple of weeks, and we'll have a whole new group getting ready for San Diego and Seattle. In the meantime, I'm training for Boston in April and raising money for the Arizona Distance Classic in March. I decided to do a fundraiser with my students, so I put together a presentation and encouraged them to donate if they wanted to help out. In return, I told them I'd turn myself into a running billboard by writing the name of every person who donated on my arms and legs on the day of the event. I also promised to chip in a dollar for every person who donated. I gave the presentation on Thursday last week, and as of this morning, we've already raised over $700 (and it's cost me around $50 so far). It always amazes me how people stereotype middle-schoolers in such negative ways (the typical response I get when people find out I teach middle school is, "You must be so patient," which is so wrong, because I'm not a particularly patient person and I'm always thinking, "You know, if I had to deal with adults all day, I'd probably go crazy.").
That's all for this edition, so until next time, may your days be filled with 24 hours of reasonable, but not overwhelming excitement, may you complete all your chores in a timely manner, and may your driveways remain cleared of debris.
As was pointed out pointedly by one of the many faithful readers of this thing-which-is-not-a-blog, I've already failed to hold up my end of the bargain when it comes to posting entries here, which I said I was going to do (and it's not even the end of January yet). I have absolutely no excuse, other than a new season of 24 started and they cram the first four hours into two days, which not only takes up that four hours, but also requires at least that long to recover some semblance of normalcy as my adrenaline level comes back down to normal. I should point out, though, that this isn't the only area where I've fallen behind. We still haven't gotten out all of our Xmas cards (they're on their way, though, I swear), and the Xmas lights are still hanging from the house. Somehow, I've become that person I always kind of sneered at as I drove through the neighborhood - the one with an old junky vehicle parked out front and Xmas lights up year-round. Oh well.
Speaking of junky vehicles…
And of getting things done after putting it off for way too long. Six months after purchasing our new vehicle, we finally sold the old one it was replacing. We dithered, we dallied, we procrastinated, and we made up excuses for week upon week, until finally Katie took the bull by the horns and placed an ad - although I do feel the need to point out that she told me, "This is a waste of time, nobody's going to want a '94 Dodge Caravan. We should just donate it to charity and get the tax write off." But I, being the the eternal optimist (and miserly miser) insisted that we give it a try. Lo and behold, we received a call from an interested buyer almost immediately, set up a meeting, took a quick test drive, and it was a done deal - for our original asking price (which was, admittedly, a bargain). And once the vehicle was sold, we continued to receive call after call (according to Katie somewhere around 120 of them). Which is kind of scary, when you think about it. Who knew '94 Caravans were in such demand? Here I was thinking it was a piece of junk, when all along it was a vintage vehicle. But I'm just glad it's no longer parked in my driveway.
In my defense
I have been fairly busy with work and helping my team get ready for the Phoenix Rock 'n' Roll Marathon, which was held this past weekend. 536 TNT volunteers from all over the country converged on Phoenix and we found out that as a group, we'd raised around $1.6 million for the fight against cancer. As always, I came away from the weekend feeling a huge sense of accomplishment as well as a renewed sense of purpose. There is nothing like running the last few miles of a marathon with people who are struggling to finish (and if you've ever run a marathon, you know that pretty much everyone is struggling to finish over the last few miles). Whether is was finishing with Katie, who was suffering from cramps, or jogging/walking with Jerry, who lost his 18-year-old daughter to cancer ten years ago and has been fighting against it ever since, or watching Elba cross the finish line with her arms held high as her family, the announcer, and the rest of the crowd cheered her on like she was the winner (and she was the winner, even though she finished long after the elites). There's nothing like watching them struggle to keep going when everything hurts and everything is tired, but there's no way they're going to give up. It's inspiring, it's humbling, and it's an honor to be allowed to be a part of it.
Next up
We've already started holding information meetings for our next season, which starts in just a couple of weeks, and we'll have a whole new group getting ready for San Diego and Seattle. In the meantime, I'm training for Boston in April and raising money for the Arizona Distance Classic in March. I decided to do a fundraiser with my students, so I put together a presentation and encouraged them to donate if they wanted to help out. In return, I told them I'd turn myself into a running billboard by writing the name of every person who donated on my arms and legs on the day of the event. I also promised to chip in a dollar for every person who donated. I gave the presentation on Thursday last week, and as of this morning, we've already raised over $700 (and it's cost me around $50 so far). It always amazes me how people stereotype middle-schoolers in such negative ways (the typical response I get when people find out I teach middle school is, "You must be so patient," which is so wrong, because I'm not a particularly patient person and I'm always thinking, "You know, if I had to deal with adults all day, I'd probably go crazy.").
That's all for this edition, so until next time, may your days be filled with 24 hours of reasonable, but not overwhelming excitement, may you complete all your chores in a timely manner, and may your driveways remain cleared of debris.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Q & A
Here's a question to ponder: Why is it that when I have the most time available, I seem to get the least amount done? I just finished up with a two-week vacation for the winter holidays (what used to be known as "Christmas Vacation") and looking back, it seems like I didn't really do much of anything, other than watch several movies, read several books, and go on several long bike rides (to keep me sane since I couldn't run). One thing I didn't do was add to this website, which makes me feel kind of sluggish and lollygaggish, so I guess my New Year's resolution is to stick more to my once-a-week commitment with this thing, just in case anyone out there is actually reading it - which I think a couple of people are. Anyway, here we go…
The Lost Symbol
Here's another question to ponder: Why is it that so many authors who write really good books, then follow them up with really bad books. I mean, I really enjoyed The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons by Dan Brown, but then I read The Lost Symbol and it was more like The Lost Plot or The Story I Wish had been Lost on the way to the Publisher or The Story about a Guy I Wish I Could Drop off in the Woods Somewhere so He Would Be Lost Forever. If you haven't read it, let this serve as fair warning. The story is dumb, the hero, Robert Langdon, has really gotten irritating (was he always this smug, or did I only notice it on the third book), and all his friends are also really smug. And the villain is a tattooed steroid freak who somehow makes everyone think he's normal because he wears make-up to cover his tattoos - and nobody notices. How do you not notice that a person is wearing makeup when they're entire body (except for a tiny circle on the top of their head) is tattooed? Somehow, I just never believed that was possible. And then the big surprise in the book was a total dud. And the ending was a total dud. And Dan Brown really needs to kill off Robert Langdon (oh wait, he did, but then… well, I won't say in case any of you actually want to read this stupid book).
