They're gone! They're gone!

I worked overtime today. This afternoon, I fell asleep after work. When I woke up, no one was around. The television was off. No one was in the house. The street was eerily silent. No planes went overhead and even the noise from the freeway was gone.

I was alone in a silent world.

The rapture thing must have happened! Nothing else would account for it. I was alone!

So of course, I stripped off all my clothes, smeared peanut butter all over my body, and ran down the street singing "John Brown's Body" not because it was especially appropriate but because it was all I could think of at the time.

Freedom is a highly personal thing.

A police car came around the bend and stopped at the bottom of the hill. I did a quick u-turn and hot-footed it back to the house. I heard a couple of yelps from his siren, but never looked back.

So I'm not alone, after all. In fact, I probably won't be alone for long as they're pounding on the front door. It's really hard to get all this peanut butter off in a hurry.

The scourge of spandex bums

Here's the May column for Ask Dr. Wally from the Wheel Issues newsletter.


Dear Dr. Wally Every spring, hordes of bicyclists commandeer our local roads, delaying traffic, frightening livestock, and shocking innocent women and children with their outrageous attire. These bums in spandex are an affront to common decency with their skin-tight clothing and abhorrently loud colors. What can we do to get them to be more like normal people?

Peeved in Poteau

Bums in spandex? Peeved, you made a funny!

Actually, Peeved, I'm trying to get our local club to adopt more comfortable clothing for the summer months. The traditional Arab thobe, a loose, long sleeved garment that covers down to the ankles, would offer welcome respite from Oklahoma's summer heat. My girlfriend mistakenly calls it a "bernice." It think she means "bernoose" but she's overly fond of both floral patterns and copious amounts of red wine. And she's making dinner so I'm willing to overlook minor foibles.

I tried riding in baggy cargo shorts, but they tend to get hooked over the nose of the saddle. That wasn't really a big problem...until I stood up to climb a hill. Sure, I stood up but the shorts stayed down. It gave some elderly ladies the vapors and lead to a long chat with the local constabulary. I wore a big, ornamented sombrero that day, and it didn't help my case. The cops were certain I'd escaped from an asylum somewhere. Dunno why.

If I can figure a way to keep my thobe from getting caught in the spokes, it should work well for bicycling especially if there's a tailwind. It's like a sail! Then all I have to do is figure out how to keep rednecks, local cops, the highway patrol and Homeland Security from stopping me every half mile.

I'll let you know how this works out right after I find that sombrero.

Dr. Wally

Next month: Weight loss on the County Jail Diet Plan

The post-apocalypse cyclist

One of my friends is a survivalist. He stocked up on canned goods and other non-perishable foods thinking that the end of civilization is near. And he's asking me questions about what bicycle to use after the world devolves into chaos.

It's a given that sooner or later our civilization will collapse. I lie awake nights thinking about it, and rather than dwell on the admittedly slim chance of nuclear war, a meteor impact, or an invasion of aliens from outer space, I prefer to think about the very real possibility of a zombie apocalypse. Some may scoff, but when you consider that there's probably a grad student somewhere thinking that a zombie chicken would be really funny, working out a survival plan is in our best interests.

Popular culture has given us a few road signs to follow toward Armageddon. I'm thinking about movies like "Sean of the Dead". If you look carefully in the background, zombies are everywhere well before the protagonist becomes aware of them. They're shambling to work and back or waiting in the queue for the bus.

It's true. They're already with us. As evidence, I give you my teenage son and his buddies. They all exhibit slack-jawed empty stares with their ear buds in place as they send endless text messages or play video games. They listen to factory noises and insist that it's music. Communication is through grunts, hand gestures, and a painfully bored expression. Their diet consists of prodigious amounts of snack food, microwaved cheeseburgers, and energy drinks. It's only a matter of time until their conversion is complete. One night they'll run out of Cheetos and switch over to eating brains. I keep my bedroom door locked.

“28 Days Later” should be taken as a cautionary tale about the dangers posed by fast moving zombies. They could run without fatigue due to lactic acid build up in their muscles. So a bicycle would be an essential survival tool. Some would think that a mountain bike would be best for escaping a slavering zombie horde, but I have another suggestion. Any decent commuter bike will accelerate and corner faster than a mountain bike, and since it's most likely to be needed in an urban area, good pavement will be available.

But please don't wait until the menace is nearly upon you, with teeth trying to bite your arm. Get a commuter bike and start training now, this very day, and if you use it to go to work and back, you'll develop those critical skills that can save your life when the zombies attack. Many drivers are zombies already. They just don't know it. You'll be ready when they turn. And if you hear a car emitting a thumpa-thumpa-thumpa loud enough to rattle the windows in nearby buildings, that's probably my son or one of his friends. Try to distract them with a bag of Cheetos, and then sprint as if your life depended on it. It's worked for me.

Ask Doctor Wally: Bolsheviks!

Dear Dr. Wally

One of our prominent local politicians (I think you know the one!) insists that bicyclists are all dope-smoking hippies and Bolsheviks! I'm a Methodist and I don't take anything stronger that aspirin. What should I say to this man?

Concerned in Choteau

Don't take it too personally, Concerned, because we have to give him points for creativity. And yes, I do know the man. Remember that here in Oklahoma, Republicans call each other 'liberals' during the primary season because it's the dirtiest epithet they know. It shows a lack of imagination and an inability to grasp the more subtle nuances of invective and innuendo.

