Dear Doctor Wally...

This is Wally's column from the Red Dirt Pedalers "Wheel Issues."

Dear Dr. Wally

wally

I was riding home from school a few days ago when a car ran a stop sign and almost hit me. The driver never even looked my way since he was holding a cell phone to his ear. What can we do to protect ourselves from distracted drivers?

Shaken in Choteau

Dear Shakey

I'll forgo the usual snark and give it to you straight - short of staying off the public roads, there's little we can do to protect ourselves from distracted drivers. Obviously, we need to stay alert and be aware of our surroundings in all directions. A rear view mirror is a good long-range warning device, but in close we need to both look and listen.

Traveling on the public way involves a kind of social compact. We each exercise due care, that is, we look out for ourselves and others, and we assume that all other road users are doing the same. When they do not, as in the case of your self-absorbed driver and his cell phone, we're angry and frustrated because that person is being irresponsible.

Sadly, however, when the injured party is a cyclist, there's a tendency to blame the victim. "He should have known that cycling is dangerous! He shouldn't have been on that busy road, even if he was on the shoulder." Police, prosecutors, and judges exhibit this anti-cycling bias far too frequently.

But there is some good news, and that's the simple fact that road cycling isn't particularly dangerous when we follow the rules of the road. That means obeying traffic control devices, riding with traffic, and using lights and reflectors if we ride at night. All of this stacks the odds in our favor. It can't eliminate risk, but it goes a long way toward minimizing it.

Dr. Wally

Next month: A cyclist's guide to surviving the zombie apocalypse.

Ask Dr. Wally

Dear Dr. Wally

My auto mechanic filled my tires with 100% nitrogen, claiming that the tires lose pressure more slowly and that gives better mileage. Should I do the same with my bicycle tires?

Curious in Coweta

Dear Curious

Do not fill your tires with nitrogen! Straight, 100% nitrogen is a poison! Instead, go to your local bike shop and ask for imported air. The hipsters are using Fiji air, but that's merely a fad. Better products are available from France and Italy, where fresh air is collected from some of the famous mountain stages in the Tour de France and the Giro. This makes your bike more than 10% faster, so bike shops employees often want to keep it for their own use. Go to your local shop and insist on imported air.

Don't let them bait-and-switch you into accepting any of those cheap CO2 cartridges, either. They're full of stale CO2 from New Jersey and they often infect your tires with Vittoria beetles.

Dr. Wally

Wally's weight loss system

I'm in a heap of trouble and I haven't even done anything. Wally just left. My house is in turmoil. And She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed is somewhat frosty. It'll be a cold night in Broken Elbow.

Wally breezed in about half an hour ago. He still hasn't replaced his bike because we haven't made a shopping trip to the various bike shops yet. I think he's working on disguises because he's well known at some of them. It's a long story for another time. He's been reduced to getting around on foot.

Like I said, he just walked in the door and announced the latest in a series of hare-brained schemes. As usual, he wanted my help, but this time I simply can't do it. Oh, I'd like to because the research would be fascinating, but it could lead to an early demise.

Put simply, Wally wants to open a weight loss clinic. Seriously, a weight loss clinic. He got the idea from a television commercial. I suppose we should be grateful that he doesn't watch late night infomercials like that Sham-Wow bilge, though to be honest, 'sham' does turn up in many of his schemes. No, this time he saw one of those lap band devices that encircles the stomach and causes the wearer to feel full sooner.

Wally's fertile imagination, however, made an intuitive leap. His idea is legal in most states, and since he's not a medical doctor, it's one that wouldn't require any medical experience, a license, or a shred of ethics. Wally wants to promote a lap dance weight loss system.

I know, I know, it's kind of creepy. He explained that it would involve "highly trained lap dance specialists" who would increase a client's respiration and heart rates, thereby promoting weight loss. I felt a chill run down my back. He wanted me to go with him to interview several prospective "clinicians" this evening. Suddenly, there were two chills on my back, both of them emanating from the laser-like focus of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. I didn't have to turn around to know that She stood in the hall doorway, her eyes boring icy holes in my back. I didn't dare to move for fear She would pounce and slice me to shreds.

I stammered some apologies to Wally. He left. She retreated down the hallway, but left a few of her familiars behind, cleverly disguised as domesticated cats. The furry little tattletales would report my every move. I settled back into my chair with a book, but my thoughts revolved around Wally's 'research.' I'll have to stay very close to home for the next week or two.

On the campaign trail with Wally Crankset

BROKEN ELBOW METEOR NEWS
KARMA OKLAHOMA
1SEP2008

WALLY CRANKSET NARROWLY ESCAPES ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT

Democratic vice presidential hopeful, Dr. Walter Crankset narrowly avoided an assassination attempt earlier today. An onlooker at his campaign stop here in Karma threw an improvised explosive device toward the candidate. She was identified as Wanda Sue Neidermeier of Broken Elbow, Dr. Crankset's fourth or fifth ex-wife, who is alleged to have made several attempts on his life previously. Dr. Crankset was delivering a speech in yet another abandoned Sinclair station when Ms. Neidermeier threw an aerosol can of Febreeze with a burning M-80 attached. Apparently she believed the contents would ignite and form a huge fireball engulfing the candidate. Febreeze, however, is not flammable.

The M-80, a large and powerful version of a firecracker, exploded and allowed the contents of the aerosol can to vent. Mrs. Edna Millay, Democratic Committee Chair in Karma, said that the old Sinclair station had never smelled so nice. “It's like a breath of fresh air,” she said, “with only a tiny hint of old motor oil. It's a real improvement!”

When asked, Dr. Crankset declined to press charges. “Wanda is a little excitable,” he said. “She has a good heart and this just shows that she still cares about me. If she'd wanted to do some harm, she'd have brought her pistol along. That woman's a fine shot.”

