A Big Thank You Goes .......

I just read a short piece by a fellow named Burroughs. I am unfamilar with this guy, but apparently the hipper more up to date aficionado of things cool and with it think he is the cat's meow. His bit was a thank you to John Dillinger ( or more accurately America) that gave thanks for all the nastier things we did on the way to becoming what we became. A sort of thanks for being such self serving jerks routine. Clever, but predictable of those who have nothing but disdain for the America we live in today.

Now I am no one to throw stones. I have certainly vented my fair share of criticism about the culture and rampant apathy I find throughout this great land. But I figure if there is one day I ought to give it a rest, today, Thanksgiving, might just be a good choice. Take a breather from casting that jaundiced eye and maybe consider some positives about America. There has to be some.

In no particular order-

I would like to thank most of America for settling in the South and the West. By doing this, you have relieved my fear of urban sprawl here in Maine.

I would like to thank our founders for their efforts to give us a guidebook to follow these last 225 years or so. While what we have now may not be what they envisioned, at least I live in confidence that I may speak my mind without reprisal.

I would like to thank GW Bush the second for proving that Ronald Reagan was not the worst president in my lifetime.

I would thank the inventors of the internet thing and the PC thing, but sometimes I wonder if we should thank them or curse them. Call it a wash.

I would like to thank my parents for the early lessons regarding responsibility. Knowing I am responsible for my actions makes it easy to demand that others do the same.

I would love to thank God for all that we have. But seeing as how what we have at the moment is massive world wide hate and discontent, I'll hold my thanks for the moment. In other words, thanks, but no thanks. Of course that is assuming there is a God. If there is not, then the stupidity unfolding makes more sense.

I would like to thank my daughter Lis for being, well, just being. You are the one thing in my life I feel I did not screw up. And if I did, you are way too nice to tell me so. Thank you.

That Kind of Day I Guess

I have been trying all day to come up with an appropriate Thanksgiving entry into this blog. I began musing over the possibilities almost at first light this morning. Everything that came to mind was either not worthy or the thought just a fleeting scrap that blew away quickly as my shortened attention span exercised it's right to exist. Half formed considerations and poorly conceived subjects never got off the ground.

So about 9:30 AM I decided to head to the shop, grab my bike and go for a short off road ride. I figured if I couldn't come up with wit or insight, I might as well try to clear the cobwebs and break a sweat. So I did. Spent 20 minutes getting on my bike duds, checkin out the bike, and then I headed out. With Hunting season still in full swing, I knew I had to keep the loop relatively close to the houses near the in town woods. Even in full blaze orange, a moving target can be a hard target for any hunter to resist. So I headed over to the woods by the Y.

I rode well. No dabs, crashes or unforseen dismounts. Cleaned everything. My fear of quickly becoming winded and ready to puke did not happen. I guess the last 2 weeks of dormancy did not affect me as I had figured. Felt good and still do.

I finished my ride and actually made an effort to improve a couple of minor details at the shop. Took care of a few things I usually ignore until they become unbearable. Then I headed home about noon and feasted on BLT's.

With a full belly and mildy drained body I relaxed in front of the Miami/Detroit game. Settled in for that once a year treat of Pro Football on a week day, Thanksgiving. I promptly passed out and woke up with a jolt in the 3rd quarter to my wife telling me my brother was on the phone.

Seems he and his wife Eileen were out for a walk while Erica, my neice toiled away at home rustling up grub for the Turkey Day repast. I was still groggy when I got on the phone and just coming out of my mid day siesta haze when he said good bye. I assume everything is going well but cannot attest to that fact now. His conversation sits as a lump in my memory banks.

I now sit here attempting to bring some clarity to my day. I wrote down the events and have sat back to consider them. And it seems I never really woke up today. Everything just clumps together. Nothing stands out. It's that kind of day I guess. Happy Thanksgiving.

Nevermind

Enjoying my daily visit to a forum somewhere out there in the ozone, I happened upon a discussion regarding the Netherlands and their recent banishment of the muslim burqa as acceptable public attire. Apparently the Dutch like to know who they are speaking to and need that face to face encouragement to make it happen. The typical flurry of strong opinion quickly filled two pages. Some folks were sensitive to the women and this hateful disregard for Allah and his harem of Earth women. And quite a few sided with the fascist dope smokin Dutch. An occaisional voice like mine would pipe in with off topic silliness. That was how I felt. Wear a shroud. Don't wear a shroud. Much ado about not much in this infidel's mind.

Anyway, Treespeed shared this:

If they ban Burqas then I want to also see them banning white guys dressing as rappers, overweight East Germans in Speedos, socks and birkenstocks, and make the neo nazis grow out their hair and turn in their Docs.

And I replied

While they are at it, a ban on fat chicks in tube tops with those silly barbells implanted in their navals would be appreciated here. Oh yeah, with regards to the rapper thing. Make wearing a hat sideways a crime. I always want to ask them if they just ran into a pole or something.