But are cyclists more likely to be lefties? Perhaps we should ask if other groups with common interests have similar political inclinations. What about fishermen or library patrons? One central issue for all is to preserve the resources they use. Fishermen are interested in clean water. Library users want to see that books are easily available and properly maintained, and cyclists want good roads. But everyone benefits from good roads, clean water, and the free exchange of information. Our individual interests serve to better the world for others, much as our individual abilities ultimately serve our individual needs. So, yeah, we are Bolsheviks!

See you on the road, comrade!

Dr. Wally

Next time: Make your own energy bars/tire patches using common industrial chemicals.

Ask Doctor Wally: winter riding

Here's the December 'Ask Wally' column from the Red Dirt Pedaler's newsletter. The Lanterne Rouge piece is over on the Examiner.

Dear Doctor Wally... For the first time, I want to keep riding through the winter this year. What do I need?........... Resolute in Red Fork

First, I admire your determination. Riding through Oklahoma winters can be both challenging and a ton of fun. Here are some brief tips:

If you don't already have fenders on your bike, fit them now. They reduce the grunge factor when riding on wet roads, so you stay cleaner, drier, and perhaps most importantly, warmer than you'd be without them. It's not uncommon for winter riders to have an old beater bike specifically for bad weather. Even if you don't normally ride at night, have lights and reflectors on your bike and be certain that they work.

Get some good quality cycling tights. They come in different weights, some with bib tops, and some with double fronts. They're one winter riding essential. Don't wear sweatpants, long underwear under your shorts, or that big puffy down parka. The first two scream 'dork' and can put you in danger of hypothermia if they get wet. The latter will turn into a wearable sauna. You'll sweat like crazy, then freeze as it evaporates.

Wear multiple thin layers so you can regulate your temperature, and have a bike bag or messenger bag to carry items you have to shed. Keep a balaclava, gloves, and a scarf or neck gator handy. They make a huge difference in comfort.

But most important of all - enjoy those crisp, clear mornings!

Dr. Wally

Next month: CDC finds link between classic French bicycles and dementia in bike collectors.

Ask Dr. Wally

Dear Dr. Wally,

All this spring I tried and tried to get my boyfriend to go on a bike ride with me. He said he wanted to get out more, ride the bike, and spend time with me. But he always had some excuse for not going, like he had to go to work, or cut the grass, or do laundry, but the latest one has me wondering just how much commitment he's made to riding with me. He said he couldn't go on a Saturday morning ride because the bike wouldn't stay upright. "It's too tired," he said. I'm beginning to wonder about both his commitment to riding and his commitment to our relationship.

Should I dump this guy and find another, more bicycling-inclined boyfriend?

Chagrined in Chouteau



My advice on relationships is kind of suspect, Chagrined. I've been married three or four times, and it's always turned out wrong. There's a fundamental difference between men and women, a difference that can be both celebrated and very perplexing. When those differences become too profound, divorce decrees, restraining orders, and even barbed wire aren't sufficient to contain a woman's fury.

But you've asked for my advice, so I'll give you my thoughts on various prospects for a lasting relationship.

The urban fixed gear hipster. These guys are OK, if you like the idea of fixer-uppers. Sure, they're generally young and in good physical condition, but they're prone to over-use of alcohol and they have a great deal of difficulty finding real jobs. Trust me, mixing up candy flavored coffee drinks in the local Starbucks doesn't count as a real job.

The mountain biker. These guys break things - bikes, bones, and unfortunately, the hearts of any women in their lives. You can impress them by showing your scars, but that makes for a very short lived and shallow relationship.

The racer. Road racers don't break things like the MTB guys, but they're too intent on training to form any lasting romantic ties. Their spare time is taken up with obsessing over a couple of grams on their bikes, weighing out food for the next meal, or snoozing on the couch after a long training ride.

Recumbent riders. Don't speak to them. Don't even look at them if at all possible. They're just plain weird.

The counter culture warrior. These guys have "dropped out of consumer culture" by refusing to have jobs. They dumpster-dive for their next meal and ride battered department store bikes that they 're-purposed' from a local dump. Need I say more?

Middle aged guys on vintage French bikes. Here you have the cream of the crop, men who appreciate the finer things in life like a classic bicycle, a fine dinner, and a good bottle of wine. Middle aged guys on French bikes aren't in a hurry to get somewhere. They value companionship. They've learned to listen well and share their thoughts and feelings.

By chance, Chagrined, I'll be visiting Choteau early next month. Perhaps we could meet for coffee. I'll be riding my Gitane.


Next month: How to escape packs of angry mountain bikers, racers, and other cyclists intent on doing bodily harm for stealing their girlfriends.

Ask Dr. Wally

Dear Wally

I was on a group ride where the leader insisted on riding well out into the traffic lane. At times, he was directly in the center or even left of center. Isn't that dangerous? I'm afraid it will anger motorists and they'll take it out on the next cyclist they see. Too many of them are maniacs already.

Rita in Hayward

Lovely Rita,

You wouldn't be a meter maid perchance?

You'll be happy to know that very few motorists are sociopaths. For the most part, they're just normal people who'd rather not hit you for fear of getting in trouble with the law. Some are no doubt worried about scratches and dents in their cars, too. Sociopaths are few and far between, though they're usually not deterred by societal mores. I speak from experience because Doris, my second ex-wife, was a sociopathic nut job without regard for restraining orders, barbed wire, or locked doors. A friend loaned me his Doberman to guard the house. The dog was a carbide-tipped eating machine named Fritz, and Doris developed a great deal of respect for him - along with a pronounced limp when the cops took her away. She had that for a couple of weeks, I'm told. That dog may have developed a taste for human flesh as I caught him eyeballing my legs when he was hungry. After that, I made a point of feeding him every couple of hours.