Dr. Crankset's security detail surrounded him closely for the remainder of his time in Karma. It still has not been confirmed that they are a detail from the US Secret Service as it is an all-female security squad. This unusual group has been dubbed as the 'Amazons' by some local interests opposed to the Crankset campaign.

The CycleDog Research Laboratory...

Just outside Broken Elbow, Oklahoma, there's a nondescript one story brick building tucked away in a huge industrial park. The sign out front says Broken Elbow Consulting Associates. It's a genuine, money-making business, run by some of the best minds in the area, namely me and Wally Crankset. We consult on a wide variety of jobs, though to be perfectly honest, consulting doesn't provide much income. The real money comes from the CycleDog research lab carefully hidden within the building. Much of our work there is classified and cannot be discussed with the public. Please join us for a rare tour of the facility.

Wally led the way.

“Just this once, we're allowing visitors to do a walking tour of the laboratory.” Wally pronounces it in the English fashion - la-BORE-a-tory. “This is where our ideas come from, some good, some bad, and some destined never to see the light of day. Please don't take any photographs and be careful about touching anything. Be especially careful about eating or drinking anything that may appear to be edible. We've lost a few interns that way.”

“The front offices are occupied by our administrators and engineering staff. Through those double doors at the end of the hall there's an airlock that leads into the lab itself. I'll enter the security code so we can all pass through.“

“As you can see, the main lab building is large enough to be an aircraft hanger, though 3 of the 4 levels are below ground. Just follow me along this catwalk.”

“On our right, there's a Pseudo-Random Association Generator churning out ideas that may or may not have some connection to each other. Sometimes it's hard to tell. This is where the Bolivia Newton John idea got started, as well as some lesser known ones. High school boys are the biggest customers for this generator's output. It's a consistent money earner. Technicians enter names and phrases from a wide variety of sources, including newspapers, magazines, television and radio broadcasts, as well as more obscure material from bloggers and failed comedians. Once, we made the mistake of feeding it some Henny Youngman one-liners and the EPA shut us down for a week. It's powered by over-worked imagination hyped with caffeine on the positive side, and anger, frustration, and irony on the negative. The trick is to combine them in just the right balance that stays mostly on the satire side with few excursions into sarcasm.”

“The next level down is the Copy Room where an infinite number of monkeys hammer out text. Please don't go in. They're highly excitable and their hygiene is non-existent. The stench is appalling, but gosh can they can write! If you look in through this little window set into the door, you can see that the whole copy room is powered by bicycle driven generators. In fact, they provide electrical power to all the labs. When you have an infinite number of monkeys pedaling an infinite number of bicycles, the power output is staggering.”

“Across the hall is the Rant-O-Lator room. I'm very proud to tell you that we use a steam operated Rant-O-Lator from the late nineteenth century. Unlike the more modern versions, this one delivers smooth diatribes free of the profanities that make contemporary rants so lumpy and unsatisfying, though it tends to use obsolete Victorian expressions. It's down for a much needed overhaul right now, and frankly it's getting difficult to find parts. We just finished a big production run commissioned by Faux News and it was a heavy load on the machine. We hope to have it up and running again well before the presidential primaries start early next year.”

Wally held open a door. “This next room contains our dialog generator. Come on inside. I think it's working on my lines today. It's really a three stage process. The raw text arrives over here. Then it's fed to a socializing filter that cleans it up considerably before it goes to publication.” One of the women picked up some raw copy, blanched, and then turned bright red with embarrassment. Later, I caught her eying Wally with a speculative look.

“Final quality control is performed by an audio process to see that the dialog sounds as natural as possible.” Wally's voice came out of an overhead speaker:


“There's some guy out in the bar who says his name is Ford Prefect and he's buying everyone drinks. I don't think he's from around here.”




“I could wear a Santa suit to the meeting”, Wally offered.
“No”, I replied. “It's probably not a good idea.”



“It has all the intellectual challenge of a comic book.”




"She has everything he looks for in a woman."
"A pulse?"




"I know we don't see eye-to-eye. We could, but then I'd have to squat down to your level."




“Well”, Wally opined, “we've been endorsed by BLAMBLA. I think they're an offshoot of the NRA. I got a phone call from them that had lots of heavy breathing and a message about how they LOVE their guns. Kinda creepy, really.”




"His brain is a treasure-trove of the useless and obsolete, a vast suppository of information."




“Down here on the lowest level there's only one room, and it's the entrance to Hell. The place is tightly packed with ex-wives, dentists, used car salesmen, and my short tempered fifth grade teacher. Occasionally one of the used car guys escapes, but they usually settle down if someone reads from the NADA blue book or some other fairy tales. If one of the ex-wives escapes, we have to evacuate the building. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' or something like that. Most of these people are copy writers too.”

“You might wonder why we have our own private entrance to Hell, but I'll tell you straight out, it's very useful. Some of the most insidious and subversively funny ideas come from here, like Walking 101 or the upcoming satire based on Les Miserables. These guys really crack me up, though that's tempered with the occasional blood-curdling scream that echoes through the whole building. Well, it's still Hell, after all.”

“We'll take the elevator back up to the main floor. I want to thank all of you for taking the tour today. I assure you that some of what you've seen and heard will be incorporated into upcoming posts on CycleDog, and remember, a smiling reader is our most important product!”


-----------------------------------------------------------------------

I hate having a good idea and not having the time to put it down on paper. All too often, the idea slips away, never to return. There are days I ride to work chuckling at a wonderfully funny story line, only to have it evaporate before I can write it down. Sometimes I'll have a good one and I'll do some research to support it, only to be distracted for a time. Oh, I still have the supporting arguments, but the unifying idea is long gone. My files have far too many incomplete texts.



