There’s lots of stuff going on around the world. Almost too much. Well, in terms of trying to keep up, that is. But do we really care?
The Middle East with all its revolutions has a staggering amount of information coming out on an almost hourly basis. Who can keep up with this stuff? Do we really need to? I’m your typical American when it comes to these things. Shamefully and yet blissfully ignorant of worldwide events. I fall into the “how does that affect me personally” category. The kind that doesn’t know one Middle Eastern leader from another. Or cares. But ask me about the latest with Charlie Sheen, and oh boy, better grab a beer and have a seat.
How about the latest on the death of Bin Laden? Although it was gratifying, I’m proud to say I didn’t hoot and holler or throw a party over that(I consider all human life sacred). What’s the latest regarding the tsunami in Japan? Well, better give me a few minutes to Google that. But I can tell you the absolute latest about TV’s Modern Family comedy series. Probably just as you can tell me who’s been kicked off American Idol and/or Dancing With the Stars. But can you tell me, just who is the Prime Minister of England? Or how about your state representative? Join the club.
We are egocentric when it comes to news. It’s all about us. I don’t know what actually causes higher gas prices. Well, other than greed, but I’m sure glad I own some oil company stock. But I’m too lazy to do anything effective about gas prices. But, ask me to sign a Face Book petition and I’m there. Boycott buying gas for a day, you got it. Of course, forget the fact that I’m still waiting for the oil companies to come crawling to us in the form of lower prices for the last time I didn’t buy gas on a particular day. Well, maybe the fact that I filled up the gas tank the day before might have something to do with it. You think? Hey, a guy only do so much and still not get too involved. I’ll leave it in the capable hands of my neighbors and unknown elected representatives at all levels of government, from city to county to state and up to the feds. Ain’t it grand?
Friday, May 13, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Faded Photographs
Had the occasion to go through some old photos. I mean old photos. The black and white variety with the scalloped edges. Didn’t know who most of those people were and debated about keeping them for another fifty years or just tossing them.
As a society, we used to keep old photographs, because we knew their value. Not just the value of having a picture of Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois, but the value in terms of the process. Back then, we had a camera. One camera. A Kodak probably. The kind that was held about waist level as you looked through the lens trying to locate the people, things or places who you wanted in the picture. Wasn’t an easy task; called for a steady hand, a good eye and perfect lighting. Even then, it was no guarantee that the picture would come out to your satisfaction.
Once that process was repeated until the entire roll was exposed, the camera was opened and the film was taken to the drug store for developing. Or if you were lucky, to the local camera shop. “It’ll be ready in about a week” was the usual response from the clerk or pharmacist. The one hour photo had not yet been invented.
A week or so later, and back to pick up the pictures. Time to see just how good your photographic skills were; the moment of truth. Then when you got home, it was time to sit around the table and pass the pictures around, one by one. Sounds of delight or moans of disappointment over an opportunity missed.
Any pictures worthy of sharing with relatives were sent via US Mail, with words of caution to the mailman; Do Not Bend, Photos Enclosed. Sometimes negatives were taken back to the shop or drug store for extra prints, but usually the originals were sent for sharing. To new owners, to be put into albums or boxes. To be opened and pondered over years later by other generations. Generations that can take a picture and send it to a recipient across the street, country or world in less than a minute. Then to be saved to a computer file, or just deleted.
So I took another step forward into this technological age. A very reluctant step. I no longer saw the value of those pictures, the value of the effort. So I deleted them 21st Century style and into the trash they went.
As a society, we used to keep old photographs, because we knew their value. Not just the value of having a picture of Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois, but the value in terms of the process. Back then, we had a camera. One camera. A Kodak probably. The kind that was held about waist level as you looked through the lens trying to locate the people, things or places who you wanted in the picture. Wasn’t an easy task; called for a steady hand, a good eye and perfect lighting. Even then, it was no guarantee that the picture would come out to your satisfaction.