But, like I said, car-driving sociopaths are very rare. We're more at risk from a driver doing something stupid, like a right hook, a left hook, or the oh-my-god-I-never-saw-him-Officer as they pull out from a side street. These are the most common car/bike collisions. (In case you were unaware, a right hook is when a motorist passes a cyclist, and then makes an immediate right turn across his front wheel. A left hook motorist is making a left turn in front of a bicyclist, and the guy pulling out from a side street is looking well past the cyclist for fast moving traffic.) In all three cases, the best means of preventing one of these maneuvers is to ride further to the left in the lane. That may seem counter-intuitive because you may think it puts you at greater risk. On the contrary, it puts you where motorists are more likely to see you, and even if they don't, you're in a better position to avoid them by turning right or left using the so-called instant turn, or you can brake very hard and still have room to maneuver.

Sadly, Doris has a parole hearing coming up soon, so it's likely there will be one more actual maniac on the road. The up side is that she won't be focused on anyone but me. I wonder if Fritz can learn to ride a tandem?

Dr. Wally

Next time: Practical magic for superstitious cyclists - too few knew what voodoo could do.

Ralph Waldo Crankset, RIP

Ralph Waldo Crankset (standing) and Gene Leroy Jetson (kneeling) preparing their home-built rocket powered bicycle for its first test ride. Photograph 1931 courtesy of NACA.....(Notation on the back of the above photo)

We were on our usual barstools in the back of Larry's Cafe. Wally was showing a dog-eared photograph to Paulie, Larry's new barmaid.

"Yep, that's Waldo, my grandfather," Wally said. "I never met him. In fact, he disappeared just after my dad was born. Grandma talked about him a lot, though, and she kind of alternated between kind words and some other ones. That woman could cuss like a sailor, especially if she'd been drinking."

Wally held the photo in his hands, staring at it intently. He told me that one of his students found it in the university archives. It would have returned to that obscure folder if not for the handwritten note on the back.

"The way she told it, Granddad was a schemer. He always had an angle, a get-rich-quick idea, or something slightly shady going on. Oddly enough, he stayed away from the oil business here in Oklahoma, though he was certainly attracted to all the money it generated. Once, he set up a gambling operation that used some cleverly disguised electromagnets to slightly bend the laws of chance. It worked pretty well too, until a power surge caused the roulette table to burst into flames. He got out of town just ahead of a mob."

I kept my mouth shut, but I was thinking that Granddad's DNA had reasserted itself after skipping a generation.

Wally went on talking. "Lots of people blamed Gene for what happened. They built the rocket bike and used the old board track outside Broken Elbow. The first test run that Waldo piloted went very well. Each rocket lit up in sequence, and the bike accelerated up to about 65 miles per hour. It must have been one hell of a ride on that banked track! Gene was the pilot on the second run and Waldo set up the rocket pack. Gene only reached about 50 miles per hour and he blamed Waldo for it. Waldo said the brakes were burnt out and that Gene must have been riding them because he was scared. They had a bitter row in front of a bunch of witnesses, but eventually settled down to make a third attempt with the last of their rockets. Waldo was aboard the bike once again."

He paused to stare at the photo cupped in his hands and took a sip from his beer.

"It went wrong almost immediately. The first rocket fizzled and sputtered. Waldo turned to look at it, when all the rest of them went off at once! He shot down the track swerving wildly from side to side. He was screaming, "Gene! Stop this crazy thing!" when one of the rockets exploded, showering sparks and flaming debris onto the track. Waldo was still accelerating and by some miracle, still on the bike. It shot up the banking and climbed to a couple of hundred feet, finally passing out of sight out toward the swamp at the end of the lake. Waldo was screaming the whole time. Meanwhile, the board track was on fire and the small crowd of onlookers tried in vain to put it out. The track burned to the ground before the fire department arrived."

Paulie looked horrified.

"Gene slipped away in all the confusion," Wally said. "They didn't have insurance and there was no way he could pay for the loss of the track. He disappeared. They never found Waldo's body, so he's still out there in the swamp somewhere. Folks say that on a quiet, moonless night like this one, you can hear him moan."

"Why did you have to tell me that!" Paulie yelped. "I live down by the end of the lake and I have to walk home tonight! Now I'm going to be scared every step of the way."

"I can walk you home if you like," Wally said. His head tilted down as if he were looking deep into his beer glass. The tiniest of smiles played across his lips.

Whack! A sopping wet bar towel hit the back of his head! Larry was behind us. "Put the picture back in it's frame, Wally. And don't write on any of my photos again or I'll ban you from the bar!"

"What?" Paulie gasped, "It was all a fake? You just made all of it up?" She bounced away as the other barflies snickered.

But at the end of the evening, Wally still walked her home. I'll never understand women.

Dear Dr. Wally

Dear Dr. Wally

I have a bike and know how to balance on it. What more do I need? The sales guy said I should have a helmet and he even offered some free classes. It's all bunk. Everyone knows how to ride a bike!

Broderick in Crawford

Owning a bicycle and knowing how to balance it is much like have a 44 magnum and only knowing how to load the bullets. It's like having a pit bull and not investing any time in training him. It's like having a car and a seat belt, and thinking that's enough to know about driving.

Some people insist that a helmet is essential, and it is, if you're planning to crash. In your case, definitely buy a helmet. Better yet, buy two because you'll be twice as safe.