Avatar
On a more positive note, I really liked the movie Avatar and the only reason I even went was because Connor wanted to go. I was thinking it looked kind of dumb, but the story was actually pretty good - even if it was exactly the same story as Dances with Wolves which is the same story as A Man Called Horse which is the same story as… well, you get the picture. This didn't bother me, though, because I figure just about every story is derived from some other story, and I like looking for those kinds of patterns. So even though the big blue creatures were kind of strange at first, I'll give it two thumbs up.
Jeckyl and Hyde
On the running front, I'm once again up and running after a two-and-a-half-week hiatus, albeit more slowly than before my little incident with my calf. My new goal for this year is to be a smart runner rather than a fast runner. We'll have to see how that works out when the gun goes off and people start to pass me. That's usually when my alter-ego takes over and something inside me goes crazy and runs as fast as I can.
Random Bits
Carrie passed her driver's test (ironically, on the same day that she scraped the van on the side of the garage, then freaked out and hit the gas, ramming it into a table) so she'll soon be a licensed driver. Consider yourself warned. Caitlyn is ready to head back to college after a few weeks of family time. She's actually hung in there pretty well, all things considered (ahem - Connor - cough, cough). I read an article today that it's so cold in Florida that lizards are, literally, falling out of trees. They even had a picture of an frosty iguana lying on the side of the road.
That's all for now, so until next time, may your heroes be sufficiently humble, may your alter-egos suit the situation, and may your days remain toasty and warm.
Here's a question to ponder: Why is it that when I have the most time available, I seem to get the least amount done? I just finished up with a two-week vacation for the winter holidays (what used to be known as "Christmas Vacation") and looking back, it seems like I didn't really do much of anything, other than watch several movies, read several books, and go on several long bike rides (to keep me sane since I couldn't run). One thing I didn't do was add to this website, which makes me feel kind of sluggish and lollygaggish, so I guess my New Year's resolution is to stick more to my once-a-week commitment with this thing, just in case anyone out there is actually reading it - which I think a couple of people are. Anyway, here we go…
The Lost Symbol
Here's another question to ponder: Why is it that so many authors who write really good books, then follow them up with really bad books. I mean, I really enjoyed The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons by Dan Brown, but then I read The Lost Symbol and it was more like The Lost Plot or The Story I Wish had been Lost on the way to the Publisher or The Story about a Guy I Wish I Could Drop off in the Woods Somewhere so He Would Be Lost Forever. If you haven't read it, let this serve as fair warning. The story is dumb, the hero, Robert Langdon, has really gotten irritating (was he always this smug, or did I only notice it on the third book), and all his friends are also really smug. And the villain is a tattooed steroid freak who somehow makes everyone think he's normal because he wears make-up to cover his tattoos - and nobody notices. How do you not notice that a person is wearing makeup when they're entire body (except for a tiny circle on the top of their head) is tattooed? Somehow, I just never believed that was possible. And then the big surprise in the book was a total dud. And the ending was a total dud. And Dan Brown really needs to kill off Robert Langdon (oh wait, he did, but then… well, I won't say in case any of you actually want to read this stupid book).
Avatar
On a more positive note, I really liked the movie Avatar and the only reason I even went was because Connor wanted to go. I was thinking it looked kind of dumb, but the story was actually pretty good - even if it was exactly the same story as Dances with Wolves which is the same story as A Man Called Horse which is the same story as… well, you get the picture. This didn't bother me, though, because I figure just about every story is derived from some other story, and I like looking for those kinds of patterns. So even though the big blue creatures were kind of strange at first, I'll give it two thumbs up.
Jeckyl and Hyde
On the running front, I'm once again up and running after a two-and-a-half-week hiatus, albeit more slowly than before my little incident with my calf. My new goal for this year is to be a smart runner rather than a fast runner. We'll have to see how that works out when the gun goes off and people start to pass me. That's usually when my alter-ego takes over and something inside me goes crazy and runs as fast as I can.
Random Bits
Carrie passed her driver's test (ironically, on the same day that she scraped the van on the side of the garage, then freaked out and hit the gas, ramming it into a table) so she'll soon be a licensed driver. Consider yourself warned. Caitlyn is ready to head back to college after a few weeks of family time. She's actually hung in there pretty well, all things considered (ahem - Connor - cough, cough). I read an article today that it's so cold in Florida that lizards are, literally, falling out of trees. They even had a picture of an frosty iguana lying on the side of the road.