Once that process was repeated until the entire roll was exposed, the camera was opened and the film was taken to the drug store for developing. Or if you were lucky, to the local camera shop. “It’ll be ready in about a week” was the usual response from the clerk or pharmacist. The one hour photo had not yet been invented.
A week or so later, and back to pick up the pictures. Time to see just how good your photographic skills were; the moment of truth. Then when you got home, it was time to sit around the table and pass the pictures around, one by one. Sounds of delight or moans of disappointment over an opportunity missed.
Any pictures worthy of sharing with relatives were sent via US Mail, with words of caution to the mailman; Do Not Bend, Photos Enclosed. Sometimes negatives were taken back to the shop or drug store for extra prints, but usually the originals were sent for sharing. To new owners, to be put into albums or boxes. To be opened and pondered over years later by other generations. Generations that can take a picture and send it to a recipient across the street, country or world in less than a minute. Then to be saved to a computer file, or just deleted.
So I took another step forward into this technological age. A very reluctant step. I no longer saw the value of those pictures, the value of the effort. So I deleted them 21st Century style and into the trash they went.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Amen already
Haven’t been to a church potluck in years. Lots of years; but I do remember them. Ours were usually held in the multi-purpose room of the local elementary school. The multi-purpose room was used mostly as a cafeteria although there might have been other uses such as dances and graduations.
The church had a small congregation, but with potlucks, the numbers grew. Seems the prospect of feeding your entire family cheaply had its appeal. One family in particular rarely attended church, but come time for potlucks they were almost always there. Four of them with sometimes one or two guests in tow. They always brought a small dish of scalded potatoes. If that’s the correct name. In return for bringing that small dish; the six of them would gorge themselves with free food. Praise the lord and pass the forks.
For some reason, the food was always very slow in being served. If we showed up at four in the afternoon, it seemed as if we rarely ate before six. Seemed that way, but memory being what it is… It seemed to have taken a long time for this hungry boy. We weren’t allowed to use any of the playground equipment, so we kids just sat around hungry and bored. About the time we had reached our limit of waiting one of us usually suggested we sing our hungry song.
I can still remember the words to that song. That infamous song was meant to annoy the adults in charge and prod them into bringing out the grub so we could satisfy our hunger. We would gather up and break out into chorus:
Here we sit like birds in the wilderness, birds in the wilderness. Birds in the wilderness.
Here we sit like birds in the wilderness, WAITING TO BE FED.
It rarely had the desired of effect of getting the food to the tables, but I like to think that it was at the very least, annoying. Either way, it was fun and broke up the monotony. Eventually the food was placed on the serving tables and we non adults of course, were relegated to the back of the line.
But first, of course, came Grace. My family always said what can loosely be referred to as Grace before dinner at home; “bless this food and make it nourishing to our bodies.” Short, direct and to the point. Mostly short. But Grace performed by a minister with a captive audience, oh lord, was worthy of being quoted in the scriptures.
It started out simple enough, thanking the Lord for the food and guests, then launched into a dissertation of thankfulness that included the weather, the school board for allowing us use of the room, to automobile and tire manufacturers for their part in getting everyone there. After what seemed a half an hour, we would start to glance around and make eye contact. Yikes. We tried to control ourselves, but to no avail. Stifling laughter can be difficult at best. Faces turning red, shoulders shuddering uncontrollably. Mercifully, the grace would finally come to a conclusion.
Then it was time to dig in. The food always outstanding and plentiful. The desserts decadent and loaded with sugar. Almost worth the wait for us birds in the wilderness.
The church had a small congregation, but with potlucks, the numbers grew. Seems the prospect of feeding your entire family cheaply had its appeal. One family in particular rarely attended church, but come time for potlucks they were almost always there. Four of them with sometimes one or two guests in tow. They always brought a small dish of scalded potatoes. If that’s the correct name. In return for bringing that small dish; the six of them would gorge themselves with free food. Praise the lord and pass the forks.