But let's assume you're not intending to crash. You'd rather avoid it. That's understandable, but how do you go about learning not to crash? There are a couple of ways, actually. The one I went through was call the School of Hard Knocks and Bitter Experience. I don't recommend it to anyone more intelligent than a small kitchen appliance. So, assuming you can outwit the toaster most of the time, you'll probably benefit from the other approach, and that's to learn from an experienced instructor.

Local bike shops can refer you to a qualified instructor, or you can look on the League of American Bicyclists web page. The main advantage of formal training is that you gain the equivalent of a year of experience in a nine hour class. That's a big jump start toward confident, competent road cycling, and it's an approach I readily endorse.

Dr. Wally

From the Editor:
Dr Wally is presently taking applications for the coveted "Endorsed by Dr. Walter Crankset" seal of approval for regional bicycle programs. Interested parties can obtain the application from his website. Submit the form and the $25 application processing fee to the Dr. Wally Program c/o Larry's Cafe in downtown Broken Elbow, Oklahoma. Larry regrets that he cannot accept PayPal for payment of bar tabs or application fees.

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

Dear Dr. Wally...

Dear Dr. Wally,

I see these signs along the road in the mountains north of Broken Elbow. They look like a truck driving down a wedge of cheese with a percentage added. What do they mean? They always appear near the top of Donut Pass, which seems to be a very popular name for these mountain passes. They're everywhere!

Puzzled in Poteau

You must be a natural blond, Puzzled. The state highway department puts those 'truck on cheese' signs in places where mobile pizzerias will be located in the future, right after federal stimulus money reinvigorates the cheese mining business. As you're no doubt aware, many of our nation's mozarella mines were forced to shut down due to cheap imported cheese from China. But, as our balance of payments have shifted, so too the mozarella business has changed. Soon, American workers will be back on the job producing the very finest cheeses from those deep mines under the Gruyere Mountains in northern Wisconsin.

Also, I'm glad you've noticed the Donut Pass signs, because quite frankly the state DOT misspelled them and didn't notice until hundreds had been painted. As a cost-cutting measure, they kept the misspelled signs because as we all know, spelling is highly over-rated anyway. Just like the pizzaria signs, these ones indicate a good spot for a donut shop, and they too are another attempt to stimulate our economy by investing in the production of high-speed donut boring tools for making those nice, round holes, and the automated donut lathes used to produce wonderfully rounded donuts from crudely finished industrial billets.

So do your part, Puzzled, and eat more to make America strong again!

Dr. Wally

Next month: Gluttony and bicycle touring

Book review: Dr. Wally's Field Guide to Cyclists

This is the January edition of my monthly column in the Red Dirt Pedalers "Wheel Issues."

Book review: Dr. Wally's Field Guide to Cyclists
First Edition. University of Northeastern Oklahoma, Broken Elbow Extension Campus. 2009

I'm not fond of doing book reviews. Inevitably, someone takes me to task when the review disagrees with their own assessment. However, when you consider the 'publish or perish' philosophy of most universities, you may understand the pressure many academics are under.

And that brings us to Dr. Walter Crankset's field guide. Profusely illustrated by the author, this field guide attempts to identify cyclists as belonging to particular sub-sets, none of them immune from satire. Crankset pokes fun at us, urging that we step outside our narrowly defined bicycling preoccupations and get a few laughs at our own expense.

Here are some excerpts:

Curbus Stucktus Often called the common gutter bunny, a curbus is rarely found more than a foot or two from the curb. In club meetings and on message boards, they complain incessantly about all the flat tires they've had. Wiser, more experienced cyclists will adopt the muskrat strategy and gnaw off a limb to escape from them.

Ineducatus Publicus One of the louder species, the ineducatus publicus appears at public meetings demanding 'something be done.' That something is always impossible, outrageous, or both. For example, an ineducatus will say, "I'll ride my bike when there's an entirely separate trail system from my front door to the grocery store, without having to cross a street at grade level!" This would require a re-invention of our existing road network. The ineducatus is just barely smart enough to breed, but they do so in great numbers.

Whine-a-saurus Mobilus “You can't get there from here because there aren't any bike lanes,” they chant in unison. Stress forces their voices to a shrill, nasal pitch, and if any additional stress were added, only dogs could hear them. This would be a good thing. On club rides, the whine-a-saurus is best kept at the back of the group where his screams will go unnoticed in the event of a dog attack. This gives new meaning to "devil take the hindmost."

Automobilus Addendus. The automobilus invariably begins with, "I'm a bicyclist too, but..." and then goes on to give 'advice' regarding how or where cyclists should ride. The automobilus hasn't been on a bike since grade school, of course, yet he doesn't hesitate to recommend things that are illegal, impractical, or plainly stupid. He means well, but like the ineducatus, he doesn't allow lack of knowledge or genuine facts get in the way.

Dr. Wally's Field Guide to Cyclists is available at better booksellers everywhere. Dr. Crankset will be available for a book signing at the Sinclair station outside the West Neanderthal Mall on January 5th, 2010.

(Susan, Wally said that if we run this, he'll cover our bar tab down at Larry's Cafe for the next month! Yee haw! Party time!)

Fashionisticly challenged

This is my column for the December issue of "Wheel Issues", the Red Dirt Pedalers newsletter.

To my considerable annoyance, I somehow ended up on a mailing list for men's bicycling 'apparel.' This is not mere clothing. No, no, it's called apparel because the word 'clothing' is too plebeian. This stuff represents a lifestyle choice reflecting one's highly refined taste, fashion sense, and apparently, over-filled wallet.