That's all for now, so until next time, may your heroes be sufficiently humble, may your alter-egos suit the situation, and may your days remain toasty and warm.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
A Tale of Two Races
It was the best of times…
Last Sunday, I stood somewhere between Catalina and Oracle, shivering in the dark and waiting for the Tucson half-marathon to start. I was feeling good. Confident. Well-trained and well-rested, and ready to try to set a P.R. on the mostly downhill course. When the race began, I could tell it was going to be a good one. My pace was steady, my body felt good, and the day was pleasantly cool. The crowd around me quickly thinned out as the quick-starters fell back and everyone settled into their pace. My mile splits were consistent - within 10 seconds of each other - and the only question I had was whether I would be able to hold on throughout the entire 13.1 miles. I hit the three-mile mark at a little under 23 minutes, just a little over a 7:30 pace, and continued to tick off the miles while holding steady. Six miles in just under 46 minutes. Ten miles in 1:15:30. Three miles to go, and I still felt pretty good. All I had to do was maintain and I'd have my P.R. I started thinking about how good it would feel to hit that mark - how all the speedwork I'd been doing had paid off and how much easier this was than running the whole marathon. I was tired, but I felt good and knew I wasn't going to have any problem finishing it off. Little did I know, danger was lurking just around the corner. If only it had been a ten mile, or even an eleven mile, or even an eleven-and-a-half mile race, everything would have been grand and I would have been feeling good. But that was not to be. Because…
…it was also the worst of times…
Right around 11 miles is when I started to feel the slightest bit of a tugging sensation in my right calf. At first, it didn't seem like a big deal - nothing different than what I've experienced in various body parts on many other runs. A minor glitch that quickly worked itself out. That was what I hoped. That was what I tried to believe. I adjusted my pace a little, focused on relaxing the calf, focused on posture and form, and it seemed okay. I made it through that mile, and we turned off Oracle and headed up a pretty good hill. My calf was a little achy, but I thought maybe the hill would stretch it out (dumb thought, that one) but as soon as I reached the top of the hill, I knew it wasn't good. Still, there was part of me that just couldn't stop. That had to keep going. That believed somehow, if I could just run through it, everything would be okay. But it wasn't, and by the time I reached the 12 mile marker, I knew I wasn't going to be able to run anymore. There's a part of me that understands that this doesn't even register as a blip on the great radar screen of life, but in that moment, I was, to put it mildly, upset. I slowed to a limping walk, which still hurt with every step I took, and began the "walk of shame" to the finish line. Meanwhile, all kinds of people, those I had been well ahead of throughout the entire race, started passing me. And as they ran by, many of them, trying to be encouraging, said things like, "Come on, you can do it," or, "Don't give up now, you're almost there." While a part of me realized that they meant well, a larger, darker, and more evil part of me was really irritated by this, and I had to bite back comments like, "No I can't, you idiot. If I could do it, I'd be doing it," or, "I didn't give up, you idiot, my calf gave up and there's nothing I can do about it," or, more simply and to the point, "Shut the heck up, you idiot." (okay, I wasn't really "heck," but as I've mentioned before, little jugs have large ears, so we're keeping this family oriented and appropriate for all ages). Anyway, I limped the last mile or so feeling angry and frustrated and sorry for myself, and I limped down the homestretch to the finish line as they announced my name, and I scowled at the guy taking my picture, and I smiled grimly as they handed me my medal and told me "good job," and then I waited for my wife (who did a fantastic job and finished in under 2 hours). And I tried to be happy for her, and a little part of me was, but the larger, darker, and more evil part of me continued to mope.
And the aftermath of all this is that I've been limping around for the past week, hoping my calf will heal quickly but it's still really sore and this afternoon I'm going to pay someone to stick needles in me, so that's where we are with that.
With that, we'll wrap up this edition and hope that your holidays are happy, your calves are well-stretched, and your dark and evil side is much less dark and evil than mine.
Last Sunday, I stood somewhere between Catalina and Oracle, shivering in the dark and waiting for the Tucson half-marathon to start. I was feeling good. Confident. Well-trained and well-rested, and ready to try to set a P.R. on the mostly downhill course. When the race began, I could tell it was going to be a good one. My pace was steady, my body felt good, and the day was pleasantly cool. The crowd around me quickly thinned out as the quick-starters fell back and everyone settled into their pace. My mile splits were consistent - within 10 seconds of each other - and the only question I had was whether I would be able to hold on throughout the entire 13.1 miles. I hit the three-mile mark at a little under 23 minutes, just a little over a 7:30 pace, and continued to tick off the miles while holding steady. Six miles in just under 46 minutes. Ten miles in 1:15:30. Three miles to go, and I still felt pretty good. All I had to do was maintain and I'd have my P.R. I started thinking about how good it would feel to hit that mark - how all the speedwork I'd been doing had paid off and how much easier this was than running the whole marathon. I was tired, but I felt good and knew I wasn't going to have any problem finishing it off. Little did I know, danger was lurking just around the corner. If only it had been a ten mile, or even an eleven mile, or even an eleven-and-a-half mile race, everything would have been grand and I would have been feeling good. But that was not to be. Because…
…it was also the worst of times…
Right around 11 miles is when I started to feel the slightest bit of a tugging sensation in my right calf. At first, it didn't seem like a big deal - nothing different than what I've experienced in various body parts on many other runs. A minor glitch that quickly worked itself out. That was what I hoped. That was what I tried to believe. I adjusted my pace a little, focused on relaxing the calf, focused on posture and form, and it seemed okay. I made it through that mile, and we turned off Oracle and headed up a pretty good hill. My calf was a little achy, but I thought maybe the hill would stretch it out (dumb thought, that one) but as soon as I reached the top of the hill, I knew it wasn't good. Still, there was part of me that just couldn't stop. That had to keep going. That believed somehow, if I could just run through it, everything would be okay. But it wasn't, and by the time I reached the 12 mile marker, I knew I wasn't going to be able to run anymore. There's a part of me that understands that this doesn't even register as a blip on the great radar screen of life, but in that moment, I was, to put it mildly, upset. I slowed to a limping walk, which still hurt with every step I took, and began the "walk of shame" to the finish line. Meanwhile, all kinds of people, those I had been well ahead of throughout the entire race, started passing me. And as they ran by, many of them, trying to be encouraging, said things like, "Come on, you can do it," or, "Don't give up now, you're almost there." While a part of me realized that they meant well, a larger, darker, and more evil part of me was really irritated by this, and I had to bite back comments like, "No I can't, you idiot. If I could do it, I'd be doing it," or, "I didn't give up, you idiot, my calf gave up and there's nothing I can do about it," or, more simply and to the point, "Shut the heck up, you idiot." (okay, I wasn't really "heck," but as I've mentioned before, little jugs have large ears, so we're keeping this family oriented and appropriate for all ages). Anyway, I limped the last mile or so feeling angry and frustrated and sorry for myself, and I limped down the homestretch to the finish line as they announced my name, and I scowled at the guy taking my picture, and I smiled grimly as they handed me my medal and told me "good job," and then I waited for my wife (who did a fantastic job and finished in under 2 hours). And I tried to be happy for her, and a little part of me was, but the larger, darker, and more evil part of me continued to mope.