And then of course we would need to abolish the practice of old folks exposing any part of their bodies at the beach. Nothing scarier than an old white guy in bermuda shorts with his belt cinched up just under his tits, wearing sandals and support socks up to his blue veined pasty white knees.

As he squints at the sun through huge Foster Grants and dips that pork pie hat or a golf hat to block the beach glare, his blue haired other half purses her lips, creating the perfect imitation of a white prune with red lips. She adjusts her winged shades and tugs at the side of her bra with white claws that began Life as hands. Both of them seem lost as they awkwardly stumble in the sand looking for a place that rents chairs and one of those big Umbrellas that say "Miami Beach" in big block letters.

Against the backdrop of younger folks, more pleasing to the eye folks, the old fogies are an eyesore and should be blacklisted and scorned when spotted about to invade this bastion of healthy youthdom. Wait a minute. I just described my not quite immediate future. Nevermind.

Charity

First of all I hate the word charity. To me a smidgen of pity always seems to be attached to that word charity. I have worked hard all my life to not pity anyone. I often fail, but still the act of engaging in it always makes me feel like I am doing a disservice to the one I aimed my pity at. It's as if pity denotes some kind of judgement or something. And I definitely work hard to rein in that wild beast. Another battle I lose with alarming regularity.

The second thing about charity is the fallacy that good intentions only are the driving force. Remove the tax deductions and I would guess that a serious percentage of all charitable donations would dry up. The cynic in me questions the kindness of strangers when it comes to prying money out of their pocket for "good causes".

My wife and I give money to causes we believe in. I do not have a clue how much and actually to who. She donates to some I don't know about. She knows who both of us donate to. She is the tax accountant after all. Giving money is a cop out if that is all someone feels they need to do to make a difference. I have a higher regard for the folks who give of their time and physical labor than the ones who just write a check.

To that end, I do not do as much as I should, but I do try. I have an old lady who obviously lives on the edge. She is a bottle collecter. Martha rides by on her beater 60's Huffy with huge plastic bags tied to it filled with the harvest she finds on the roads, behind walls and various businesses like mine. She is a proud woman. At least 60 years old and not a tooth in her head. Her bike is always in need. I supply her the work at below cost, but always charge something. She is too proud to take it for free.

Jason, my special needs friend who lives on assistance is always in need of bike work. He cannot drive so he rides. Again, he is too proud to take free, but I find ways to help and not denigrate his pride. He always asks me how much he owes. I come up with a figure that he can live with, but in no way is close to actual retail.

I often get trapped fixing some poor kid's beater for an hour and then charging them what they have in their pocket. Or if they are broke, tell em to buy me a coffee sometime.

I always insist that what I am doing is not free. In my mind, giving should be a two way street. That way both folks can feel ok with the transaction. Coming out on top is beside the point. It's about making them feel okay about receiving the help.

Bottom Line- All the hoopla over who is more giving by the amount of money they drop in the box at church or wherever is Bullsh!t. Giving money is easy. Giving of yourself is what really counts.

The Blank Page

There is nothing more intimidating than a blank piece of paper when I can't come up with something clever to fill it with. The blank page creates the blank stare. Or is it the blank stare creates the blank page? A mental breakdown of the machinery that turns a good phrase.

When all else fails, just start typing. Pump those words out. No rhyme. No Reason. Just keep moving. At some point exhaustion or some sense will usually result. Regardless, the need, the Jones will be satisfied. That unresistable urge to verbalize satiated and I will step away feeling full but maybe not fulfilled.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - v

Someone on a forum I visit posed a question. "Would you run for Congress?" A simple question. Sincere consideration would point to weighing many complexities and variables in order to make a reasoned answer.

So of course I first came up with what came to mind in that moment. No real thought. Just what popped up first in that void I jokingly refer to as my mind. I figured my checkered past and ill-spent youth would work against me when full disclosure came up. I assumed the chip on my shoulder would at some point create physical demands of me to punch someone out. I concluded I did not have the temperment.

Never once did I even consider whether I even had the talent necessary to lead. Nevermind being elected in the first place. Being the arm chair poli/sci expert that I am, I took it granted I had what it takes. Any moron could do it. And for sure and no doubt, I was no moron. No thoughts passed through about having the necessary personality traits that would even make me a decent politician.

Now that several hours have passed and I have had time to reflect on the idea more, I have determined that my first knee-jerk from the gut response was probably right on. I nailed it with my first salvo of negativity. I'm too scatter brained, too much of a loose dog. But honest to a fault my mom used to say. And in your face maybe a tad too much to win a majority. I would definitely end up punching some bonehead out. Or end up getting punched out.

And then this came to mind

Ayup, I pulled the ole John Deere out of the barn yesterday and what do you think I noticed hangin there collectin dust up in the rafters? That John Deere bike they threw in with that new manuah spreadah I bought 20 years ago. I guess it was to soften the blow when I saw how much the spreadah was gonna cost. Dazzle me with some fancy useless gee gaw while they picked my pockets clean. But I needed the spreadah so I took the bike to keep em happy.