Garrison Keillor said that he had some friends with lifestyles while other friends had children.

These 'apparel' people are trying to sell me a two hundred dollar pair of pants. Oh, they're nice enough, what with being made of some miracle fiber that repels coffee and wine stains while retaining a plush, lightly brushed surface that's oh-so-comfortable. Tell you what - I have a nineteen-year-old son working in a garage. Let's see if he can put some irreversible stains on these pants. Better still, let me wear them while I work on a couple of commuter bikes. How's that magic fabric stand up to chain lube?

Besides, I've bought old, used cars for two hundred bucks. My first 'adult' bike cost less than that.

One other thing - these are essentially knickers meant to be worn without knicker socks. I suppose it projects a cosmopolitan, care-free attitude as you cruise down the boulevard on your fixed gear bike, perfect for bar-hopping on weekends or making that run to the trendy coffee shop down the street. Honestly, unless you're going cross-country skiing, men over the age of 15 should not be seen in public wearing knickers.

Curiously enough, this company is based in southern California - where 'winter cycling clothing' consists of a long sleeve jersey. Let's try this stuff in North Dakota come January or February. I'm sure the frozen body will still look fashionably chic when the spring thaw arrives.

I can imagine the scene if I came home in a pair of $200 pants. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed wouldn't give me a 'come hither' look and say, "My, you look so handsome and devil-may-care in those! Be still my heart!"

No, it's more likely she'd make a disparaging comment (or two, or three, or however many days we still have on this planet) involving my lack of intelligence, shortfall in common sense, and inability to think clearly and logically while various kitchen implements fly through the air toward my head. She's not very good at throwing knives, but I'd still prefer to avoid it.

Ask Dr. Wally

Dear Dr. Wally

What are the proper libations to serve after a cold winter ride? One of my friends said the traditional Italian drink is something called grappa, but I've never hear of it before. Is he pulling my leg?

Buzzed in Bartlesville

Dear Buzz

Don't drink grappa. Try kerosene instead. You'll thank me for it. Grappa is made from what's left over after grapes go through a wine press. Supposedly there's 'good' grappa and 'bad' grappa, but only someone who drinks cleaning products for recreation would know the difference.

Besides, alcohol causes skin capillaries to dilate, increasing heat loss. Consider another warming drink instead, like espresso since we seem to be stuck on an Italian theme. You can impress your friends with a complicated and expensive espresso machine, or you can make equally strong coffee in a humble mokka pot like any Italian grannie.

If you simply must have alcohol, wait until after cooling off and taking a shower. Then open a bottle of stout or porter. They actually have a lower alcohol content than beer, but they have far more carbohydrates, sort of like a Power Bar in a bottle.

Dr. Wally

Next month: Sauerkraut - the new cure for saddle sores!

Apocalypse or something like it

I was indulging one of my two talents - staring vacantly into space, the other one being annoying my wife - when Wally plopped down on his usual bar stool. "I'm worried about this whole Mayan calender thing," he began. "I was just talking with Larry and he says that their calendar ends in 2012, but when you translate that date to binary and parse it, it spells 'apocalypse' in ASCII."

That was a lot of paranoia for just one sentence, even for Wally.

"Larry's just messing with your head, Wally." I smiled. "He's had you spooked ever since he said the IRS was looking for you. It's the after effect of Halloween. People pretend to believe any damnfool thing if they think it's scary. And what would scare you more than a supposed visit from those Treasury agents?"

"Well, maybe," he said. "The only thing scarier than Halloween is when the presidential election season coincides with it every 4th year. And you're right, people do believe a lot of damnfool ideas." He jerked a thumb toward the far end of the bar. "It's a lot like that movie, Resident Evil, but without the light-hearted whimsy." He mentioned the movie because it was playing again on the television. We'd all seen it many times, so Larry wisely turned the sound off. Some of the patrons mouthed the lines in some sort of drinking game as the silent movie played out.

Wally had a story to tell. He'd bumped into Bill Howard at work. Bill is the chairman of the Philosophy Department at the Broken Elbow extension campus, a big fish in a small pond. Howard was that breed of pompous academic who insisted on being called William and positively beamed when brown nosing students called him 'Doctor' Howard. He had a masters degree in education, and that nicely framed piece of paper coupled with his skill could land him a job stocking shelves or flipping burgers. Wally despised him, but always greeted him with a big, cheery smile. "Bill! How are ya? How you feeling this morning, just peachy or just Nietzsche?" He deliberately pronounced it Nee-Chee in an effort to be annoying. They nearly came to blows in a faculty meeting when Wally called him William Howard Daft. Over the years, Bill had produced a huge, steaming pile of wisdom, and we felt sorry for the students who had to sort through it.

Wally had just started into his tale of the latest assault on Bill's over-inflated dignity, when Bill himself walked into the bar. He looked around in the gloom and spotted us near the back. Fixing his eye on Wally, he walked toward us with a rapid, purposeful stride. It was one of those western movie moments. The Resident Evil drinking game stopped as did all conversation. If Larry's had a piano player, he would have ceased playing too. Larry reached under the bar for a cut down pool cue. Fistfights were not permitted in the bar. Combatants had to use the alley out back among the garbage cans, like civilized people.

"Wally, I just ran over your damned bike. It scratched up my car and you're going to pay for the damages!" Bill was furious. His fists were clenched and he was ready to start throwing punches.