Likewise with dialog. I come up with some funny lines, but can't find anyplace to use them. So I keep snippets in a file, hoping that they'll find a home someday. Most of the Wally Crankset stories begin with a single idea that drives some of the dialog. I'll use the snippets and write more around them. It's almost like connecting the dots, as a list of ideas gets fleshed out with connecting verbiage.



It's obvious that this post uses some of those orphaned snippets.



What's the difference between satire and sarcasm? Satire attacks human folly or vice by using irony or derision. Sarcasm is mockery or contemptuous irony intended to wound. Note that both satire and sarcasm use irony, so it's more a difference of degree rather than type. I try to strike that balance, sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

Do they watch game shows in Hell?...Part Three

The first two parts of this were posted in May, so I've included links to them. My apologies for taking so long to complete it. Besides the usual level of procrastination, I've been up against those pesky obligations of work and family, but once I was able to remember my children's names again, family life settled down. The piece is long at 2500 words.

You didn't think I would leave Wally wandering in the desert, did you?

(Link to Part One)

(Link to Part Two)

Do they watch game shows in Hell? Part Three.

The Revelations of Wally of Arabia

Months passed. Wally disappeared after making his escape from jail. Various law enforcement agencies stopped by my house, trying to find any leads to his whereabouts, but the visits eventually tapered off. A steady stream of young women called or dropped by as well, but they were less frequent as the weeks and months passed. Some of them were far more persistent than the cops. I wondered about their motives, but was afraid to ask.

Winter changed to a pleasant spring, and spring gave way to summer's heat. The cicadas buzzed incessantly from every direction. Between the heat and the whining, I was about to go barking mad. Sleep was almost nonexistent. My kids just turned up their music to drown out the bugs. It's quite possible I was going deaf from all the noise.

Just after dusk one evening, the doorbell rang. There was a short pause and it rang again. I wandered out to the living room to answer it. Apparently no one else in the house could hear the bell over all the tribal music. They could hear a telephone ring at 200 meters, but not a doorbell. I've often wondered why they don't have teenagers doing the track and field events in the Olympics. An average teen could out-sprint any professional athlete if it meant answering a telephone before the third ring.

A Bedouin stood on my doorstep. But on second glance, I realized Bedouins probably don't wear colorful fitted sheets. This one more closely resembled a drunk Shriner on a tight budget.

He stood there blinking into the lights, a thin, hard-looking man who looked vaguely like Wally. His eyes appeared to be sunken into his cheeks and he had the deepest tan I'd ever seen. But he grinned hugely and said, “It's good to be home again! I mostly hitch-hiked but the further I got from California, the fewer rides I received. I walked most of the way across Oklahoma.” Had I seen him walking down the road dressed like that, I wouldn't have picked him up either.

It really was Wally! I looked up and down the street to see in any cops were parked nearby.

“Where have you been?” I asked. “The police have been here looking for you. So have a bunch of women. Are you OK?” I hustled him inside.

“I'm fine now,” he said. “I was living in a kind of commune out in the desert. We got up in the morning and worked in the fields until it got too hot. My job was to haul water from the well. Then we spent the middle of the day in what they called spiritual learning. It was all about self-reliance and being resolute in the face of adversity. I swear they got all that stuff off the Lifetime Network and daytime television. We lived on rice, lentils, and tea. If I never see another lentil, I'll be a happy man.”

He went on describing his time in the commune. It sounded like a hard way of life, scratching food out of desert soil. But while he made light of the labor and mocked the attitudes of some of the people, I could see that the time had a profound effect on my friend. He learned self-denial by living with people who had no more than him. Wally liked to indulge in good food and drink, but in the desert there was none to be had. For the first time in his adult life, he'd fallen on hard times and it had an undeniable impact. Some people would have become angry and bitter, but not Wally. He actually engaged in some introspection for once, and he'd developed a self-deprecating style of humor. His stay in the desert wasn't a loss.

He started talking about the jail break. “So after I dumped the catering truck, I walked for a couple of miles, but walking makes you look instantly suspicious in California. I found some kid's mountain bike laying in the yard, swiped his Mom's laundry from the line, and lashed it all to the bike. I took a straw hat from a trash can, too, just so people would think I was an immigrant riding off to do laundry. I figured I could cross the desert by riding at night and hiding out during the day. I used one of the stolen sheets as an awning. I made this outfit from the other. It's good protection from the sun, but it looks kinda funny.”

I couldn't agree more.

Wally said, “I rode that mountain bike just off one of the highways, out of sight of the headlights. It was a good plan until I wandered a bit too far from the road and got lost. You remember all that stuff about surviving in the desert that I said I'd learned from movies? It's all bunk. I thought I was gonna die until I blundered into that commune.”

“They welcomed me like a long-lost brother. The group consisted of 5 men and 8 women who've been living in the desert for years. They're tough, savvy folks. They're deeply religious but oddly reluctant to talk about it. I wasn't too concerned, at first, because I needed a place to hide out. Besides, they, um, adapted to hot days and cold nights by changing their clothes a couple of times during the day. At mid-day when the heat was most intense, they stripped down to almost nothing.”

I could well understand the appeal this had for Wally, especially in light of the male-to-female ratio.

He went on. “They were very friendly and open, for the most part. One of the women had that lean and hungry look. You know the one. Such women are dangerous and should be watched.” Wally was attracted to dangerous women and he'd watch them as closely as possible. Sometimes this led to restraining orders. At others it had led to marriage.

“After the third month, they allowed me into the inner sanctuary. All that time I'd thought they were some sort of Buddhists or one of the other eastern religions, though they were awfully tight lipped about it. Most cults are downright chatty about trying to convert us unbelievers, but not that bunch. When they finally took me inside, it wasn't a statue of a fat, smiling Buddha. It was a fat, smiling Dick Cheney! That's when I knew I had to escape. I'd fallen into the clutches of some weird Republican cult! I took off as soon as it got dark.”