So's anyway, I decided to pull that bike down and give her a look. A little dusty and the tires was flat, but all in all looked like new. Dusted her off and threw some air in the tires and wheeled her out into the dooryard.

Now I had noticed these last few years while spreadin manuah with that new spreadah, funny lookin folks ridin bikes back and forth on the hard top road to town. This always puzzled me cuz there weren't nothing but the Jenkins place the one way and town the other. Why anyone would want to visit that contrary ole fart Jenkins was beyond me. And town was just a place to pick up essentials and then skedaddle. But they still rode by all the time. Waved at me too. Must be nice to have time to ride bikes and wave at folks.

Anyways, I hollered at Martha to come and see the bike. She looks at the bike and then looks at me. "Gonna sell it?"

"Why no deah, I thought I'd take it out for a spin and see what all the fuss is about. I told you about all those smilin bike folks I see when I's out on the Deere spreadin manuah with the new spreadah. Figured I'd try it myself. Smilin seems like it might be fun. But one thing, do you think I oughta get one of those helmets they all seem to wear first?"

Martha looks at the bike, then looks at me. "Well deah, I'd say just wear a hat, your head's hard enough". And she went back into the house.

Legally Stupid

The White Death. Cancer Sticks. Coffin Nails. Yeah nicotine is some powerful. And what's truly odd is most regular smokers don't even get a real buzz for all the trouble and cost. Tobacco is responsible for killing more people than anything else I can think of. No illegal drug can even come close. It certainly had a hand in the death of both of my parents. Although with the ole man, I guess it's a toss up between nicotine and alcohol. He was a dedicated abuser of both and so mean and cantankerous, it took the combined efforts of both 75 years before they finally brought him down. Damn, he was a tough ole bird.

The legal status of this evil substance has always perplexed me. The obvious cost to society versus the much lesser cost of illegal drugs is the perfect example of the hypocritical and arbitrary nature of our legal system.

But there you have it. There you go. That's the way it is. There are certain state sanctioned avenues to stupidity and there are those that are not. Get caught doing some and you could go to jail. Get caught smoking cigarettes and all you do is get caught being stupid. What a great country.

One of My Last Transfers

I was wondering. Contemplating things in general. Reviewing the overall status quo. It dawned on me that yes, it is same shit different day. But somewhere for someone else it isn't. Somebody is catching shit, losing out, or winning the lottery. Life today is an about turn from yesterday. Their comfort zone invaded by events beyond their control or consideration.

Just who decides, hands out these detours anyway? We all take turns I guess. Go to the front of the line. And it doesn't really matter if it's God, your neighbor or by lucky chance. At some point something will drag us out of our SSDD day into nightmares or fantasies. The trick is to remain sane in between.

I have taken different approaches over the years to remaining sane. I cannot count my time as a child. As a child I spent all my time finding out what sane meant. As a teen and young adult I determined nothing was sane. No sense to any of it. Self medicating myself to an uneasy equilibrium, I spent too many years in disconnect. I snapped out of it in time to settle down and perform my survival of the species schtick. Marriage, mortgage, and a kid forcing sanity down my throat.

Now the home and hearth stand quiet. The rush to make it this far is over. I am noticing fewer loose ends. Challenges have been met or denied. I realize that what I might have wanted to become is not even close to what I became. Intentions have turned into consequences. I am facing a tighter range of choices now. My timeframe is shrinking. A deadline is on a horizon that creeps closer every day. I now realize my sunset is not just possible but certified for sure gonning to happen. The irrational overwhelming fear of it I felt as a child learning what that meant has been replaced with grudging acceptance.

But you know what? I have no regrets. Even though I could have done some things differently, smarter, kinder or not been so very serious. It is a waste of my time dwelling on the woulda coulda shoulda. Anquishing over spilt milk, not hearing opportunity knock. Especially now that I know for certain where there was once a beginning, there must also be an end. All that seems less important now. All that seems so over with, fruitess to cry about.

My nest is empty and my mate grows old next to me. I will embark on the time that is left with all the gumption I have. This bus trip is not over , but I have cashed in one of my last transfers.

Dark Thirty A.M. - redux

I must have passed out during the first 1/2 hour of the "Cast Away". I have no memory of falling asleep. I slept the sleep of the dead. Yet 4 hours later, without the fanfare of a cold sweat or disturbing dream, my semi comatose existence became semi awake alertness.

In between yawns and goose bumps from the chilly air outside the blanket, I sit here typing. I am puzzled why I decided to wake up. The usual suspects are MIA. I was not particularily anxcious or stressed out today. No feelings of guilt spiking out of the normal zone. But I woke up anyway. Damn, doesn't that piss me off. A perfectly good run at a decent night's sleep ruined and I cannot figure out why.