For some reason, the food was always very slow in being served. If we showed up at four in the afternoon, it seemed as if we rarely ate before six. Seemed that way, but memory being what it is… It seemed to have taken a long time for this hungry boy. We weren’t allowed to use any of the playground equipment, so we kids just sat around hungry and bored. About the time we had reached our limit of waiting one of us usually suggested we sing our hungry song.
I can still remember the words to that song. That infamous song was meant to annoy the adults in charge and prod them into bringing out the grub so we could satisfy our hunger. We would gather up and break out into chorus:
Here we sit like birds in the wilderness, birds in the wilderness. Birds in the wilderness.
Here we sit like birds in the wilderness, WAITING TO BE FED.
It rarely had the desired of effect of getting the food to the tables, but I like to think that it was at the very least, annoying. Either way, it was fun and broke up the monotony. Eventually the food was placed on the serving tables and we non adults of course, were relegated to the back of the line.
But first, of course, came Grace. My family always said what can loosely be referred to as Grace before dinner at home; “bless this food and make it nourishing to our bodies.” Short, direct and to the point. Mostly short. But Grace performed by a minister with a captive audience, oh lord, was worthy of being quoted in the scriptures.
It started out simple enough, thanking the Lord for the food and guests, then launched into a dissertation of thankfulness that included the weather, the school board for allowing us use of the room, to automobile and tire manufacturers for their part in getting everyone there. After what seemed a half an hour, we would start to glance around and make eye contact. Yikes. We tried to control ourselves, but to no avail. Stifling laughter can be difficult at best. Faces turning red, shoulders shuddering uncontrollably. Mercifully, the grace would finally come to a conclusion.
Then it was time to dig in. The food always outstanding and plentiful. The desserts decadent and loaded with sugar. Almost worth the wait for us birds in the wilderness.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Gun and US
We love our guns. They hold a fascination for us. Guns are part of what defines us as a nation. From the Revolutionary War to every war we’ve been in; all the way back to the Old West to modern day drive by shootings. Guns and America. Despite what the fear mongers might be saying, the two are inseparable. No matter who might be President.
Our constitution guarantees our right to bear arms. I have no quarrel with that concept. I don’t spend any time pondering what the founding fathers had in mind or wondering about the presence of the famous comma. But gun ownership is a lot like owning and using a car. With both comes the enormous burden of responsible use. Cars used irresponsibly can cause damage, injury and even death. Just like guns. Of course with a car you sometimes have a chance to hit the brakes and/or swerve to avoid an accident. But once a bullet has left the barrel, there are no brakes or swerving to be done. It stops when it hits something. Or someone.
Over the course of the last few months I’ve attended several Carry Concealed Weapons (CCW) classes. A friend is the instructor and asked if I’d care to join other students. Probably because he wanted to give me a different perspective on gun ownership. I’m glad he did. The class was informative, well taught and quite an eye opener. He covered the effectiveness of the different firearms, in relation to self defense, from rifles, shotguns to pistols. He discussed the stopping power and the practical and legal use of those firearms. I won’t go into detail as to his recommendations, that’s for another day.
What struck me about the students, gun owners, was the utter lack of knowledge of the four basic gun safety rules. The mentality that because someone has been shooting for years that they are competent enough to own and safely operate a gun. The “I learned how to shoot from my Uncle” thinking. Equally disturbing, it appeared that many of the guns hadn’t been cleaned in years and I’m guessing that the majority of the students wouldn’t even know how. Yet, they can and do legally own as many guns as they can afford. It’s their constitutional right.
I don’t have a quarrel with the Second Amendment. So be it. But if you own a gun, for crying out loud, get to a gun safety class. And take everyone in your family, especially your children and grandchildren. Forget about what you think you know about shooting; forget about what some friend or family member taught you. Go learn about that gun, rifle, shotgun or whatever firearm you may possess. Take a gun safety class, preferably one that includes practice on a firing range. Don’t worry about the cost. What is preventing a fatal accident worth? And learn about proper maintenance. You won’t be sorry.