He talked about spiritual learning, higher powers, and the mystic possibilities inherent in spending a night under the desert stars. During a long soliloquy on the cultivation and preparation of lentils, I must have drifted off until Wally said, “But she left me when I dove into a cheeseburger with everything. I'll miss her. You got anything to eat?” We went out to the kitchen for some sandwiches. Mary wandered in, saw Wally and exclaimed, “Wally! You're home!” in that happy tone that women use, but in an instant it turned to that other, far more accusatory one that I hear all too often. “Just where have you been?” He had to explain himself all over again.

I offered Wally a bed at our house for the night. His apartment had already been leased to new tenants when the landlord hadn't heard from him, and the rent hadn't been paid. Most of Wally's possessions were piled up on the curb, where I rescued what I could from his marauding horde of neighbors. At least I saved all his bicycles, tools, and parts. His collection of exotic, wildly colorful boxer shorts sat on the curb for weeks.

He tried to report back to work at the University of Northeastern Oklahoma extension campus in Broken Elbow. But when he showed up, they immediately fired him. He was told to report to the human resources department. Maurice Brinton Steelgrave III, the HR weenie, said Wally had “besmirched the august reputation of the extension campus and defiled its image far and wide”. He went on like that for nearly an hour while the faculty assembled outside his office. Now, the Broken Elbow extension campus is completely unknown over in the next county, so the 'far and wide' nonsense was nothing more than hyperbole. Maurice the Weenie was a big fish in a small pond and he relished the role. He had wanted to fire Wally for a long time, and the extended absence offered the perfect opportunity. Of course, this may have had something to do with Wally dating Ivana, the former Mrs. Steelgrave and the weenie's ex-wife, but her name was never mentioned. Eventually, he got around to saying that Wally was to be “summarily dismissed with extreme prejudice” which is ivory-tower-speak for a ceremony in which the assembled tenured professors removed Wally's mortarboard and ritually broke each of its corners before placing it back atop his head. They cut his tassel in half. As he was frog-marched out of the building, the professors symbolically turned their backs, then lifted their gowns and mooned him. If you've ever wondered what they wear under those caps and gowns, in all honesty, you're better off not knowing. I'm told this is far from a universal collegiate drumming-out ceremony, but it's how things are done here in Broken Elbow.

Three days later, Steelgrave complained of an overpowering stench in his office. He found a couple of raw chicken wings decomposing under his desk. But the stink didn't go away. That afternoon, university maintenance workers discovered a rotting chicken cleverly hidden inside the air conditioning duct. Wally was the prime suspect, though nothing could be proved. The maintenance guys bought him several rounds of drinks down at Larry's Cafe. They didn't like the weenie, either.

That Saturday evening, we went out for a walk along my street. An occasional car passed by. Wally had his bobbed tassel dangling from a finger. He eyed it morosely. “I really liked that job,” he said. “I got to hang around in the library without getting yelled at. I did research into all manner of interesting things, and I had a lovely office in the old faculty building. It had bookshelves and leaded glass windows. It was a place with character, not some anonymous cubicle in a building that resembles a Velveeta cheese box!”

As we reached the corner, I tried to distract him. “What happened with the American Idolatry show? You never did tell me about that.” Wally didn't even look up. He continued staring at the remains of his tassel as he stepped off the curb.

That's when the car hit him. Wally flew across the sidewalk and landed unconscious in Mr. Presley's favorite topiary, a finely sculpted hedge that looked like a thorny, green hound dog. (Yes, THAT Mr. Presley, but it's a story for another time.)

The Neidermeier twins, Jenny and Bambi, were out for a cruise in Bambi's new hybrid. Absorbed as we were in our conversation, we never heard it coming down the street. Wally simply stepped right in front of the car and I would have joined him if I hadn't been half a step slower. The twins, lusty in body and vacuous in thought, bunted him a good 20 feet. The doors flew open and they leaped out of the car. As usual, they were dressed provocatively in a way that would make Daisy Duke blush.

“Is he dead?-Does he need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?-Do you know first aid?-Who is he?-What about my car?-Is he bleeding?-Is he dead?-Why did he step in front of me?-Where did he get that tan?” The twins fired off a continuous string of questions, observations, and off-the-wall comments. They were slightly hysterical, but only slightly. Their normal demeanor was nearly so, anyway. Jenny completed Bambi's sentences. Bambi asked questions that Jenny repeated seconds later. As a rule, they avoided Wally and his friends, but since I was married and therefore a little bit more respectable, they'd talk with me in that polite but distant way women reserve for harmless old men. But Wally's reputation preceded him and they point blank refused to talk to him.

“It's Wally Crankset”, I said. “He's been away for a while on a kind of, um, spiritual pilgrimage in the desert.” It was difficult to talk with either of the twins and keep looking at their eyes. They tended to wiggle unnervingly as they talked. Sure, I may have been an old man to their way of thinking, but I wasn't dead yet.

“Spiritual?-I thought he looked different.-Is he dead?-Is there a desert around here?-Is he hurt badly?-Should we call 911?” My eyes hurt from bouncing back and forth between their identical blue ones.

But that last question got my attention. If they called for an ambulance, the Broken Elbow Police were bound to show up and investigate. I didn't know if Wally was still a fugitive from California justice, and it didn't seem to be a good time to find out. I was pretty sure Chief Fred wouldn't care, but Deputy Ethel would hand Wally over to the California authorities if he had any chance.

Wally moaned. “Oh you poor man!” one of them exclaimed. Before I could stop them, they lifted him out of the hedge and bundled him into the car. Frankly, I was surprised because under all the curves and assorted wiggles, both women were very strong and perfectly capable of lifting his weight. They sped off toward the emergency room. I gave up trying to understand women a very long time ago, eventually coming around to the idea that I'm the only sane person on the planet. Everyone else is stark, raving mad. While it's not strictly true, of course, it's an idea that has greatly simplified my life.