But since I am here and awake, I may as well impart my general feelings about the Menopause musical.

Three women run into each other at a large upscale department store. Each one from a different background but exhibiting and dealing with the similar physical and emotional difficulties associated with menopause. The actresses hired for this litle production had wonderful voices. They kept me interested and entertained. And even though the audience was mostly female, I never felt like I was unwelcomed. No dark glances were cast my direction. I felt safe. An enjoyable time all in all.

I Can't Wait

This is a pre-event bitch, whine, belly achin , drag me kickin and screamin type comment. A pre-emptive complaint about how I know I will not in any sense of the word, enjoy it. My wife turned to me and said, "Excuse me, you are going. I do not even want to hear your mouth. Be ready to leave at 3 o'clock". The way her eyes slit and her mouth hardened into a rigid line told me to not even go there. So I came here instead.

It appears I am destined to enjoy a production down to the Ogunquit Playhouse this Sunday coming up. "Menopause, the Musical" has been delighting local women for a few weeks now. Every local fem between the age of 30 and 75 have crammed themselves into the small theater to be entertained with songs of hot flashing, hormonally screwed up females. Tickets are hard to come by. I can't wait.

I made the mistake of telling my riding buddies about being hijacked this Sunday. I had to give them a reason I was not available for the whole day to ride in the woods. Instead of lying and saving face, I stupidly offered the truth. I won't do that again. Carl looked at me in astonishment and then disgust. His wife has seen the production not once but twice. And so far, he has successfully resisted all of her attempts to drag him along. Now it appears my bad example and inability to weasel out of it will cut back his chances to resist the next time it is brought up in his house. Sorry dude.

I am trying to look at this from a mature and sensitive viewpoint. Keep a stiff upper llip. Suck it up and deal with it. And I will. But until then, I can piss and moan.

There are two things that women deal with that men don't. The ability to spit out new humans and the joys and fun of menopause strike a definitive and deep line between the sexes. Many hardass women contend men would not be able to deal with either. Since I do not have to personally deal with either of those pleasant experiences, I can only but wisely choose to agree with them. There is no understanding from a shared experience mentality.

I have learned to tread softly when confronted by a woman in the throes of either childbirth or coming down from Hot Flashes. I have learned to blow off the moments of unreasonable and random fits of emotional distress. And do not underestimate the power of a 5'2" puny woman's grip when labor is going full tilt boogie.

I will look forward to the experience with the knowledge that even if I do not like it, I will act the part. Stay tuned. A sequel awaits.

Maps

Maps. I really like maps. Any map. Trail Maps, street maps, state maps, hand drawn maps, old maps. Shoot, I never read a map I didn't like. Even when I was a little tacker, maps fascinated me. Imagination and an eight year old brain could only dream of what went on in Minot, State College, or Timbuktu. Exotic places conjured up images of Carribean pirates and Henry Morgan pillaging up and down the Spanish Main. Tracing Magellan's route around the globe to find the island he died on. Maps brought the world into perspective.

Yeah, maps took me on many a journey when I was young. It was a natural progression to rely on them for my living when I matured. I can't remember how many Rand McNally interstate atlases I shredded during my million plus miles pedaling a tractor trailer through Canada and the lower 48. By the time I was done with them, pages were missing, torn, and made illegible by thousands of dirty finger prints.

Maps still play an important role. Now it is trail maps. Ever seaching for that one trail that has it all. Drops, twisty single track, in my face upstrokes and white knuckle downstrokes. I will pore over a US Geological map for hours checking out altitude changes and checking for low wetlands. Looking for old county roads, logging right of ways, and those pesky little minute dotted lines that may indicate a technical rider's delight.

I have considered many things regarding maps. For instance, maps must of been the first form of writing our low browed knuckle dragging ancestors used. Maybe even before meaning was assigned to the grunts and chortles of the newly evolved Sapiens. Think about it. Spoken communication was not invented, yet somehow the next waterhole or stand of berries had to be found. A stick dragged through the sand marking the spot where the fresh killed mammoth lay waiting to be consumed. Had to beat jumping up and down grunting and waving their arms.

But as handy and informative as maps are, why are so many people unable to read them? What is it that confuses otherwise intelligent folks when they open up that atlas to find the best way through Lincoln, Nebraska. Their eyes will glaze over. Turning the map this way, then that way and finally upside down in a futile attempt to locate their position on a 2 dimensional plane. They might know where they are going. They might know where they have been. But often they cannot figure what town they are in.

