Is it me?

Read about the sailors on their yacht that were captured and killed by Somali pirates. They apparently decided that they knew best and separated from their group with whom they were sailing. Can’t help but wonder what their thought process was. Did they think that being wealthy and on a mission handing out bibles would exempt them from real world pirates?
Then there are those backpackers in Afghanistan, or Iran, or is it Turkey? Does it really matter? They’re in jail now in one of those countries accused of being spies. Again, what’s the thought process? Were they sitting around talking about where to do some hiking and come upon the brilliant idea that anywhere in the Middle East would be a good spot?
But let’s give them a break and say that maybe they wanted to hike around some country that is at least friendly towards the USA. Now, when I used to do hiking/backpacking, I never went anywhere with at least a compass and topographical map and some knowledge of the area. Or better yet, went with someone that had already been there. Let’s not forget that today we have GPS. The electronic and better choice to map and compass.
So, the hikers go and what, wander around and cross the wrong border? By mistake? Yikes. Seems to me that with both sets of people it’s the classic case of getting what you deserve. Maybe it’s a bit harsh? Maybe not. We tend to victimize everyone these days. Never putting their feet to the proverbial fire for stupid actions. Or is it just me?

A Century

Not the century of a hundred years, but the hundred mile bicycle ride century. Drove down to Palm Springs this past Friday. Wanted to do my first century ride. The Tour de Palm Springs seemed like a good one. Plus thought it would be good to get to some warmer weather.
Saturday morning. Breakfast at 5AM at a nearby IHOP. Couldn’t quite eat the whole thing. Pre ride jitters probably. Tried to relax, but too many things rattling around in my brain. Back in my truck heading down the street to the starting point, ahead of schedule, but that’s me. Rather get somewhere early and wait than arrive late and miss out. The guy directed me to the dirt parking lot “just follow Larry” was what he said. I looked for Larry and there he was, old guy, maybe 140 years old or so. Old Larry’s waving a flashlight as if it were a sparkler on the 4th of July. He steps to my truck and tells me to park next to the car at the head of aisle. No problem. Then I spot an equally old woman (Mrs. Larry?) with a Star Wars light saber in her hand guiding me in for a landing.
Now I’m officially parked and able to watch the two of them. The best show in town. By now the row I’m in is full and they’ve directed cars to start another row behind mine. Only problem is that there’s already a row in front of me which means if I finish before everyone around me, I’m stuck. Gotta wait for someone to finish. I watch the drama unfold. Fortunately, the third guy to park explains the dilemma to Larry. He jumps, well maybe, steps, into action. More waving of the flashlight. Finally the cars have backed up and left me room to back out of my spot.
The time for the ride to start has arrived. My riding partner and fellow riding club member, Libby and I put on our riding gear, game faces and off we go to the starting line. The ride, much to the credit of the organizers, starts at 7AM sharp. It takes us about 20 minutes to reach the actual street from our back of the pack position. Then it’s a very slow ride on the street to get out of town. I won’t say it was really slow, but I think I saw some kid on a Big Wheel was on the sidewalk passing us all.
We finally make it to the outskirts and we’re on our way. I won’t bore you with the mile by mile recount of our ride. It was at times fun, tedious, painful, grueling and scary. But mostly fun. We saw crashes, injuries and knuckleheads. The guys that always think they’re Lance Armstrong competing in the Tour de France. All our training paid off when we crossed the finish line. It felt good. The feeling of accomplishment was grand.
Most people don’t understand the appeal. Most people don’t have the discipline. Most people don’t understand my training methods and chose to go another way. But to paraphrase, the proof is in the cycling.