I ran home, got in the car, and drove to the hospital. The doc said Wally had a mild concussion. He was conscious, but they decided to keep him overnight for observation. The twins hovered in his room, plumping his pillow, holding his hand, and even spoon feeding him. They glared at any nurses with the effrontery to enter the room. Wally just took it all in stride, because the effects of the concussion had given him the emotional depth of a Steven Segall movie, which is a polite way of saying his mind was an especially shallow pond at the moment. I checked to see that he was OK while the twin lionesses stared holes into my back, then made my exit.

A week later, I found Wally in the public library researching information on polygamous marriages. I wanted to shout – are you out of your mind? But what good would it do?

Tuesday Musette

A brief word about links...

You'll notice there isn't a long list of links in the sidebar here at CycleDog. Those I've included have been notable in some way, whether it's the quality of the writing, the timeliness of the information, or wealth of knowledge to be gained. These are not the only blog posts I read. Far from it, in fact.

I use Bloglines to aggregate posts from a wide variety of cyclists, journalists, and businesses. The big advantage for me is that I don't have to fiddle with the code on the CycleDog template, and I can add or remove sources very easily. Bloglines has an “Add via Bloglines” button that goes on the toolbar, making the addition of new blogs a simple affair. Trust me, I like simple. There's less for me to screw up! One other benefit of Bloglines is that it's easy to see if there's any new content without having to click on a bunch of links.

So if you don't see your blog listed on the CycleDog sidebar, please go look in Bloglines.

Training opportunity...

My supervisor came by earlier today to tell me that I may be going to Florida for training on some new test equipment. Most likely this will happen in a few months. I haven't been to Florida since I was 10, so I'm kinda looking forward to it. But the training may be for as much as 2 weeks, and since I'm a homebody at heart, I'm not too keen on that. More as this develops.

Tulsa Tough Do-Betters...

Mike Schooling is compiling a list of do-betters for next year's Tulsa Tough. I've developed a short list of items, but I'm sure there are many more. In fact, if anyone has something they'd like to see done better on a big charity ride or a tour, feel free to add to my list in the comments.

Teach how to hand off water bottles. Volunteers at the the Sunday rest stop opened water bottles and removed the caps. Many bottles were dropped during the hand-offs, and we were lucky that no one fell by running over one. Also, if at all possible, rest stops should be located on uphills or the tops of hills where riders will be going slowly.

Enlist the cooperation of law enforcement. Rumors of mass ticketing followed the event. Did this actually happen? Regardless, riders need to be briefed that all traffic laws are to be followed. Additionally, by asking for law enforcement assistance at some tricky turns or crossings, we reduce the likelihood of over-zealous enforcement of the law by some of our less informed law enforcement professionals, or even the Tulsa County Sheriffs Office.

Test radio and cellular communications from rest stops prior to event. Amateur radio contact was difficult from Ochelata, and cellular telephone was spotty, depending on the service provider.

Develop a webpage to aggregate links that mention Tulsa Tough. I'm using a search function on Bloglines that looks for “Tulsa Tough” in any blog posts. This may be of limited use for participants, but it would centralize the information for media and any other interested parties. Would live blogging offer any PR benefits?

List emergency numbers for each rest stop by responding agency/police/fire/ambulance. Have GPS coordinates for rest stops. Air ambulance services use GPS to locate landing zones. In Ochelata, for instance, emergency response depends on local volunteer firemen and paramedics. We could shorten response time by alerting them in advance of the ride dates and approximate times, as well as having local contact numbers.

Could a course map developed from GPS data provide an elevation profile? One of the bloggers, a Colorado cyclist formerly from Oklahoma, noted with some astonishment that the Tulsa Tough routes included 4000 feet of climbing. Including statistics developed from GPS route information may bring in more cyclists, and in some cases, will discourage those who aren't fit enough. It may be possible to include this information via Google maps, but I'm not proficient in their use.

And finally....

Don't think I've forgotten about my best friend Wally Crankset, wandering alone (maybe) across the Mojave Desert. The story is in outline form. All I need is one day of over-caffeinated inspiration to finish it.

Do they watch game shows in Hell?...Part Two

A Wally Crankset Tale

The call came in the middle of the night. I hate those late night phone calls because they always bring bad news. This one was no exception.

“Wally? Is that you?” I asked, knowing he was the most likely suspect.

“Yeah”, he whispered. “It's me. I need you help. What's the terrain like going east toward Las Vegas?”

It was a typical Wally question. No apology for waking me at 3AM. No explanation of where he was or why he needed the information.

“Wally, I think you have one mountain range and the Mojave desert. You're not planning to ride a bike there, are you?” It would be lunacy, but remember, I was talking with Wally.

“Well, yeah, that was kinda my plan – after I break out of this jail.”

“What! You're in jail and you're gonna break out! Are you out of your mind? What happened?” It all came out in a jumble. Mary was awake too. As quickly as I asked a question she asked another one. I had Wally stammering in one ear and an irate spouse demanding answers in the other one. My consciousness played ping-pong inside my head, alternately concentrating on both voices.

“...a third of the women have boob jobs, so I said to her...”

“What's he doing in jail?” Mary asked.

“...and they have nicer jail cells too, and better food, though I'm not really a fan of tofu...”

“Did he get on American Idolatry? Did he meet Alex at least? What's he like?”

“I'm planning to escape in the catering truck.”

My mind seized on it like a drowning man on a life raft. Conversations with Wally were often led to crossroads where all the turnings went to Very Bad Places. I tried to choose the least threatening one. “Catering truck? They have catering in prison?”