According to this guy anyway

On a forum in a galaxy far away a troll posted an over the top Op/ed piece written by a rabid left leaning, Bush hating, doom and gloomy dude. The point was predictable, the premise bizarre and the conclusions reached were out there for sure. Seems this fellow is positive Bush will nuke Iran. Not maybe, or he might. It is gonna happen. According to this guy anyway. After the typical "You Libs suck and you Neo cons eat babies rhetoric,

Serendipper posted this opinion: "Why doesn't Bush send terrorists to intimidate our enemy? He vowed to use their own tactics against them. It doesn't make sense to fight an asymetrical war with old school military theater tactics. I thought that our enemy was Al-Caida, not a rogue nation-state. Now I'm not sure who we are fighting. "

Never one to let an opinion get away without my twist, I replied;

"Serendipper - I have felt right along that our reaction after 9/11 was exactly or close to what Al Quada(sic) and associates wanted. This over the top op/ed piece is just icing on the cake. Not only has this small group managed to throw the fear of God into the West, they now have the satisfaction of watching us fear ourselves. Hollywood could not come up with a better and more bizarre story line.

This stateless movement has no other agenda than destroying the infidels of the West and those inside their own religion. To do that, they will stop at nothing to achieve their goals. They conduct their war from the shadows with well timed acts of terror. And yet, we still attempt to fight them with conventional means that only drains us of men, money, and our will to continue. This piece is just another indicator of just how much will has been sapped.

Americans are an impatient lot. We have become used to instant gratification. We have learned to expect success. It does not take us long to lose interest if things do not go our way. This peculiar trait of ours is well known and has been for years. It is the one thing the Terror network can count on. And rather than beat that dead horse that we should never have entered Iraq in the first place, I contend this is a time we have to suck it up and see it through.

Admitting our mistakes, we still need to continue, but with a new focus and plan. We need to begin executing this conflict on our terms, not theirs. The growing infighting here has to cease. We need to come together with a plan that has the support of all. To do this, our administration first needs to stop being so damn bull headed.

Without admitting they screwed up (although everyone knows they did), Bush and his crew need to recognize that Iran is the pivot upon which this war on Terror revolves. Bombing them will not work. Invading them will not work. But a combination of grudging diplomatic respect and clandestine efforts to undermine their power structure, we might begin to chip away at their image inside and outside their borders. Because at this point, the terrorists are winning and so is Iran. A nuke on Tehran will not change that.

Good Bike Karma. Bad Mike Karma

As soon as I manualed up onto the rock and it tipped, I knew I was going to put that first dinger in my new bike. Having no place to put my foot down, I tumbled 8 feet onto exposed rocks. My helmet went "Thwack" and a searing pain shot up my left leg as the sharp granite tore my knee open.

All I could do was lay there in agony and scream, "Fuck" as loud as I could. Apparently loud enough that the hikers up on "Indian's Last Leap" came scurrying down to check out the ruckus. As I struggled to my feet, two concerned citizens closed in. I turned and both of them looked at me and then at my knee. Their eyes grew big and one good samaritan offered immediate help via his damn cell phone and 911.

I hadn't looked at my knee yet. I was still trying to shake the cobwebs back into place and get through that first intense flash of pain. I hobbled away from my bike and the two good citizens. Trying to somehow walk it off and hide the tear-wrenching pain I was experiencing. Oddly the time I caught a soccer ball in the nads and both of the boys were driven up into my throat came into my mind then. This was that kind of pain. And I remembered the soccer coach saying, "Walk it off Crum." It took almost a week for the boys to find their way home again. It was a week of testicular torture. "Walk it off?" Yeah right. That never works. To all the coaches in all the world, why do you say that? Useless as medical advice and it certainly does not convince the pain to go away.

The pain subsided from intense to almost tolerable and I turned back towards my bike expecting the worst. I was sure my brand new, only been ridden twice, "Slayer 50" was as crumpled as I felt. But no. It lay there almost serenely, patiently reposed. Like I had set it down carefully in the pine needles just shy of the rocks. Ah Hah. Those rocks were meant for me, not my bike. Good bike karma, bad Mike karma.

I still had not looked at my knee. I would like to say it was a macho thing. Tough guy and all that. But the reality is I was afraid of what it was going to look like. As bad as it hurt, I was sure I had an emergency room visit in my immediate future. The less than impressed reaction from my wife and the loss of the rest of the day while I was prodded, poked, and stitched up became a distinct possiblity.

Instead of looking at the carnage I picked up my bike and leaned on it. Jeez, seemed okay. Spun the wheels and grabbed the brake levers. Everything was a go. And I could not find one dinger anywhere. Good bike karma, bad Mike karma.

I looked up at the two samaritans and smiled. Well a sort of smiling grimace I guess. I told them I would be just fine. I just needed a moment or two to collect my wits. They both looked dubious as I remounted my bike and attacked the same little stone stepper that had caused me so much pain a few moments ago. This time I cleaned it and proceeded to punish the wounded leg as I gimped up the trail from the river.

Once I tough guyed it out of the sight of the two citizens, I pulled up. Straddling the bike, I looked down at my knee. A wave of nausea washed over me. My knee looked as if it had been through a cheese grater with very long and very sharp teeth. Blood covered my leg from the knee to the ankle. Blood dripping skin hung off the wound in shreds. Stopping at the next creek crossing, I washed it up and decided I would live. Only one cut looked deep. Everytime I pulled it open, I could see that mysterious white layer that exists just beneath the skin. What was odd and a bit discomforting was it did not hurt, but the rest of the rock rash hurt like Hell.