Senior Moments

Give me a minute and I’ll remember what I was writing about. Oh yeah, Senior Moments. You know, those times when you forget things. When something is on the tip of your tongue or in the corner of your brain.
Living in an over 55 community it’s a rather common occurrence. Or I think it is. Can’t really remember if it is or not. But give me another minute. Sometimes I can remember my entire third grade class and then not remember why I walked into the kitchen.
Did a job for some neighbors the other day. Was on a ladder balancing a ceiling fan. The lady of the house related a story about her senior moment. She was telling a friend about a movie she liked. A movie starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. But she couldn’t remember the name of the movie so she kept describing it to her friend in hopes that it would jar her memory. Ironically, the movie was Total Recall.
Of course we all laugh at those moments. Usually in the retelling, if only to ourselves. In private. I don’t feel so bad about my lifelong inability to remember names anymore. It was introduced one minute and the next completely gone from my memory. It was quite embarrassing. Even tried name association. But after erroneously calling someone Mr. Hare because he reminded me of a rabbit, I gave that up. Now I just blame it on having a Senior Moment. Or as those of us that live here call it, a Solera Moment. That’s the name of our small community. No wait, yeah that’s it, just looked it up, so I know that’s correct.
Made a list of things needed at Home Depot. Things for jobs and things for home. Rewrote it several times. Grouped by where they would be found in the store. OK, so it’s a bit much, but in my days as a Handy Man it made sense and saved time. Plus, if needed, I could actually tear the list in half and give it to my helper. Naturally I had to translate it for him, but it was a good system. Anyway, so off I go to Home Depot. Half way there I realize that the list is still at home. In my office. Next to the light bulb that I was going to take along to ensure the correct replacement would be gotten.
But it’s part of life, these Solera Moments. Part of what is euphemistically called the aging process. Getting old, making our way down the road of life. A way of reminding us or our mortality. A reminder, gentle and otherwise, that it’s OK to be fallible. To be human. Well, gotta go, just remembered why I went to the kitchen in the first place.

Vegas

On my way home from my disastrous adventure to cross Iowa on my bike, I stopped in Vegas. There I spent the night with, Dick, and his wife Jeanette. I’ve known Dick since grade school, maybe third grade. He’s always been a nice guy and it was nice to see him again. The last time was about ten years ago at our high school reunion. It was there that we reconnected after many, many years of making our separate ways through life.
I arrived about noon from Salt Lake City after having taken the wrong exit. Well, it was the right exit but off the wrong freeway. But that’s another story. Dick is a very capable direction giver and in no time I was pulling up in front of his home. It was about 102 degrees which to those of us that live in Bakersfield is no big deal.
He and his wife greeted me warmly despite her headache. He and I quickly settled at the dining room table while she, as most wives do, retired to another room. I mean, not many wives want to sit around while a couple of old farts reminisce about their glory days. Of course, the older we get, the better we were and besides, our wives have already heard all that crap. At least a thousand times before.
After a few minutes he asked if I’d like to see the sights. Of course I said yes. Hell, I had money burning a hole in my pocket ready to hand over to any casino in town. First of course, we stopped for some lunch. Then we got back in his car and I was ready to hit the Craps tables. That’s my favorite form of losing, er, that is, gambling. But boy was I wrong.
In short order, we were heading out of town along a two lane highway. In a matter of a few minutes right in front of us were some craggy mountains. Beautiful in red and white and shades of brown. Then we entered Red Rock Canyon. Whooda thunk it? In Vegas? A beautiful, picturesque and totally awesome vision of nature at its finest. It almost left me speechless. This is, to those that know me, quite a feat. And I quickly forgot about giving the casinos my money.
Dick teaches landscape at Southern Nevada Community College and is consequently very familiar with the local plant life. After touring the visitor center, we drove a scenic loop with stops along the way for a little closer look at the incredible rock formations. He pointed out different plants describing their family roots (pun intended). What a big difference being shown around by a knowledgeable guide. It was fascinating hearing about desert plants.
He also mentioned that there are petroglyphs and hiking trails, some with year round creeks. I asked what time of year would be best to return to explore some of the canyons. He quickly replied that April was when the creeks were at their fullest and the flowers were all in bloom. He added that I was welcome to come anytime. It’s possible he might be sorry to have made that offer as I am definitely going to try to get back in April.
I left for home the next day with a whole new perspective of Vegas. Like most others I never thought of Vegas as having homes with people living in them and certainly not as having such natural beauty. I came home richer. Not just because I didn’t leave any money at the casinos. I’m richer for experiencing Red Rock Canyon with an old friend.

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.