A big surge of adrenaline makes time slow down. Wally stood up so quickly that his barstool went flying. Bill's right fist delivered an uppercut into Wally's chest. The air whooshed out of him and his eyes bulged. Larry's pool cue tapped Bill on the head. He collapsed onto his knees. My kick to his shoulder put him on the floor. Wally's barstool clattered to a stop.

Shelly, Larry's pretty young barmaid, called the cops. Fred and Ethel were on the scene within a couple of seconds because they'd seen Wally's old bike crumpled up on the sidewalk outside. They came into the bar. Ethel was hoping to find Wally equally crumpled. "What's all this?" Fred asked. He talked with Larry about the incident while Ethel glared at me and Wally, obviously intent on cuffing and arresting the two of us. Any pretext would do. He'd tried reckless bicycling, public intoxication, jaywalking, and even mopery. We still didn't know what mopery was, but none of the bogus charges had stuck.

He stood close in order to prevent our escape if we decided to make a run for it. Wally was still gasping for air, his voice little more than a croak. He couldn't run the length of the bar. And my bad knee wouldn't hold out to the door.

Shelly came down to our end of the bar and fixed her lovely blue eyes on Ethel. "I thought this was a quiet little town," she said. "Do things like this happen often?" Ethel blushed and stammered a reply. He half-turned toward her, finding Shelly's gaze as compelling as any moth in a candle flame. Adrenaline also causes tunnel vision. We quietly slipped off our barstools, crossed behind Ethel, and went out the front door unnoticed by either cop. Shelly, of course, was sweet on Wally despite him being twice her age. I will never understand women, but she gave us an opportunity to escape.

Sure enough, Wally's disreputable Peugeot was strewn across the sidewalk next to Bill's Volvo. Both wheels were tacoed. The tires were flat. And one chain stay had pulled out of the bottom bracket, revealing extensive corrosion. The bike wouldn't have lasted much longer, but on the other hand, anyone else would have consigned it to the scrap heap more than twenty years ago. Still, it was the bike Wally had hoped to ride to the White House during his campaign to be our next vice-president. It had some historical value, in that regard.

Wally was heart-broken. He picked up some pieces, a broken shift lever, the scuffed Ideale 90 saddle, and carefully set them back down on the concrete. "How did my bike get over here? I put it against the front wall on the other side of the sidewalk. Someone must have moved it."

No one in their right mind would dare to ride that bike, so about half the town's population was above suspicion. Still, there were some questions to resolve. First, how did the bike get under Bill's Volvo? Second, what kind of bike should Wally buy to replace the Peugeot? And would I have to accompany him on a shopping trip to some bike shops? Maybe I could fake appendicitis.

To be continued...

Movie remakes

This is my regular column for the Red Dirt Pedalers newsletter.

November is coming. The weather will be turning worse and there will be days we're stuck in the house. I'm not a sports fanatic, but I do loves me some old movies.

Hollywood has about thirty different plots that we've seen endlessly. We pay big bucks to sit in a dark room watching flickering lights on the wall, so if the movie moguls want us to keep coming to their theaters, they really should offer something for us cyclists.

Imagine the possibilities if some iconic old movies and television shows were remade with bicycles as a central theme. Some, like Cannonball Run, Vanishing Point, or North by Northwest, just wouldn't work as bicycling movies. Others, however...

Route 66: Two cool guys wander along the Mother Road solving problems for a host of guest stars. One big plus comes from the simple fact that bicyclists travel much slower than automobiles. In the original program, the guys traveled in a Corvette and may have driven between Chicago and Los Angeles half a dozen times. On bicycles, a whole season could play out in Oklahoma alone. And when you consider the multiple alignments of the road over its history, the story line could include frequent dead ends and tales of characters becoming profoundly lost.

The Road Warrior/Mad Max: It says tons about our culture when a post-apocalypse story revolves around motorcycles, automobiles and the omnipresent search for fuel. This takes place in a stinkin' desert without a water hole in sight. Yep, these folks are fighting over gasoline. When I last checked, humans don't really need gas for survival, but water is a necessity. We can't last a week without it. So imagine a remake with a bunch of punk wannabes duking it out over some water. If you don't think it makes a compelling story, see Humphrey Bogart in Sahara. Keep a Big Gulp handy. You'll need it.

Christine: Sure, this was a horror move, but the bicycle version would involve a young man's slow descent into madness as he tried to find parts for an old French bike, finally losing it completely when he discovers that breaking in an Ideale 90 saddle is an exercise best left to committed masochists. Finding proper French parts for a bike was a pain-in-the-butt back in their heyday. It's infinitely worse now.

Lonely are the Brave: Kirk Douglas plays a cowboy, a rugged individualist wandering the modern west. He cuts fences. He's a throwback who just doesn't fit into the modern world. Douglas gets tossed in jail where he's beaten up, and later escapes. If you've seen First Blood, with Sylvester Stallone doing his shirtless, thespian best, you've seen the basic plot of Lonely are the Brave. The latter is a far better movie. Douglas keeps his shirt on. Substitute a battered mountain bike for the cowboy's horse, and it would work.

While the rain beats on the windows, make yourself a bowl of popcorn and watch some of the good stuff. If you have an idea for a remake, let me know!

Free Speedo Man!

In Tallahassee Florida, Richard Irby achieved minor celebrity status for riding his bicycle while wearing a thong. Oh, the horror!

LINK

Judge tells 'Speedo Man:' No more thongs

An avid bicyclist who regularly rides around town wearing only a thong, Richard Irby, 55, was arrested on a misdemeanor charge of disorderly conduct for exposing himself in three different instances...