It's been two weeks now since I dove off that ledge. I chose to not see a doc. I hate doctors. Well, I don't hate them per se. I hate what they do to me when I come in mangled, sick, or just out of sorts. Seems like I always have to bend over, cough, or stand around in a pajama top with no butt in it while they decide what part of my body to shoot deadly x-rays at. So I decided to self medicate. I kept the cut clean. I soaked it everyday. It bled for a couple of days. Then it oozed for a couple of days. Then it scabbed over and began to itch. It looks like I will have a spiffy dent in my skin just below the knee. And if I am lucky, a good scar to lie about.

Phobis Equines de la pistolero, or Buck up mate, cuz it's too Late.

I can pick up a spider. I can fondle a snake as I escort it outside. Dead mice don't bother me. For the most part I evolved quite predictably from my puppy dog tails boyhood beginnings into the fearless when confronted with Nature guy that I am. 

But there is a flaw in my mud born personality. A minor eccentricity, fear, no, make that a full blown phobia. Pistol was his name. Looking cute and innocent just this pony's game. Inside he was a demon. An evil animal bent on throwing the fear of God into any unsuspecting child dumb enough to let Dad or Uncle Bob plop them on his back. 

I remember thinking Pistol did not look all that friendly and inviting. But with much goading they called encouragement, I allowed my butt to straddle his back. The adult let go of the halter. I sat there rigid, frozen and could not feel the reins in my tight hands. Pistol shook his mighty mane. Shifted to the right and threw his head in my direction like he was sizing me up. 

Then I squeezed my legs. Pistol lived up to his name that day. He bolted out of the barn door. Once in the open corral, he began to buck. He threw his front end up and his mane brushed my face as I just missed his taut neck. Then down and oh shit, his rear came up and off I went. The last thing I remember was watching one rear hoof as it kicked again and came straight at my head. 

 I was eight years old at the time. I learned two things that day. Never trust a horse. And never let an adult convince you to take chances without serious dig in your heels resistance. For I woke to the results of trusting both. A good size divot in my head and the relieved face of a traitorous parent. 

 For the last 46 years or so I have nursed this fear of anything equine. Worked hard to create decent distance between me and all the Pistols in this world. People have told me I am silly. Horses are easy. You just have to show em who's boss. Be forceful, aggressive but kind. Riiight. Look, I have very few if any fears of anything else out there. Please leave me alone to enjoy and savor this one little phobia. I know it is silly. I know I could overcome it. But why bother? Unlike bungee jumpin, I do have a clue of what I have missed. And I am glad I did.

The Fat Flatlander Blues

Feeling cocky and full of ourselves, Keith and I decided to take on "The Red Tail Trail' in Conway, New Hampster on our mountain bikes. Hell, we knew what hill climbing was all about. Nothing they had could be that much more extreme than our rides in the hills of southern Maine.

I was full of piss and vinegar and over confident. We parked and rode. 5 1/2 miles of climbing later we secured the top of Black Cap Mountain. The piss and vinegar was gone and I was certainly not over confident anymore. My cockiness replaced with a bit of a gut knot at the thought of getting down from here.

Our friend who had ridden here before had turned around and returned from whence he came. A wimpy 2 hour outing. A brief discussion with some gnarly dude riding an Ellsworth turned us onto a trail back that would give us a true loop. We probably should have turned around and limped back. But Keith and I pressed on. Dumb and dumber.

Instead of down, or at least a trail approaching level, we climbed some more. Wondering if I would ever get out of Granny gear, the trail finally decided to head down. It did not screw around. It went from up to down like a see saw. Hold on to your jock and keep your big butt back bud, we were in for some serious downhill action. My legs and arms were frozen hard to the bike and a big grin plastered on my face. Or was it a silent scream not able to make it out of my mouth. Serious pucker factor anyway.

A couple of miles or so into this intense downstroke I decided to stop and take stock. My body was one big knotted muscle. Riding a hardtail on this stuff made me vow to build up that new Slayer dual suspension ASAP. Shut up Keith. Yeah, yeah. I ain't the tough guy I pretend to be.

Proving that I was more than one card shy of being coherent or having a clue, I decided to check out the heat index of my disc rotors. Because I had full finger DR gloves on, I touched the edge of the rear rotor to my wrist. A word of advice. Don't do this. I now sport a 3 inch blister on my arm. Like I said earlier. Dumb and dumber. If there was any question as which one of us was dumber, it was cleared up for sure now. I will say it looks kinda cool. My wife was not impressed though. And I thought chicks dug scars. Go figure.

I need to come up with some riding lie to cover up this one.

"Dude, I was slammin her hard for a couple of miles and catching air every 20 feet. All of sudden I stacked it. The bike and I swapped ends a few times. Ended up in the pucker after mowing down a pine or two. And all I got was this burn from the rear rotor when the bike ran over me."