Our constitution guarantees our right to bear arms. I have no quarrel with that concept. I don’t spend any time pondering what the founding fathers had in mind or wondering about the presence of the famous comma. But gun ownership is a lot like owning and using a car. With both comes the enormous burden of responsible use. Cars used irresponsibly can cause damage, injury and even death. Just like guns. Of course with a car you sometimes have a chance to hit the brakes and/or swerve to avoid an accident. But once a bullet has left the barrel, there are no brakes or swerving to be done. It stops when it hits something. Or someone.
Over the course of the last few months I’ve attended several Carry Concealed Weapons (CCW) classes. A friend is the instructor and asked if I’d care to join other students. Probably because he wanted to give me a different perspective on gun ownership. I’m glad he did. The class was informative, well taught and quite an eye opener. He covered the effectiveness of the different firearms, in relation to self defense, from rifles, shotguns to pistols. He discussed the stopping power and the practical and legal use of those firearms. I won’t go into detail as to his recommendations, that’s for another day.
What struck me about the students, gun owners, was the utter lack of knowledge of the four basic gun safety rules. The mentality that because someone has been shooting for years that they are competent enough to own and safely operate a gun. The “I learned how to shoot from my Uncle” thinking. Equally disturbing, it appeared that many of the guns hadn’t been cleaned in years and I’m guessing that the majority of the students wouldn’t even know how. Yet, they can and do legally own as many guns as they can afford. It’s their constitutional right.
I don’t have a quarrel with the Second Amendment. So be it. But if you own a gun, for crying out loud, get to a gun safety class. And take everyone in your family, especially your children and grandchildren. Forget about what you think you know about shooting; forget about what some friend or family member taught you. Go learn about that gun, rifle, shotgun or whatever firearm you may possess. Take a gun safety class, preferably one that includes practice on a firing range. Don’t worry about the cost. What is preventing a fatal accident worth? And learn about proper maintenance. You won’t be sorry.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Price of Low Prices
I don’t shop at Wal-Mart. Yes, I know, you don’t either. Well, maybe you do, once or twice a year, possibly more, depending on what’s on sale. They do, after all, have low prices. Very low prices. But as I said, I don’t shop at Wal-Mart. Haven’t even been in a Wal-Mart parking lot for years, let alone inside any of their stores.
So what makes me so unpatriotic as to not shop at the world’s largest retailer? A retailer with roots right here in America, the good ‘ol US of A. The ubiquitous and powerful Wal-Mart. It’s precisely my patriotism and love for the ever fading American Worker that keeps me away. Because Wal-Mart is probably the reason why so many of those workers-- our friends, family and neighbors-- are unemployed, uninsured and living in desperation.
To garner a contract with Wal-Mart has been likened to playing in the Super Bowl. A manufacturer can literally overnight go from a struggling, unknown concern to a nationally if not internationally known brand. Living the American dream; go from rags to riches, by going from selling to a few retailers to selling to the biggest retailer with countless stores and millions of customers. But as with so many things, there’s always a price to be paid.
Let’s say you manufacture and wholesale the famous Widgets. In the USA. You sell these Widgets for $5.00 each and make a decent profit, enough to support your family, send your kids to college and save for retirement. Plus, you keep your plant running and your 150 American workers gainfully employed. You and they also contribute your share of taxes to all levels of government. But Wal-Mart won’t pay you $5 per Widget. They will only pay you $4.75. But on the bright side, you go from manufacturing thousands of Widgets to tens of thousands in order to satisfy Wal-Mart customers. All is well in your world. You’ve hit the big time. Congratulations!
Now, after a year of record profits, it’s time for you to renew your Wal-Mart contract. Now the fun begins. Wal-Mart now offers to pay you $4.25 per Widget. Take it or leave it. You can still make a decent profit and so you agree. Then the third year contract comes around and they will only pay $3.50. This, you’ve got to think about. You’re in quite the dilemma. What to do, what to do?