“It's California, remember. The caterers are all stoners. I'll stay up all night so my eyes are nice and red, steal one of their uniforms and ride right out with them. “

“Won't they notice the extra guy?”

“They're stoners!” He changed the subject. “There's a woman in here who looks exactly like Paris Hilton. She's begging to have my children.”

“Ah, that probably is Paris Hilton there, pal. Don't do anything stupid.” Please, please, please, I silently prayed. In the history of all things Wally, he'd done some monumentally stupid things, but the idea of making a jail break with Paris Hilton in tow would have exceeded all of them by several orders of magnitude.

“Paris Hilton? He met Paris Hilton?” Mercifully, she went silent, aghast at the unpleasant possibilities. I could just about make out the words going through her mind. In an earlier, more restrained time, 'hussy' would have been one of them. These words were far less polite, yet she was too genteel to utter them. Sometimes you have to admire a woman who won't say what she's thinking. It's rare, but it happens.

Wally switched subjects again. “How far is Nevada? I thought about going south into Mexico, but I think the Federales are still looking for me, and I already know what Mexican jails are like.”

This was a new revelation, an untouched chapter in his life. Wally hid somewhere in Mexico while one of his ex-wives stalked him with murderous intent, but I never knew he'd run afoul of the Mexican police. Again, my mind grabbed for a life raft, seized on the distance to Nevada, and coughed up an answer.

“I think it's about 250, maybe 300 miles. But that's across the desert, Wally, and you've never been there.”

“Piece of cake. I've seen lots of desert movies. If I can't steal the catering truck, I'll steal a bike or something. A bike would be a good idea because everyone here is so wrapped up in their cars, they simply won't see me escaping on a bicycle. Gotta go.”

“Wait! Movies? You're gonna try to cross a desert based on what you know from movies? Are you outta your mind?” This last was almost a required question during any conversation with Wally. And he was going to steal a bicycle? This from a guy who once proposed hanging bicycle thieves up by their thumbs.

The line was dead. It switched to a dial tone as I stared into the handset, my mouth hanging open. My best friend thought of himself as Wally of Arabia, and he was about to become a fugitive from California justice.

Do they watch game shows in Hell?

A Wally Crankset Tale

I sat down at the computer planning to write a piece about the Cat-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, one of the kittens we adopted last summer. Wally sat on the couch, idly paging through a bicycle parts catalog while the television droned in the background. I'd nicknamed the kitten Miss M because she had a black heart full of mayhem. Her true name cannot be said aloud for fear the Elder Gods will awake from their long slumber and wreak havoc on humanity. Miss Malicious is their envoy, a demon cleverly disguised as a cute, cuddly kitten.

…and welcome to another round of American Idolatry! I'm your host...

It was a good day, a productive one because the ideas were percolating. I like those rare moments when my brain spits out ideas almost faster than I can write them down. The TV muttered unnoticed. Usually it's on the weather channel, a favorite in our house, but someone had left it on a game show channel. When I'm in the groove, writing comes naturally, and I can ignore most distractions. On the bad days, however, I have to turn everything off in order to concentrate. Wally can be especially annoying at times like that, but today he was absorbed in his catalog.

I'll take “Wall Street” for $100, Alex.

The cat piece was coming together nicely. This cat is very pretty, yet behind those gorgeous eyes, there's murderous intent. I'd be on the menu if I wasn't so much bigger and more heavily armed than her. She's a criminal at heart. I've warned several visitors that she might jump into your lap purring, and then make off with your wristwatch, wallet, and car keys. She is not to be trusted.

Who is “Mammon”?

Miss Malice went into heat earlier this week, making what had been a normally hyperactive cat into a crazed, wild animal that was driving all of us nuts. She pawed at the doors, howled at the windows, and attracted the attention of all the tomcats in the neighborhood. They dropped by to leave their calling cards on the front porch.

What is the 'root of all evil', Alex?

While hosing off the porch, I threatened to use extraordinary measures in dealing with the tomcat menace. I'd even put my pellet gun behind the front door, leading Mary to threaten extraordinary measures against me. Now, I wouldn't really shoot one of the cats, but I know the unexpected noise startles them. The pellet gun scares them off and they learn to run at the sight of it in my hand.

I'll take “Detroit Iron” for $500.

Miss Mayhem was unfazed by all of this, of course. She was determined to get outside. She didn't know why she wanted to do this, but she lurked by the door in anticipation. Tomcats lurked in the flower garden, waiting patiently for her escape.

“What are gutter bunnies?”

Huh? The television drew my attention.

The clue is, “Fallen cyclists.”

“What are speed bumps, Alex.”

Wally threw a beer can at the set. Fortunately it was an empty this time. Once, he threw a full one, slopping beer all across the living room, the television, and Miss Mamba, whose glare promised Wally a lingering, painful death by torture if she ever had the chance. Worse, Mary banished him from the house, depriving him of home-cooked meals for a while. This was a hardship because he was in between marriages and he relied on us for decent food. She relented eventually, but only after Wally made a humbling, abject apology for his action. He was hungry.

But I was outraged at this stupid game show! I was going to write to all the advertisers until I realized they were automobile manufacturers, tire companies, oil companies, and motels. Well, there was an ad for Enzyte too, but somehow I think that's still connected to big, shiny cars, albeit ones with enormous tailfins. Dunno why I make that connection. The game show moved on to questions about celebrities, their sex lives and stints in rehab. It did nothing to mollify my anger.

But Wally was far more angry than I. He decided to deal with this personally. He's flying to California in an attempt to become a contestant on American Idolatry. We're doing the usual Wally-goes-on-vacation emergency drill, lining up telephone numbers for judges, lawyers, bail bondsmen, and various police agencies. Mary compiled a list of hospitals. Knowing Wally, I looked up the number for the marriage license bureau, just in case. Those of you with scanners in southern California may want to listen for any police calls involving Dr. Walter Crankset.