That one might work. Yeah right.

So I sit here after a 4 1/2 hour body bashing mind blowing ride in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. This Fat Flatlander from Maine has been put in his place. I can't wait to go back.

The Phases of My Moon

Recently I have had the opportunity to watch the moon as it passed through several of it's phases. We have been blessed with some regularly spaced clear nights. I first noticed it as it presented itself as "the fingernail moon". A name I gave the crescent phase when I was a small fry. Then some days later I looked up one evening while walking with Stub on her late night constitutional and noticed it in 1/2 phase. Tonight it hung up there close but not quite in full phase. 3/4 I guess.

And tonight I also replayed the last 3 weeks and damn if I did not come up with a kind of correlation to my mood swings or bio-rhythms of the last few weeks. I tend to fall into funks. Some would call them depressions, but I have not been able to completely accept or admit to being saddled with that particular problem. I guess if some shrink were to assess my outlook and approach to Life, they would check off the box next to depressive tendencies. But I don't think so. I just get down more than some folks. Denial is such a wonderful tool to use to disown the obvious. I love it.

Anyway, I also considered the popular belief that people tend to get manic when the Moon is full. There are all sorts of references that pop up throughout our culture. I weighed the phases against my most recent energy flows and noticed that during the early birth of the new Moon I was somewhat ambivalent, go with the flow, put one foot in front of the other and not think too deeply about anything. And then just as the moon presented half a face, I fell into a funk and stayed there until yesterday. I did what I had to. I worked at my bike shop, I rode my bike. Null and Void, I went through the motions. My riding was below average. My attention span at the shop was detached at best and I felt like being a nasty tempered jerk. I resisted that urge and I think I came through without putting too many people off.

Today I hit the bike shop ready for another day of low expectations fueled by a lack of enthusiasm. But the day would not allow me this pleasure. I had not the time to work on that low self-esteem thing I get into on a regular basis. From the time I set foot into the shop until 9:30 PM, I was balls to the wall. I multitasked, holding hands, twisting wrenches, selling product and talking on the phone. There were not too many minutes when I was not attempting to cater to 3 or 4 consumers at one time. The day became a juggling act. Many balls in the air at one time. I became Manic Man. Pumped, stoked and energized.

When I got home and stepped out of the truck at 11:30, I looked up and there was the old man in the Moon hanging out and dialing in his full frontal exposure. I wonder if that myth or old wives tale about the full moon and people getting wacky might not have some merit. I should be wasted and ready to fall comatose in bed. Yet, I am here punching these keys wide eyed and bushy tailed. I am a tad concerned about how I will feel and act when the Moon goes full tilt boogie. It will be interesting to pay attention as we move towards the Full Moon. If the mania increases, I will have more respect for some of the old truisms passed down through the ages.

But then I could just be a manic depressive and the whole moon thing is coincidental. Naw. It has to be the Moon. Remember, denial needs supporting information and facts in order to work it's magic. And I need to find them wherever I can.

176

Because I had nothing better to do, or because I was avoiding anything that would have been better to do, I just counted up the posts in my blog. This post is number 176. Not necessarily an important marker, nor does it indicate a remarkable dedication to blogging for 1 1/2 years. But in the scheme of my helter skelter jump from one thing to the next type personality, it does show that I am capable of sticking with something for the long term. I have posted in every month since December 2004. For this I feel a small sense of pride.

I know in the world of blogging, I am a lightweight. Certainly in quantity and most likely in quality also. But as the gnarly dude next to me at the starting line of a mountain bike race back in the 80's said to me when I confided my feelings of inferiority at racing, "Dude, there will always be someone faster and there will always be someone slower. Just enjoy the ride."

Women

For some reason I have been thinking of women lately. The classic women as objects of desire type thoughts is not what I am talking about. I have been considering women, men, and the world they have created for each other. Why two sexes? Wouldn't it have been a saner approach to have made us hermaphrodites. A lot of conflict and discontent could have been avoided if we just split in two once in awhile. No muss, no fuss. One sex, one direction. No erections or dysfunctions. Life would sure be damn sight easier to figure out without another sex to screw up the program.

Of course we are what we are. Two alien species forced to cohabitate, fornicate, struggling to relate. Sexual tension, Sugar and spice, vive la difference. Without the women, men would be SOL. But something tells me, without men, women would be able to function just fine. They only keep us around to do the heavy lifting.

I like women. I find their presence to be generally a positive thing. That is as long as I am not in their cross hairs. I would rather face a mob intent on lynching me than face the evil eye of my wife after being caught stupid. And even though after 25 plus years of marriage I should know better, I continue to compromise my safety on a regular basis. There is always some new stupid trick I have to pull. Ever watchful and on guard, my darling snookums is waiting with bated breath to pounce and lay me open.