...Greenwood Mobile Home Park resident Daniel Blair told police that as he drove out of the park, 6-foot-3, 220-pound Irby was walking toward the park's office wearing only a blue thong with his genitals exposed. Blair was concerned for office manager Thelma Wylie and so he confronted Irby and insisted he cover himself.

The incident was caught on video surveillance, but it was inconclusive as to whether Irby was exposed.

Regardless, Irby ended up in court where he agreed to wear bicycle shorts that reached his knees.

After consultation with the large legal staff here at CycleDog, I must speak out on this issue. Cyclists must have the right to wear whatever they choose - even if the image of a large, hairy man in a Speedo causes people to wake up screaming at night. Provided he does so legally, i.e. no exposed genitalia, we stand firmly behind (well, off to one side with eyes averted, really) Mr. Irby in his quest to attain sartorial freedom. This is America, after all, and what is more peculiarly American than allowing one's freak flag to fly? We must come to attention and salute Mr. Irby's devotion to American freedom. We must highlight his cause by running it up the biggest pole we can find.

And what bigger pole could we find than Dr. Wally Crankset?

With that thought uppermost in our minds, the huge legal staff here at CycleDog decided that in the interest of true American freedom, Mr. Irby should be offered political asylum in that bastion of freedom, Broken Elbow, Oklahoma. None other than Dr. Walter Crankset, noted constitutional scholar from the University of Northeastern Oklahoma - Extension Branch in Broken Elbow, will travel to Florida to consult with Mr. Irby. If they can reach an agreement, look for news of it here in CycleDog.

Ask Dr. Wally - Handlebar tape

Image from Tambako the Jaguar on Flickr

Dear Dr. Wally,

My beloved cat, Fluffy, died recently from complications resulting from a life of dissipation, gluttony, and lack of exercise. She was quite large. I'm thinking of memorializing her by applying her hide to my handlebars as a kind of furry bar tape. Despite tireless searches on the interweb, I haven't found any method of performing this. Can you help? Oh, she's in the refrigerator until I hear from you.

Remorseful in Ramona

You're just messing with me, aren't you? Everyone knows you can't apply a cat's hide to your handlebars. The fur offers no padding whatsoever and once it gets wet, it stays matted down. Use sheepskin instead. Wool is a springy, shock absorbing material that cleans up easily with a bit of Woolite. I'd save the cat hide for doing static electricity demonstrations for the neighbor's kids, the obnoxious ones with their iPods, cellphones, laptops, and ground thumping stereo systems. Microcircuits don't like static discharges, but you didn't hear that from me!

Next month: Avoiding blood sucking monkeys from West Mifflin, Pennsylvania

Little shop of Larry's: A Wally Crankset Tale

"Yes, dear." Sometimes it's the very best thing a man can say, despite his forebodings. Say, "Yes, dear" and shut your trap, cutting off all those other things you'd like to say. It's the smart move and one that will keep you a step above the dog in the household food chain.

If Wally knew this, he never practiced it, and that lead to divisions within the local female population. Some of them adored him for his "honesty, integrity, and determination to speak his mind." None of that group spent much time around him, of course. Those who had were divided into two camps. They all saw him as an unprincipled, womanizing rogue. The truly amazing part was that one faction adored him for those very traits. When various ex-wives and former girlfriends were tossed into the mix, you had a heady brew of warring factions, Balkanized camps with enough animosity to spark another world war.

I will never understand women. For that matter, I'll never understand Wally, either. But if it's true that every man needs a graveyard in which to bury the faults of his friends, I'll start shoveling because it's going to be a big graveyard.

We were sitting on our regular bar stools in the back at Larry's Cafe. Wally and I occupied them so often that they'd pretty well conformed to our backsides. When the bar wasn't busy, Larry leaned on the other side and we talked politics, high school football, and hunting or fishing depending on the season and the usual ebb and flow of conversation. Every now and then, Larry's wife Arlene would pop out of the kitchen with 'goodies' for us to try. These invariably consisted of some form of zucchini. Arlene put 48 zucchini plants in her garden last spring, and the place was being overrun by the things. Several neighborhood cats had wandered in among the plants never to be seen again. We were not about to go in there looking for them, either. It strongly resembled the Little Shop of Horrors, except with zucchinis.

When Arlene came through the door with a plate of fried green something-or-others, Larry's face went gray. He ate zucchini with every meal, and believe me, it's something you don't want to face at breakfast. Wally slid off the barstool somehow and sauntered as casually as possible toward the men's room. Arlene's laser-beam glare bored holes in his back. Then she turned the lasers on me.

"Do you want to try some of these?" she asked. Well, no, I didn't really want to try them because I remembered that unfortunate incident at the Broken Elbow County Fair last month. It seems that Arlene entered her secret “Jalapeno Surprise Salsa” in one of the contests. The three judges gave her a second place ribbon and all seemed well until about 20 minutes later when those jalapenos hit bottom, so to speak, and the judges ran off toward the porta-potties. Surprise!

Broken Elbow is a sleepy country town most of the year, but it absolutely lights up during the state fair. Arlene's salsa was popular with the crowd, and it lit most of them up too. Very shortly we saw a stampede toward the porta-potties. As the salsa worked it's magic on the crowd, fistfights broke out over the remaining supplies of toilet paper until some started grabbing tracts right out of the hands of those visiting Jehovah's Witnesses from over in Clark County. They were overjoyed, thinking that their missionary work was meeting some fine ends, which was true in a way.