Stay tuned.

Broken Elbow Critical Mass

For Wes Ernest, who introduced me to that cathedral in the woods.

Wally caught some bug that insisted Broken Elbow needed a Critical Mass ride. Since I'm his partner in crime for most of his exploits, I couldn't help but back him up on this one too. With bird dogs, it's called “honoring” the other dog's point. Wally and I are nothing if we're not dogs, him especially. He'd posted signs all over town, advertising the ride for the last Friday of the month, as is traditional for CM rides the world over.

So we were fairly conspicuous standing there on the corner of Main Street next to Larry's Cafe while we waited for the expected mass of riders. Police Chief Fred rolled up in his patrol car. He expected to corral a bunch of law-breakin' anarchists on bicycles, probably the biggest mass arrest Broken Elbow had ever seen. But it was just me and Wally on the corner. We're the usual suspects whenever something untoward happens anyway, so Fred decided to interrogate us immediately.

“Are you guys planning some kinda protest demonstration?” Fred was a little brusque, but at heart he's a nice guy. “Did you put them posters up?”

We tried to explain about Critical Mass, but Fred didn't want to hear it.

“I ain't gonna tolerate any anti-Catholic protests in this town,” Fred stated flatly. He pronounced it cath-a-lick. He used ath-a-leet too, but Fred was basically a good guy and we didn't try to correct him. Wally and I liked Fred. It would be rude to make him look foolish. While Fred may have been raised as a Baptist, he wasn't going to let anyone rile one of Broken Elbow's most respected men, Father Wisniewski. They were fishing buddies, worshipers at the altar of the almighty brook trout. It's a faith that cuts across all political, religious, and economic lines. Wally and I are true believers too.

“Huh? An anti-Catholic demonstration?” I said. “Fred, you of all people ought to know we wouldn't do that!”

Father Wisniewski, also called The Wiz though never while he was within earshot, caught Wally and me trying to poach some trout on a cold spring morning long ago. We were flogging the water into a froth with our spin-cast rods, and our inept fishing method made him madder than the out-of-season poaching. The good father gave us both barrels of his ire, then sat down on a wet, mossy stone to tell us the right way to fish. He talked of monstrous trout, fragile tackle, and the stealth a true fisherman needs to be successful. We learned of the art of enticing wary trout to take a dry fly. Somehow, our fumbling efforts to catch some fish seemed to be unworthy and crude. Father Wisniewski talked for an hour as we stood transfixed while slowly succumbing to the cold and the lure of his ideas. He was a scientific angler and a member of Trout Unlimited. His knowledge of both insects and trout was staggering. The university even invited him to teach entomology. He spent cold winter evenings tying dry flies and nymphs, dreaming of the glorious spring to come.

Every man needs a passion, and Father Wisniewski's was trout fishing. He didn't proselytize the unbelievers, however. No, the Wiz was canny enough to keep quiet about the joy of fishing, because if it became too popular, his favorite streams would be over run with converts. He needn't have worried, though, because most people in Broken Elbow preferred to get their fish from the supermarket in conveniently frozen square chunks. His favorite, secret fishing spot was called the cathedral in the woods. It's not on any map, just the one he kept in his head. It's a tiny stream that you'd cross without really noticing. But it has gorgeous holes that hold brookies and rainbows. Beams of light slant down through the trees, making both the stream and the woods dark and forbidding in places. But the contrast with the sunlight sparkling off the water is so intense it made our eyes hurt.

Father was a big, tough guy, with huge square hands calloused through long hours spent in his garden. If he hadn't been a priest, I figured he would have been a farmer, a miner, or one of the hard men in the professional peleton. He was accustomed to being outside in all sorts of weather, and his face showed the effects of days spent in the sun and wind. The parish provided him with a car, but he preferred getting around town on an old Raleigh Tourist that looked like it had seen both World Wars. The bike suited him, an upright, respectable bike for a similarly upright and respectable man.

He came into Larry's Cafe now and then, though he was far from a regular. We'd sit in the back telling outrageous lies of fish landed and lost. Father told tales of unvarnished truth, a highly unusual characteristic in a fisherman. I guess it's kind of hard to tell whoppers when you work directly for the Big Guy. What's more, he immediately forgave us for some of our more blatant transgressions. After a couple of drinks he'd start telling us puns in Latin, and that indicated it was time to call a cab for the Wiz.

Father Wisniewski rolled up alongside Fred's patrol car. “I thought if you boys were going to ride out toward the old North Road, I'd go with you as far as the creek.” He rode his Raleigh with a graphite fly rod was stuck on the rack. It was an oddly jarring, modern note on an otherwise timeless bike. “I took some temperature readings in the water out there earlier today, and there should be a mayfly hatch in an hour or so. The fishing will be very, very good!” His eyes danced in anticipation and a gentle, knowing smile lit his face.

“A hatch?” Wally and I said it together, all thoughts of Critical Mass forgotten.

Fred's eyes suddenly had that slightly-crazed look of a skier about to plunge over a precipice. “Would you mind some company, Father?” he asked. We were scrupulously courteous and polite when it came to spending time in that cathedral in the woods.

The Wiz said he'd be delighted with some company. Fred did a quick u-turn to fetch his gear. Wally and I jetted off for home to get our fly rods. We knew we'd catch up with Father long before he reached the creek.

The Wiz had gathered his flock, and we were going fishing!

Higher ED: A Wally Crankset Tale

(1FEB2007 via Bogus News Service)

The University of Northeastern Oklahoma announced a startling breakthrough in erectile dysfunction (ED) research that was recently completed at the extension campus in Broken Elbow. Doctor Walter Crankset conducted a longevity study involving a large group of local cyclists in an effort to discover if bicycle saddles did indeed cause erectile difficulty.