And the aftermath of all this is that I've been limping around for the past week, hoping my calf will heal quickly but it's still really sore and this afternoon I'm going to pay someone to stick needles in me, so that's where we are with that.
With that, we'll wrap up this edition and hope that your holidays are happy, your calves are well-stretched, and your dark and evil side is much less dark and evil than mine.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Utopia, Clementines, and More Missing Socks
Moments of perfection
There are certain times when, for reasons which remain incomprehensible to mere mortals, the stars align, and moments of sublime idealism are achieved. I had such a moment (which actually lasted for around 5-10 minutes) the other morning. I had just finished my morning swim and was on my way to work. As I approached Ina, the light turned green just at the moment I was getting ready to slow down, so I was able to swing onto Ina with nary a hitch in my giddyap (which is pretty unusual, because I almost always have to wait at that light). Just as I was doing so, "Stairway to Heaven" came on the radio, and so I turned up the radio while cruising on down the road. For whatever reason, traffic was light - almost non-existent as I continued on, and the lights on Mona Lisa, La Cholla, and La Cañada all burned with a steady green glow as I held the speed steady and sang these immortal words along with Robert Plant: "If she gets there, she knows, if the stores are all closed, with her words she can get what she came for." Now occasionally, I'll hit one or two green lights in a row on this stretch, but four is pushing it, so I fully expected to hit the next light when it was red. Expectations gave way to bliss, though, as I continued through the lights at Paseo del Norte ("In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking") and turned onto Oracle without the slightest pause (other than to make the turn), then made my way towards Orange Grove. "Surely I'll hit a red light there - or at least have to wait for a gap in traffic to make a left turn," I thought, but once again, the Gods smiled down upon me ("Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know. The piper's calling you to join him") and I was able to turn onto Orange Grove without a problem. By this time, the song was reaching its climactic moment ("And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul, there walks a lady we all know, who shines white light and wants to show…") and with one light to go, I wondered if this was going to be the day, and just as I was getting ready to ease on the brakes and slow down for the red light burning ahead of me on First Avenue, it switched to green, I cruised on through, and made my way along Orange Grove to where I had to turn into school, just as the song reached its ending - "And she's bu-uying a sta-airway… to heav-e-en." What a great way to start the day.
Sacrificial Socks
The other day, I was bopping through my postings looking for comments (there actually were a couple) when I ran across one from several weeks ago - when I told the story of my missing socks. Apparently, somebody who works for a gift company was bopping through the website reading peoples' blogs in an attempt to find what they considered to be witty stories about products that the company sells, and when they ran across this entry, they thought it was mildly amusing, and so they asked if I would contact them about receiving a complimentary pair of what they call "Sacrificial Socks" in return for me writing about the "Sacrificial Socks" in a mildly amusing manner. Of course I e-mailed them a message immediately, but I haven't heard back from them since then, so I'm wondering if it got lost in the shuffle and what I should do about it. Because I really, really want a pair of "Sacrificial Socks" even though I have no idea what they are. Also it's pretty much guaranteed to give me something to fill this space with - kind of like what I'm doing right now, even though I haven't actually received anything yet. So we'll just have to wait and see how this all goes down.
An orange by any other name…
I bought a bag of those little oranges called Clementines the other day because they were on sale. So when I got home, Carrie grabbed one out of the bag, but she couldn't peel it because she'd bitten all her fingernails off, so she asked me if I would peel it for her. Of course, I refused. After all, what kind of father would I be if I peeled my child's orange for her. I figured it was one of those "life-lesson" moments where you teach your child to be self-sufficient. I mean, what's going to happen when she's out in the "real world" living on her own and she has to peel an orange and there's nobody around to help her? Anyway, she didn't particularly appreciate the "life lesson" and would have much preferred if I'd just gone ahead and peeled the orange, so I suggested that she post what happened on her Facebook page and see what kind of response she got from her friends. Sure enough, within sixty minutes, she had four responses, all of them highly supportive of her, and highly critical of her "mean Dad, who wouldn't even peel her orange for her." And then there was one girl who really went over the top and said highly critical (and profane) things about me. All because of an orange. It's a mildly amusing world.
700 Club Update
I have no idea what I did to make this happen (or if it was even something I did) but "The 700 Club" is no longer being recorded by my DVR. Hallelujah!
With that, we'll wrap things up until next time, hoping that the wind remains at your back, your nose remains clean, and your sunrises continue to occur with every breaking day.
