Best Laid Plans

It’s not very big really. Well, actually it’s microscopic. That virus, bacteria, germ or whatever it is that causes what we generically call “food poisoning”. But despite its size, when it gathers together with others of its kind, well, you know what happens.
On my way to Iowa for my first attempt at traversing the state on my bicycle I left Bakersfield on Tuesday, July 20th. By Thursday I was in Cheyenne, Wyoming, right on schedule. Spotting a Holiday Inn along the highway, I pulled into their lot and luckily found a room for the night. I say luckily because the next day was the start of Frontier Days. It’s billed as the largest outdoor rodeo in the world. Asking the receptionist about local eateries, she cheerfully drew a blue line on a map showing the route from the hotel.
About an hour later, I’m in my car and looking for this locally famous dive (her words). Let’s see, she said to turn left and go under the highway then another left. I had to resort to memory since the map was on the dresser next to the TV in my room. About fifteen minutes and an equal number of turns later, no diner in sight. I had, however, spotted a fast food joint not too far from the hotel.
A local taco joint. Well why not? A Mexican fast food joint. A welcome sight so far away from home. That should fix me right up. But I know what you’re thinking. A Mexican fast food joint in Wyoming? In hindsight, you are absolutely right. But remember, this was supposed to be an adventure, my Road Trip. Just like the movies. So I pull into the parking lot in anticipation.
I should have known I was in trouble when the menu didn’t include rice or beans. But undaunted I order a combo plate. The girl behind the counter asked if the potatoes would be OK for the side dish. Well, why not? When in Wyoming, after all. I grabbed my cup and headed to the drink dispenser. And road trip history.
The food came fast enough. A soft taco, a beef and potato burrito with a side of potatoes. About those potatoes. Not exactly what was expected. They were what we Californians would call Tater Tots. But there was a very generous serving with cheese sauce for dipping. About that cheese sauce. It’s what we would call Cheez Whiz. I tried a couple. Not bad. Then on to the good stuff. Let’s see what Wyoming folks know about my kind of food.
The first bite into the taco just didn’t taste right. Neither did the second. Tried the burrito. The beef and potato burrito. Gotta tell you that when those are done right, oh yeah, I want to break out into dance. But alas, there would be no dancing that day. There was beef and potatoes or rather more Tater Tots. Two bites and that was the end of my dining experience. Oh well.
Back in the hotel it was time to check the next day’s route, watch a little local TV and hit the sack. Then at about 130AM there was that familiar feeling in my gut. Yikes. Let me spare you the details; you know what I’m talking about. By about 9AM there was nothing left inside me, but parts of my body thought otherwise. I tried to get another night at the hotel but the whole city was booked solid. Damn Frontier Days.
I booked a room in Laramie which was about fifty miles west, from whence I had come. Very methodically I packed, got dressed and made several trips to the car. In between all of this were trips to the bathroom alternately driving and sitting on the porcelain bus. At about that time voices of the housekeeping staff could be heard. Then whistling and singing. Singing? Really? How could anyone be so happy while I was so miserable?
I thought about calling the front desk and reporting this serious breach of courtesy. Or maybe taking matters into my own hands and opening the door and demanding silence. But sanity took over and I realized that maybe I was just a little jealous over the fact that someone enjoyed their job enough to whistle and sing while working. Never had that experience.
I made it to Laramie with one stop at a roadside rest stop. By the next morning I was exhausted. Drained. Thoughts of my sore butt on my bike’s saddle for seven minutes let alone seven days brought about pained looks on my face. I threw in the towel, quit, gave up. Turned tail and headed back to Bakersfield. Disappointed but not discouraged. There’s always next year. But next time I think I’ll fly. Oh, and stick to familiar places to eat.