Dr. Crankset was surprised to discover that many other common objects may contribute to ED, not just bicycle saddles. Many of the subjects took piano lessons as children, and Dr. Crankset speculated that those hours sitting on a hard piano stool contributed to ED later in life. Likewise, a significant majority of the test group spent long hours sitting on barstools and hard church pews, and they too may have been factors.

The full results of Dr. Crankset's study will be released in the April edition of the Oklahoma Medical and Veterinary Review.

It was a bleak winter afternoon as I leaned my bike up against the wall and entered Larry's Cafe. I was glad to get out of the wind and cold. There was an arrow stuck in the front door, which struck me as slightly odd since it wasn't hunting season. Wally occupied his usual spot at the bar. "They've cut my funding for next year!" he moaned. "What am I gonna do?"

Larry just rolled his eyes. He spotted me in the doorway, and felt it was safe to leave Wally in my care. Besides, Wally was feeling sorry for himself and Larry probably wanted to get away. Had he been a muskrat, Larry would have gladly chewed off a leg. I settled onto the barstool next to Wally.

"What am I gonna do?" he wailed again.

"Wally", I said, "Tell me what happened."

He alternated between telling me about the university's inquiry into his work and some gentle sobbing on his own behalf. But I managed to glean the thread of the story. It seems the faculty committee in charge of Wally's research concluded that his work was not only unprofessional, it was unethical as well. The meeting was heated, with charges of misconduct and malfeasance on one side, and accusations of idiocy, retardation, and sexual inadequacy on the other. Wally reveled in hurling insults. The word "felony" even came up a few times. But the faculty finally dropped the bomb and reduced his research funds to zero.

With Wally, all this is merely a normal day. It's a rare week that doesn't include some confrontation with an authority figure, whether it's police, the military, or one of his former spouses or girlfriends.

"They even looked into my academic credentials and claimed some of them were fraudulent", Wally complained.

He'd showed me his degree once, and although it was an impressive bit of printing technology, I was very doubtful that the Universidad de Jose Cuervo existed on this planet outside Wally's imagination. Worse, "Mexico" was spelled wrong.

"Where's 'Mixico'? " I'd asked, but Wally never answered. It didn't speak well for the university since they'd accepted his ginned-up transcript and degree without any serious questions.

I'd warned him that a recruiting poster featuring "hookers, guns, and firetrucks" was probably not the most professional way to go about attracting volunteers for his test study. It turned into a 4 day party that could have gone much longer except for the arrival of all those state troopers. "Yeah", Wally said, "It was a great weekend!" His gaze was unfocused as he recalled some especially sordid moment. He'd blown most of the budget on this dubious 'study'. The mini baby boom in Broken Elbow nine months later would make his conclusions highly suspect.

The cops hauled the party-goers to the Broken Elbow jail which was far too small to contain the crowd. Most of them made a jail break by the simple expedient of leaving through the back door and going down the alley to Larry's. The troopers caught us almost immediately, of course, but decided to leave us inside the cafe because it was bigger than the jail and had fewer breakables. Besides, Larry could keep the crowd orderly between mild threats of turning off the juke box, or resorting to the 'death penalty' - refusing to serve any more drinks. We toed the line.

A thought occurred to me. I turned to Wally and asked, “How did the study results get in the newspaper?”

“Oh, that was Suzie. She's the department secretary and she's really a sweet girl”, Wally replied. “And she REALLY hates the department chairman!” His eyes got that far-away look again. I knew better than to ask why.

Wally re-joined the present and started in on a tale involving some of his ex-wives and ex-girlfriends who carried well-deserved grudges against him. Fortunately, only a few of them were proficient with firearms. But in a small town like Broken Elbow, it was inevitable that they'd know one another, and eventually they coalesced into a loosely organized club devoted to making Wally's life miserable without actually killing him. They decided to try archery since it's more sporting and less likely to inflict lethal wounds.

That explained the arrow stuck in Larry's front door. Actually, in Larry's' on a Saturday night during hunting season, stray bullets and arrows weren't uncommon. Sammy-The-One-Eyed-Mule-Deer could testify to that - if he were alive. He was a trophy from one of Larry's hunting trips. Sammy's head hung on the end wall surrounded by well-aimed pockmarks from well-aimed misses. No one wanted to deliberately scar Larry's magnificent mule deer, until some out-of-towner shot out Sammy's left eye. The poor unfortunate was forever banned from the premises. Since he was deep in his cups, the local crowd removed his cars keys and rifle. And for good measure, they removed most of his clothing except for his boots and a pair of bright green "Kiss me - I'm Irish" boxer shorts the guys thought were highly amusing. They've always been kinda sentimental about shamrock prints. The city slicker was thrown out the front door where he promptly vanished into the night.

Wally gave Sammy a long, thoughtful stare and started speaking very slowly, his thoughts progressing along with his words. “You know, that guy we tossed out of here in his boxers. There's a rumor of a wild man up along Fiddler's Elbow Road, who rushes out of the woods at night shouting at passing cars, and he wears only a tattered pair of Kelly green boxer shorts. He's almost a legendary figure, like the Loch Ness monster, or Big Foot, or the Abominable Snowman. I bet we could get funding from the university to investigate that!”

I was skeptical, but the longer he talked, the more persuasive he became. Finally, I was convinced.

“Hell, if those pencil-necked nimrods believe there's a Jose Cuervo University, they'll believe nearly any damn-fool thing!" Wally fairly shouted. We planned long into the evening and did our best to reduce Larry's inventory, but when Wally started playing air accordion and singing 'Lady of Spain' at the top of his lungs, it was time to go.

I borrowed Larry's truck and drove Wally home, dodging a group of lipstick-smeared Apaches on the way.