There are certain times when, for reasons which remain incomprehensible to mere mortals, the stars align, and moments of sublime idealism are achieved. I had such a moment (which actually lasted for around 5-10 minutes) the other morning. I had just finished my morning swim and was on my way to work. As I approached Ina, the light turned green just at the moment I was getting ready to slow down, so I was able to swing onto Ina with nary a hitch in my giddyap (which is pretty unusual, because I almost always have to wait at that light). Just as I was doing so, "Stairway to Heaven" came on the radio, and so I turned up the radio while cruising on down the road. For whatever reason, traffic was light - almost non-existent as I continued on, and the lights on Mona Lisa, La Cholla, and La Cañada all burned with a steady green glow as I held the speed steady and sang these immortal words along with Robert Plant: "If she gets there, she knows, if the stores are all closed, with her words she can get what she came for." Now occasionally, I'll hit one or two green lights in a row on this stretch, but four is pushing it, so I fully expected to hit the next light when it was red. Expectations gave way to bliss, though, as I continued through the lights at Paseo del Norte ("In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking") and turned onto Oracle without the slightest pause (other than to make the turn), then made my way towards Orange Grove. "Surely I'll hit a red light there - or at least have to wait for a gap in traffic to make a left turn," I thought, but once again, the Gods smiled down upon me ("Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know. The piper's calling you to join him") and I was able to turn onto Orange Grove without a problem. By this time, the song was reaching its climactic moment ("And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul, there walks a lady we all know, who shines white light and wants to show…") and with one light to go, I wondered if this was going to be the day, and just as I was getting ready to ease on the brakes and slow down for the red light burning ahead of me on First Avenue, it switched to green, I cruised on through, and made my way along Orange Grove to where I had to turn into school, just as the song reached its ending - "And she's bu-uying a sta-airway… to heav-e-en." What a great way to start the day.
Sacrificial Socks
The other day, I was bopping through my postings looking for comments (there actually were a couple) when I ran across one from several weeks ago - when I told the story of my missing socks. Apparently, somebody who works for a gift company was bopping through the website reading peoples' blogs in an attempt to find what they considered to be witty stories about products that the company sells, and when they ran across this entry, they thought it was mildly amusing, and so they asked if I would contact them about receiving a complimentary pair of what they call "Sacrificial Socks" in return for me writing about the "Sacrificial Socks" in a mildly amusing manner. Of course I e-mailed them a message immediately, but I haven't heard back from them since then, so I'm wondering if it got lost in the shuffle and what I should do about it. Because I really, really want a pair of "Sacrificial Socks" even though I have no idea what they are. Also it's pretty much guaranteed to give me something to fill this space with - kind of like what I'm doing right now, even though I haven't actually received anything yet. So we'll just have to wait and see how this all goes down.
An orange by any other name…
I bought a bag of those little oranges called Clementines the other day because they were on sale. So when I got home, Carrie grabbed one out of the bag, but she couldn't peel it because she'd bitten all her fingernails off, so she asked me if I would peel it for her. Of course, I refused. After all, what kind of father would I be if I peeled my child's orange for her. I figured it was one of those "life-lesson" moments where you teach your child to be self-sufficient. I mean, what's going to happen when she's out in the "real world" living on her own and she has to peel an orange and there's nobody around to help her? Anyway, she didn't particularly appreciate the "life lesson" and would have much preferred if I'd just gone ahead and peeled the orange, so I suggested that she post what happened on her Facebook page and see what kind of response she got from her friends. Sure enough, within sixty minutes, she had four responses, all of them highly supportive of her, and highly critical of her "mean Dad, who wouldn't even peel her orange for her." And then there was one girl who really went over the top and said highly critical (and profane) things about me. All because of an orange. It's a mildly amusing world.
700 Club Update
I have no idea what I did to make this happen (or if it was even something I did) but "The 700 Club" is no longer being recorded by my DVR. Hallelujah!
With that, we'll wrap things up until next time, hoping that the wind remains at your back, your nose remains clean, and your sunrises continue to occur with every breaking day.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Runnin', Recordin', and Religion
Runnin' with the Dorado-ettes
As part of my weekly regimen, I embark upon a "speedwork" run each Wednesday, in which I strive to run fast for various periods of time in an effort to learn how to run fast all the time. So I was out on my "speedwork" run last Wednesday, doing some 1/2 mile repeats (with 1/4 mile recoveries) along the path running by the CDO wash near my house. As I approached the Oro Valley Country Club, I noticed three runners about 1/4 of a mile ahead of me. I recognized them as members of the CDO girls cross country team (I realize this might sound a little creepy, but I see the team running all the time because we run in the same area at the same time, so our paths often overlap/cross - plus, I saw their coach on his bicycle, so I knew who they were). Anyhow, I was in the middle of one of my 1/2 mile speed portions, so I assumed that I'd start gaining on the girls as we ran. However, that wasn't the case. Actually, we stayed almost the exact same distance apart. It didn't matter if I was doing the 1/4 mile "recovery" or the 1/2 mile "speed" portion, I remained almost the exact same distance from them as when I first saw them, and this continued all along the wash path, then stayed the same as I followed the girls (really, I'm not a stalker, I swear) up around a neighborhood, through the park, and over to the high school (this was at least 4-5 miles total distance). As they headed into the football field area, and I continued on home, I wasn't sure exactly how to feel about this. Should I be encouraged because I was able to maintain the same pace as a group of high school young-uns in the prime of their lives, or should I be discouraged because I wasn't able to catch up with a bunch of girls (yes, I know how sexist that sounds - sorry)? Or, should I feel kind of creepy for following a trio of young girls for several miles? On a related note, if you ever get a chance, ask my darling wife, Katie, about how she interprets "repeats" as related to speedwork. There's a story there, but I'm afraid of the repercussions along the home front if I spill the beans, so mum's the word for now.