I could rightfully protest that I am not always the bonehead. That oftentimes she is too quick to pull the trigger over events and circumstances that are not my doing. Shit happens. But unfortunately, my track record is so dismal, she refuses to give me the benefit of the doubt anymore. That honeymoon was over 20 years ago.

So I am resigned now to the fact that everything is my fault. Even the stupidity of my brethren. The War in Iraq, the recent mine explosions, and all the toilet seats left up in all the homes in all of the World. I have decided that there are two sexes for a very good reason. One sex gets the blame and one sex fixes blame. A match made in heaven. Without men, women would have no one to blame. Without women, men would have no one to piss off.

Random Scraps

Lunatics rule, the rest of us drool
Lunatics run amok. Scattering the quiet and calm in every direction. They stand up and scream for the sake of the noise made. They attack our senses and rattle our souls. Hammering nonsense into directives and rules. They focus on the ridiculous and bend our wills to stupid endeavors. And all the while we are distracted by their manic gyrations, the real threats loom. Growing silently patiently waiting for their turn at the front.

Okie Overdrive
Dropping down out of the mountains, I shift into okie overdrive. 70,000 pounds of 18 wheeled momentum gathers steam and I grin as the speedometer creeps up to 90. I hold the wheel loosely, letting the truck find it's own way down the three lane wide super slab. The scenery picks up the pace as it zips by my window. But wait. Oh shit! Some curves ahead. Hugging the inside of the first turn, my hands tighten on the wheel as the truck begins an 18 wheel drift to the outside. A foot of space and a puny guardraill is all that pretends to protect me from a 200 hundred foot bummer of a plunge. Just as I begin to think it is about time to revisit my past and make peace with my maker, the road curves back and I jam hard into it and ride it out. Easing on the brakes, I pass the bail outs at 80 still out of control. One more curve and another drift toward the abyss. Cannot brake now. Cannot engage the tranny, I hang on and hope those new radials live up to their rep. I try the trailer brake. All I see in my mirror is smoke and I have to let up. The road straightens up and I try to find high gear. Grind the gears, double clutch, touch the brake, grind the ...finally the shifter hooks up. Whew!, I ease her down, shift down, and as the engine screams in pain I slow down. The road flattens into the valley floor. Shaking, I pull over to the shoulder and stop. I check my britches. I also check off that stupid trick from my list of fun things to try.

No rose colored glasses here. I almost paid the highest price for being stupid on that night run from Vegas to LA back in 1977.

The Blue Jay
I wanted to kill that fucking Blue Jay. It pounced on that poor sparrow and began pecking it to death. I rushed to the rescue but pulled up short. My emotional knee jerk reaction turned to resignation at the brutality of the natural world. I chased the Jay away and peered down at that poor young sparrow. One wing obviously mangled and useless, it gazed at me from a bloodied eye socket. The eye now in the Jays stomach I guessed. Nothing I could do. Let nature run its course. I turned and walked away. Looking back, I watched a crow that must have been hanging around swoop in and take it. With a small taste of satisfaction I grinned crookedly and thought, "Well, at least that damn Blue Jay didn't get it."

The rest of the day, the violent end of the sparrow popped into my thoughts. I was not sure why it affected me so. But the lesson of that food chain moment had made a point. A rerun of sorts on how the World really works. Life is never secure or truly safe. Hazards exist and predators lurk.

The Future is a Chain reaction

Our response to the recent spike in energy prices has me chuckling at the irony of it all. What a bunch of morons our population is when it comes to facing the reality they should have known was coming 40 years ago. Everyone is in a panic to find a way out of a future that seems inevitable. As is our tendency, once again we seem to only look to short term solutions rather than taking the time to think long term. I don't deny that quick fix alternatives and answers are needed, but more planning and thought needs to be done for the long haul. It always is needed but rarely do we show that kind of wisdom.

Regardless, recent events and future ones will force Americans to change their lifestyles. Our conspicuous consumption will be replaced by a more conservation minded mentality. As the price of energy skyrockets, so will the price of even the cheap crap we love to buy. I have seen it in the bike business already. Anyone who buys metal of any kind knows what I am talking about. These higher prices affect everyone, even the manufacturers of cheap junk in Asia.

I predict Americans will begin to spend less on impulse items and be more discerning about what they do buy. Pricing will still remain competitive, but quality will begin to make a comeback. The days of the throwaway lawn mower are numbered. Once we have dropped our consuming for consuming sake lifestyle, the effect on the World economy will be dramatic. The economic spike in China will cool somewhat and everyone will back it off a notch. The World cannot continue to consume on such huge scales. Or we can, and our descendants will be cursing us 100 years from now.

I will admit that it is hard to get fired up about what might be 100 years from now. My future plans get real fuzzy beyond the immediate future of my daughter and what she might have to deal with. But the future is a chain reaction. What we do today has a direct relation to what happens every day beyond this one. Instead of playing lip service to the future we hope for our children, we should put words to action now to ensure it.