You do what most other American companies have done and will continue to do. Outsource. Which, of course, is just a fancy term for manufacturing your product in countries such as Mexico, India, Pakistan or China. You’re left with little if any choice. It only makes economic sense for you. There is one problem—your American workers. Yikes. Double yikes. Some of those workers have been with you from the beginning. When you paid them using your credit cards. You’ve been to their homes, birthday parties, Bar Mitzvahs, weddings and funerals. But, you’re in the super bowl of retailers and there’s no turning back. You close your American shop and open one in another country. And you layoff your plant workers. Left to fend for themselves.
That scenario has been repeated countless times. Wal-Mart has the might and the big bucks to whittle down prices which is why we, or rather you, shop there. Even if it’s only once or twice a year (yeah, right). We are egocentric when it comes to most things and especially when it comes to saving our money. We may shake our head and tsk, tsk our tongues when our neighbor or friend or Uncle gets the pink slip because the plant where they work is closing and moving to Mexico. But then we get into our cars and drive to Wal-Mart because they have the lowest prices.
Well, like I said, I don’t shop at Wal-Mart.
So what makes me so unpatriotic as to not shop at the world’s largest retailer? A retailer with roots right here in America, the good ‘ol US of A. The ubiquitous and powerful Wal-Mart. It’s precisely my patriotism and love for the ever fading American Worker that keeps me away. Because Wal-Mart is probably the reason why so many of those workers-- our friends, family and neighbors-- are unemployed, uninsured and living in desperation.
To garner a contract with Wal-Mart has been likened to playing in the Super Bowl. A manufacturer can literally overnight go from a struggling, unknown concern to a nationally if not internationally known brand. Living the American dream; go from rags to riches, by going from selling to a few retailers to selling to the biggest retailer with countless stores and millions of customers. But as with so many things, there’s always a price to be paid.
Let’s say you manufacture and wholesale the famous Widgets. In the USA. You sell these Widgets for $5.00 each and make a decent profit, enough to support your family, send your kids to college and save for retirement. Plus, you keep your plant running and your 150 American workers gainfully employed. You and they also contribute your share of taxes to all levels of government. But Wal-Mart won’t pay you $5 per Widget. They will only pay you $4.75. But on the bright side, you go from manufacturing thousands of Widgets to tens of thousands in order to satisfy Wal-Mart customers. All is well in your world. You’ve hit the big time. Congratulations!
Now, after a year of record profits, it’s time for you to renew your Wal-Mart contract. Now the fun begins. Wal-Mart now offers to pay you $4.25 per Widget. Take it or leave it. You can still make a decent profit and so you agree. Then the third year contract comes around and they will only pay $3.50. This, you’ve got to think about. You’re in quite the dilemma. What to do, what to do?
You do what most other American companies have done and will continue to do. Outsource. Which, of course, is just a fancy term for manufacturing your product in countries such as Mexico, India, Pakistan or China. You’re left with little if any choice. It only makes economic sense for you. There is one problem—your American workers. Yikes. Double yikes. Some of those workers have been with you from the beginning. When you paid them using your credit cards. You’ve been to their homes, birthday parties, Bar Mitzvahs, weddings and funerals. But, you’re in the super bowl of retailers and there’s no turning back. You close your American shop and open one in another country. And you layoff your plant workers. Left to fend for themselves.
That scenario has been repeated countless times. Wal-Mart has the might and the big bucks to whittle down prices which is why we, or rather you, shop there. Even if it’s only once or twice a year (yeah, right). We are egocentric when it comes to most things and especially when it comes to saving our money. We may shake our head and tsk, tsk our tongues when our neighbor or friend or Uncle gets the pink slip because the plant where they work is closing and moving to Mexico. But then we get into our cars and drive to Wal-Mart because they have the lowest prices.
Well, like I said, I don’t shop at Wal-Mart.
Monday, March 7, 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)