A rose by any other name
The other day, two 7th grade boys in my class were having a discussion related to names. As in, they were talking about how teachers seemed to follow a pattern with their names. According to their theory, teachers either had really long and complicated names, or really simple names. When they told me this, I kind of looked at them funny and said something along the lines of, "I don't think that's true." They went on to share several examples that matched their theory, and I named several that didn't, and I explained that it really wasn't a prerequisite for someone who wanted to go into the teaching field to have a certain kind of name, and they started to talk about names in general and how it would be really cool if people were matched with their job by their last name, and they gave several examples, and then one of them said, "I wonder what job someone named Hooker would have?" and I just stood there, doing my very best to maintain a neutral expression while waiting for him, or his friend, or anyone in the class who overheard him (at least 10-15 kids heard what he said) to make what, to me, was the obvious connection between a person named "Hooker" and a job, but to my great surprise, no one said anything. I kept waiting, and kept waiting, but still no connection. Finally, the kid who had asked the question said, "I know what they would be," and I just knew what he was going to say, and started to think about how I should reply when he said it, but instead of saying what I thought he would say (which unless you're a seventh grader, should be obvious) he said, "A person named Hooker would be a fisherman." Indeed.
Can I hear an Amen?
What is it that you're not supposed to mention in polite company? I believe it's religion and politics, so because this section involves religion, you may want to skip to the ending - if not, consider yourself forewarned. The mildly amusing thing is, by putting this disclaimer/warning at the beginning of this section, I'm guessing what I've actually done is make you want to read this section even more than you did before. That, my friends, is called, "Making you want to read this section even more by adding a warning/disclaimer about it at the beginning, which intrigues you and makes you want to find out why I felt the need to include the warning/disclaimer," otherwise known as M.Y.W.T.R.T.S.E.M.B.A.W/D.A.I.A.T.B.W.I.Y.A.MA.Y.W.T.F.O.W.I.F.T.N.T.I.T.W/D. With that out of the way, let us continue. The world has changed in many ways since I was a lad who was knee-high to a grasshopper, including many technological changes. Some of these advances have thrilled me, some have made me shrug indifferently, and some, quite frankly, have disturbed me (I'm still not sold on the whole "cell-phone" thing). Anyhow, one of the greatest inventions, in my humble opinion, is the digital recorder. The VCR was pretty good, but it was still a pain to mess with the tapes and all that jazz, so now all you have to do to record a show is press a button and SHAZAM! it's recorded. Then you can watch it whenever you want, skip through the commercials, delete it when you're through, and move on with your life. What could be better than that? Well, the system works perfectly until (as is often the case with systems that work perfectly) something goes wrong. Like your 15-year-old daughter sits on the remote, which your 11-year-old son left on the couch instead of putting it on the table where it belongs, and when she sits on the remote, she somehow hits a combination of buttons that tells the machine to record every single episode of "The 700 Club" from now until eternity (however long that may be). Now you may be thinking, "Why don't you just fix the problem so it no longer records every single episode of 'The 700 Club?'" which, by the way, is on twice a day every day on ABC Family (just in case you're interested). The answer is that I've tried to fix the problem, but for whatever reason, no matter how many times I tell the machine not to record the show, it still records the show, and no matter how many times I delete the show, it keeps returning to my list of recorded shows. So, for now at least, I'm pretty much stuck, and it's now become a part of my daily ritual to delete episodes of "The 700 Club" which, I have to admit, I've started to actually enjoy, in a sick and twisted kind of way.
That's all I've got for now, which means it's time to tie a bow on this package and hit the "Publish Post" button, so until next time, may your mind (and your motives) remain pure and clear, may your vision remain unclouded, and may your carry-on luggage remain stored securely in the overhead bins.
As part of my weekly regimen, I embark upon a "speedwork" run each Wednesday, in which I strive to run fast for various periods of time in an effort to learn how to run fast all the time. So I was out on my "speedwork" run last Wednesday, doing some 1/2 mile repeats (with 1/4 mile recoveries) along the path running by the CDO wash near my house. As I approached the Oro Valley Country Club, I noticed three runners about 1/4 of a mile ahead of me. I recognized them as members of the CDO girls cross country team (I realize this might sound a little creepy, but I see the team running all the time because we run in the same area at the same time, so our paths often overlap/cross - plus, I saw their coach on his bicycle, so I knew who they were). Anyhow, I was in the middle of one of my 1/2 mile speed portions, so I assumed that I'd start gaining on the girls as we ran. However, that wasn't the case. Actually, we stayed almost the exact same distance apart. It didn't matter if I was doing the 1/4 mile "recovery" or the 1/2 mile "speed" portion, I remained almost the exact same distance from them as when I first saw them, and this continued all along the wash path, then stayed the same as I followed the girls (really, I'm not a stalker, I swear) up around a neighborhood, through the park, and over to the high school (this was at least 4-5 miles total distance). As they headed into the football field area, and I continued on home, I wasn't sure exactly how to feel about this. Should I be encouraged because I was able to maintain the same pace as a group of high school young-uns in the prime of their lives, or should I be discouraged because I wasn't able to catch up with a bunch of girls (yes, I know how sexist that sounds - sorry)? Or, should I feel kind of creepy for following a trio of young girls for several miles? On a related note, if you ever get a chance, ask my darling wife, Katie, about how she interprets "repeats" as related to speedwork. There's a story there, but I'm afraid of the repercussions along the home front if I spill the beans, so mum's the word for now.
A rose by any other name
The other day, two 7th grade boys in my class were having a discussion related to names. As in, they were talking about how teachers seemed to follow a pattern with their names. According to their theory, teachers either had really long and complicated names, or really simple names. When they told me this, I kind of looked at them funny and said something along the lines of, "I don't think that's true." They went on to share several examples that matched their theory, and I named several that didn't, and I explained that it really wasn't a prerequisite for someone who wanted to go into the teaching field to have a certain kind of name, and they started to talk about names in general and how it would be really cool if people were matched with their job by their last name, and they gave several examples, and then one of them said, "I wonder what job someone named Hooker would have?" and I just stood there, doing my very best to maintain a neutral expression while waiting for him, or his friend, or anyone in the class who overheard him (at least 10-15 kids heard what he said) to make what, to me, was the obvious connection between a person named "Hooker" and a job, but to my great surprise, no one said anything. I kept waiting, and kept waiting, but still no connection. Finally, the kid who had asked the question said, "I know what they would be," and I just knew what he was going to say, and started to think about how I should reply when he said it, but instead of saying what I thought he would say (which unless you're a seventh grader, should be obvious) he said, "A person named Hooker would be a fisherman." Indeed.