A Lot of Bull

Can it really be? Has one year gone by already? Yep. One year ago today I was in Pamplona running with the bulls with my son David. Well running with the bulls is a bit of a misnomer. It’s more like running away from the bulls.
It’s still a vivid memory. Sure hope years from now it’s just as clear. It was a special time for a father and son. Celebrating his thirtieth birthday in grand and ultra Macho style. Too bad my Dad wasn’t alive to share the adventure. Not by actually running but listening to our accounts and looking at the pictures. Although, not to sell my Dad short, given the opportunity he probably would’ve joined us. This nut didn’t fall far from that tree.
I have not tired of telling the story of our Spanish exploits. But others have, I’m sure. So if you’re one of those, it’s probably better if you stop reading now. But even if you’ve already heard it why not indulge me and give it another shot. It’s not your normal “what I did on vacation” story. I promise.
The wife, my son and I had flown to London and after a few days David and I flew to Pamplona. We flew via Iberian Airlines, the national airline of Spain. Four flights total. Two there and two back. All four were late. We actually missed our connection to Pamplona and arrived hours late. I think Iberian Airlines’ motto is “We just don’t care” or possibly “If you don’t like it, take the bus.” Either one pretty much sums up their service. And I use that term loosely.
But we made it and took a cab to our hotel. Not a bad place. We walked to downtown Pamplona and it was very exciting. Lots of activities. Vendors, bands, entertainers and drinks. I never felt in any sort of danger. The entire community embraces the festival as witnessed by the fact that almost everyone is decked out in white with red scarves, sashes and bandanas. The running of the bulls is a very small part of the Festival of San Fermin. But it is the most famous part.
The next morning we arrived at the route and put on our game faces. It was belly buttons to assholes in the overcrowded square and the nervousness was palpable. We finally made our way down the route and picked our spot. David reminded me to assume the fetal position should I fall. He reassured me by saying that if necessary he would pick me up and throw me over the fence. Yikes. Quite the reversal of roles.
At precisely 8AM the first rocket is set off, soars upward and explodes signaling the opening of the gates. Yep, the bulls are on their way. The look of sheer terror was a common one amongst the runners. Then a second rocket explodes. The last bull has cleared the gates. Still not too late to climb over the fence and just watch the bulls run by.
A few minutes later a wall of humans comes yelling and screaming towards us. I turn and join them. Literally seconds later, I’m sprawled on the cobblestones. But I didn’t come all the way from Bakersfield to watch the action from a fetal position. I get up and on my left is a bull.
Some moments will forever be etched in my brain. I remember thinking that the bull was not nearly as big as anticipated. I’m closing the distance between us. He’s deceptively fast. He’s at a gentle gait but I’m almost at a full sprint trying to keep up. The gap between us is now about ten feet. My sanity returns and I slow, watching as he moves on to meet his fate.
David and I meet and amid hugs, high fives and beaming smiles we take pictures. Exhilarated, adrenaline pumping and just plain tired. It’s over. Gone. All the planning and missed connection forgotten. Who cares about that stuff now? Hey, we ran with the bulls.

Da King Has Spoken

Well, Lebron James has decided where to play basketball. Would’ve watched his self serving hour long program, but had decisions of my own to make. Much more important decisions that actually affect me. Like what to watch on TV. So I really don’t know what his highness decided. Or care.
It’s difficult for me to relate to any professional athlete and their problems of just where to go to make their millions. Most will make more money in one year through contracts and endorsements than everyone that is reading this in our entire lives put together. Hell, I’ve been cutting corners for the last ten months just so I could drive all the way to Iowa to ride my bike.
Am I resentful or even maybe just a little jealous? Damn right. It’s why I haven’t attended a Major League Baseball game in years. Not since that strike years ago. I mean, millionaires striking for more money and benefits? Really? Sure wish I had those problems. So you’ll forgive me if I pass on all this “King James” hoopla. Whatever team he deems worthy deserves him.
But this crap only happens because we as a society not only support, but encourage this behavior. The ratings for King James will probably be astronomical. We love our sports heroes. They can do whatever they want anytime they want. That includes breaking the law. Even getting away with murder. Just ask OJ. But only if they’re winners. A championship ring on a finger brings immunity. But if you’re on a last place team, don’t even think about littering. You’ll be treated just like the rest of us commoners.
But somehow this short uncoordinated somewhat overweight Mexican is supposed to be all agog over where LeBron and all those other knuckleheads will be playing next year. Hey, talk to me when he’s actually on an NBA championship team. Which as far as I’m concerned will be never.
Well, gotta go. Another decision to be made. Grilled cheese sandwich or leftovers for dinner. Hey, if you want, I can record it and put it on YouTube. Might be just as entertaining.