All that went through my mind in an instant as Arlene held out that tray. She was terribly embarrassed by the jalapeno debacle and she was a bit sensitive at the moment. If I turned down the zucchini, Arlene's feelings would be hurt as I'd be criticizing her culinary skills, however mildly. That hurt would be telegraphed through Broken Elbow's female population very rapidly. Chances are, the message would reach home and She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed before I did. My hand refused to approach the tray. I summoned as much will power as possible, scraped it into a big pile, and ordered that reluctant hand into action.

"Why, thank you, Arlene. I'd like that." Larry's eyes looked whiter than usual in contrast to his graying face, but his lips remained firmly closed. Choking noises came from the men's room where Wally cowered. My hand found its way to the tray and returned with something green. At least it wasn't wriggling. In Larry's it's always a good idea to see if your food is moving.

You had to be careful because the regulars delighted in playing the same practical joke over and over. On the first weekend of trout season a couple of years ago, some nimrod from out of town walked in and ordered a caramel-latte-macchiato-skinny-and-no-foam. Larry just looked at him over the tops of his glasses. The cafe went silent as all present turned to stare at the newcomer.

"We don't do those frou-frou drinks around here", Larry said.

Nimrod Boy gulped, then realizing his predicament, ordered a large coffee instead. People went back to their conversations and Wally sidled down the bar to sit next to the guy. They talked fishing for a while, swapping plausible lies. The new guy had almost finished his coffee when he jumped to his feet, his bar stool clattering to the floor. "There's a worm in that cup!" he yelled.

Wally picked up the cup and peered into it. "By god, there is!" He reached into the cup with two fingers and retrieved the plastic worm. "And it's still alive!" By slightly rolling the worm between his fingertips, he made it look lifelike. "But I'll take it if you don't want it. They're tasty." And with that he tossed the worm into his mouth and swallowed it whole.

Nimrod Boy's hands flew to his lips and he ran to the men's room.

It was the beginning of a tradition. We all thought it was hilarious, an endlessly amusing joke that we pulled on the unwary - including each other - whenever possible. Larry did a brisk business selling realistic nightcrawlers in various flavors.

So I looked very carefully at that green something-or-other as my hand traveled across the void from Arlene's tray. It didn't move. I chewed it thoughtfully. No sudden burst of fiery jalapeno. No gag reflex. "That's really good!" I announced, much to my surprise. Of it's own volition, my hand went back to the tray for more. I rapidly ate four or five pieces as Larry's eyes grew even bigger.

Arlene nattered about cheese, spices, and olive oil, talking about central Oklahoma cuisine in a way that would make Julia Child spin in her grave rapidly enough to power a small city. I wasn't really paying attention because the food was so good. Then Arlene said, "Well, I hope you like them, because I ran into your wife this afternoon and gave her a big bag of zucchini along with some recipes!"

Larry smiled a cat-got-the-canary smile as I imagined my diet over the next couple of weeks. The rest of the married guys in the bar were making mental notes to keep their wives as far as possible from Arlene.

Then she turned to Larry and said, "You can have some too. I know they're your favorite!"

"Yes, dear," he replied.

I smiled too.

Tulsa Critical Mass Ride

Part One: Alien Invasion

On Friday, August 28th, the city of Tulsa experienced the full horror of a Critical Mass ride as thousands hundreds nearly a dozen cyclists converged on the helpless city. Downtown office workers fled in terror ahead of the ravenous horde, their screams echoing off deserted buildings. But damn, they could run fast! By the time the relentless Mass reached the city center, all the office munchkins were long gone.

(Well, OK, it was 7PM on a Friday evening, and tumbleweeds could roll through downtown streets.)

The wary band of intrepid warrior bikers searched in every direction, but motorists were few.

So they set off on a quest to find commuters to annoy.

Part Two: Quest for Fire

Towering cliffs of office buildings cast long shadows across city streets. The gloom gave sustenance and cover to the forces of evil, protecting them from prying eyes and the vigilant band of biking brothers...and sisters...and some brothers in dresses. Whatever.

The two-wheeled invaders could feel malevolent eyes following their movements. Orcs might lurk in the shadows. Godzilla could lie concealed in an alleyway. Mothra could perch atop a building overhead. Manaical taxi drivers with Mohawks could be idling just around the next corner.

I steeled myself for the inevitable conflict, preparing to match brains and brawn against the most insidious evil ever to walk the face of the Earth. My warrior's mantra was taken from the immortal words of Conan the Barbarian. When the local warlord asked, "Conan, what is good in life?" he replied:

To crush your enemies

To see them run before you

To hear the lamentations of the women

Conan would go on to become a major player in the Republican party. Imagine that.

Part Three: Combat

Something moved in the gloom ahead. Dimly, I could see a cleverly disguised group of orcs sitting at tables in a sidewalk cafe. They did their best to look like office drones having some drinks after a long workday, but my discerning eye revealed their cunning ambush. I reached for my blade, an ancient longsword forged in the frozen mountains of Cimmeria in the mists of time before even the gods imagined the world. With my hand on the hilt which had tasted the blood of countless......

...my cellular phone rang. "Hello?" I asked.

"Where are you?" It was She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. "You were supposed to be home an hour ago. I'm hungry and you were going to take me out for dinner, remember? And then we're going to watch that movie I rented."

"Yes, my dear. I'll be right home." Even Conan knew when to retreat in the face of a superior force. But further horror lay ahead. She'd rented "The Horse Whisperer" for the third time. Oh, the humanity!

(My grateful thanks to the late Walter Mitty for his invaluable assistance in preparing this piece.)