Can I hear an Amen?
What is it that you're not supposed to mention in polite company? I believe it's religion and politics, so because this section involves religion, you may want to skip to the ending - if not, consider yourself forewarned. The mildly amusing thing is, by putting this disclaimer/warning at the beginning of this section, I'm guessing what I've actually done is make you want to read this section even more than you did before. That, my friends, is called, "Making you want to read this section even more by adding a warning/disclaimer about it at the beginning, which intrigues you and makes you want to find out why I felt the need to include the warning/disclaimer," otherwise known as M.Y.W.T.R.T.S.E.M.B.A.W/D.A.I.A.T.B.W.I.Y.A.MA.Y.W.T.F.O.W.I.F.T.N.T.I.T.W/D. With that out of the way, let us continue. The world has changed in many ways since I was a lad who was knee-high to a grasshopper, including many technological changes. Some of these advances have thrilled me, some have made me shrug indifferently, and some, quite frankly, have disturbed me (I'm still not sold on the whole "cell-phone" thing). Anyhow, one of the greatest inventions, in my humble opinion, is the digital recorder. The VCR was pretty good, but it was still a pain to mess with the tapes and all that jazz, so now all you have to do to record a show is press a button and SHAZAM! it's recorded. Then you can watch it whenever you want, skip through the commercials, delete it when you're through, and move on with your life. What could be better than that? Well, the system works perfectly until (as is often the case with systems that work perfectly) something goes wrong. Like your 15-year-old daughter sits on the remote, which your 11-year-old son left on the couch instead of putting it on the table where it belongs, and when she sits on the remote, she somehow hits a combination of buttons that tells the machine to record every single episode of "The 700 Club" from now until eternity (however long that may be). Now you may be thinking, "Why don't you just fix the problem so it no longer records every single episode of 'The 700 Club?'" which, by the way, is on twice a day every day on ABC Family (just in case you're interested). The answer is that I've tried to fix the problem, but for whatever reason, no matter how many times I tell the machine not to record the show, it still records the show, and no matter how many times I delete the show, it keeps returning to my list of recorded shows. So, for now at least, I'm pretty much stuck, and it's now become a part of my daily ritual to delete episodes of "The 700 Club" which, I have to admit, I've started to actually enjoy, in a sick and twisted kind of way.
That's all I've got for now, which means it's time to tie a bow on this package and hit the "Publish Post" button, so until next time, may your mind (and your motives) remain pure and clear, may your vision remain unclouded, and may your carry-on luggage remain stored securely in the overhead bins.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Long Rides and Dead Batteries
Strange characters dressed in spandex
I've been building up my cycling mileage in anticipation of El Tour de Tucson (November 21), which means I've been spending a lot of hours pedaling up, down and around the mean streets of Tucson wearing spandex shorts, garishly colored shirts, and stiff-bottomed shoes that are impossible to walk in. I've fully appreciated the need for the specially designed bicycle shorts (and the incumbent padding) ever since I started riding semi-seriously 20+ years ago, but I've only started to wear the specially designed cycle jerseys in the past few years (and I have to say that I've come to appreciate those as well - love the pockets in the back where I can store my bagel and energy bars). Still, I always feel a little silly when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I set off on my excursions. And I still have an aversion to the "matching outfit" look that so many cyclists seem to embrace. Personally, I favor the plain black shorts look, and the last thing I want is have something like blue and yellow stripes on my shorts that match the jersey and socks. Anyway, I was on a ride a couple of weeks ago, and I'd pulled over at the park up in Catalina (north of Tucson), when this guy pulled in on a really, really beat up bike. It was a sort of mountain bike, but it looked like it had been made out of a bunch of spare parts and the seat was duct-taped together and he was hauling a sleeping bag and a bunch of other gear, so obviously he wasn't just out for a quick ride. Actually, the rider and the bike were kind of a matching pair, because he looked kind of beat-up and slapped together as well. He was lean and sun-baked with long, greasy hair and a tattoo of a naked lady on his forearm - obviously a high-class kind of guy. So he asked me where I was from, which isn't what you usually get asked by fellow cyclists as you're riding in and around Tucson (since most people riding in and around Tucson are from Tucson), and I said, "Tucson," and he kind of sniffed and said, "Is that all?" and I kind of shrugged and nodded, and he said, "Yeah, well I've come from Vancouver," and we got to talking (actually, he talked and I listened) and I found out that he'd been on the road for three months and was heading to Florida eventually, and he was with a female when he started but she couldn't handle it after five hundred miles and he was better off without her (he had a whole lot of other things to say about her, but I can't really include any of that because this is a family-oriented website) and was there a grocery store nearby, and the road from Phoenix to Catalina was horrible and caused him to split a tire, and was there a bike shop anywhere around where he could get a new tire, and so on. After about ten minutes of this, he headed on down the road and I stood and watched as he faded into the horizon. Kind of like those old westerns where the hero rides off into the sunset, except in the old westerns the hero is riding a horse instead of a beat up bicycle, and the hero is actually a hero, and the person watching is usually the woman he left behind or the kid he saved from a villain or the townspeople he freed from tyranny. But otherwise, it was exactly the same.
My so-called mechanical skills
For as long as I can remember (since long before I was knee-high to a grasshopper) I've had an uneasy relationship with automobiles. I don't particularly like to drive in the first place, I hate how much they cost to operate, maintain, insure, etc. in the second place, I detest the fact that they're (we're) destroying the environment while sucking up resources and indirectly leading countries into conflicts in the third place, and most of all, I hate when they don't work the way they're supposed to. So when Katie informed me that the battery on the Honda had died, I uttered a few choice words, then went to check it out. Sure enough, the battery was dead. So I sent Katie off to get a new one, and when she brought it home, I proceeded to hook it up. Once every cable was attached and every bolt was tightened, I put the key in the ignition, twisted, and… nothing. Hmm. I tried again. Still nothing. So I got out of the car and checked the battery cables to make sure they were put on correctly. Everything looked okay, but nothing worked. At that point, I was completely stumped, so we contacted the Honda place and they asked if I'd taken the plastic covers off the posts. Of course I took the covers off the posts, I'm not a complete idiot, and I have installed a battery before. So they asked if I checked the fuses, which I did, and they were fine, so they suggested we call a towing company to have it hauled in to the shop, which we did, and about an hour after it was taken away, I got a call from the Honda shop saying the car was fixed. "What was wrong with it?" I asked, and the guy said, "Uh, you left the plastic cover on one of the posts," which made me feel like a complete idiot because I remember taking one of the covers off, but obviously, I didn't take both of them off (which is a pretty important step to forget to do). So I guess I'm a complete loser when it comes to fixing cars.
On that note, we'll wrap up this little ditty and hope that your batteries stay charged, your spandex stays stretchy, and your oceans remain deep and uncluttered.
I've been building up my cycling mileage in anticipation of El Tour de Tucson (November 21), which means I've been spending a lot of hours pedaling up, down and around the mean streets of Tucson wearing spandex shorts, garishly colored shirts, and stiff-bottomed shoes that are impossible to walk in. I've fully appreciated the need for the specially designed bicycle shorts (and the incumbent padding) ever since I started riding semi-seriously 20+ years ago, but I've only started to wear the specially designed cycle jerseys in the past few years (and I have to say that I've come to appreciate those as well - love the pockets in the back where I can store my bagel and energy bars). Still, I always feel a little silly when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I set off on my excursions. And I still have an aversion to the "matching outfit" look that so many cyclists seem to embrace. Personally, I favor the plain black shorts look, and the last thing I want is have something like blue and yellow stripes on my shorts that match the jersey and socks. Anyway, I was on a ride a couple of weeks ago, and I'd pulled over at the park up in Catalina (north of Tucson), when this guy pulled in on a really, really beat up bike. It was a sort of mountain bike, but it looked like it had been made out of a bunch of spare parts and the seat was duct-taped together and he was hauling a sleeping bag and a bunch of other gear, so obviously he wasn't just out for a quick ride. Actually, the rider and the bike were kind of a matching pair, because he looked kind of beat-up and slapped together as well. He was lean and sun-baked with long, greasy hair and a tattoo of a naked lady on his forearm - obviously a high-class kind of guy. So he asked me where I was from, which isn't what you usually get asked by fellow cyclists as you're riding in and around Tucson (since most people riding in and around Tucson are from Tucson), and I said, "Tucson," and he kind of sniffed and said, "Is that all?" and I kind of shrugged and nodded, and he said, "Yeah, well I've come from Vancouver," and we got to talking (actually, he talked and I listened) and I found out that he'd been on the road for three months and was heading to Florida eventually, and he was with a female when he started but she couldn't handle it after five hundred miles and he was better off without her (he had a whole lot of other things to say about her, but I can't really include any of that because this is a family-oriented website) and was there a grocery store nearby, and the road from Phoenix to Catalina was horrible and caused him to split a tire, and was there a bike shop anywhere around where he could get a new tire, and so on. After about ten minutes of this, he headed on down the road and I stood and watched as he faded into the horizon. Kind of like those old westerns where the hero rides off into the sunset, except in the old westerns the hero is riding a horse instead of a beat up bicycle, and the hero is actually a hero, and the person watching is usually the woman he left behind or the kid he saved from a villain or the townspeople he freed from tyranny. But otherwise, it was exactly the same.
My so-called mechanical skills
For as long as I can remember (since long before I was knee-high to a grasshopper) I've had an uneasy relationship with automobiles. I don't particularly like to drive in the first place, I hate how much they cost to operate, maintain, insure, etc. in the second place, I detest the fact that they're (we're) destroying the environment while sucking up resources and indirectly leading countries into conflicts in the third place, and most of all, I hate when they don't work the way they're supposed to. So when Katie informed me that the battery on the Honda had died, I uttered a few choice words, then went to check it out. Sure enough, the battery was dead. So I sent Katie off to get a new one, and when she brought it home, I proceeded to hook it up. Once every cable was attached and every bolt was tightened, I put the key in the ignition, twisted, and… nothing. Hmm. I tried again. Still nothing. So I got out of the car and checked the battery cables to make sure they were put on correctly. Everything looked okay, but nothing worked. At that point, I was completely stumped, so we contacted the Honda place and they asked if I'd taken the plastic covers off the posts. Of course I took the covers off the posts, I'm not a complete idiot, and I have installed a battery before. So they asked if I checked the fuses, which I did, and they were fine, so they suggested we call a towing company to have it hauled in to the shop, which we did, and about an hour after it was taken away, I got a call from the Honda shop saying the car was fixed. "What was wrong with it?" I asked, and the guy said, "Uh, you left the plastic cover on one of the posts," which made me feel like a complete idiot because I remember taking one of the covers off, but obviously, I didn't take both of them off (which is a pretty important step to forget to do). So I guess I'm a complete loser when it comes to fixing cars.
On that note, we'll wrap up this little ditty and hope that your batteries stay charged, your spandex stays stretchy, and your oceans remain deep and uncluttered.
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