Getting a little air time on the bicycle

Wanting to do something a little different today, I loaded Kandy (My bike. It’s orange and black – hence Halloween, hence candy corn, ergo, Kandy. Yes, I’ve named my bike too – life just keeps getting sadder and sadder when you live on your own.) Anyway, I loaded Kandy onto the car and headed northwest of San Antonio to a place that has some very nice single-track bike paths. Flat Rock Ranch, in fact, boasts two trails – a shorter harder trail and a longer easier trail - at least that is what I was told. Naturally I chose the easier.

Let it be said now that ‘easier’ is one of those words that can mean lots of different things to different people. As I am a cycling neophyte of the highest order, easier to me means the trails I’ve been riding – fairly smooth dirt with the odd incline of no great moment. There was no ‘easier’ option at Flat Rock for me. Nor will there ever be.

The paths, you see, are very narrow and rocks abound. And today, for the first time, I realized exactly how much effort you need to spend taking in your surroundings while cycling … that is, if by surroundings you mean the three-10 feet directly in front of your handlebars – about the point on the ground your face would hit if you were to go flying over them. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’ve watched enough X-Games and TV shows that show youngsters with no regard for medical bills hurtling themselves through, over, and around various obstacles, rocks, trees and stuff to know, that they are just plain foolish. So imagine my surprise, while riding along I note that at some points on the trail, a balance wobble could send me bouncing down many, many, many feet of rock because the trail is about two feet wide with a ledge. (Not a deep ledge mind, but ledge enough that you need to pay attention to what’s going on in front of you.)

Now, you may laugh that I have named my bike as well as my apartments, but at Flat Rock Ranch, they name their hills – not the up hills, but the down hills. I noticed this as I huffed my way to the top of a hill and entered a switchback and caught a fleeting glimpse of a sign that said, “Rigie’s Canyon”.

It took me about 2 seconds to process the word ‘canyon’ and its potential implications to my truncated world-view at the time. Two seconds, it turns out, was too long as I found myself hurtling down a hill that I had no business hurtling down. Had I been given extra warning about the rock-strewn and tree-root infested half-pipe I was now careening down, I would have done the sensible thing and walked my bike down the hill.

Alas, I had no such warning and was pretty much along for the ride busying myself trying to keep Kandy as upright as possible.

I think this is a good point to discuss profanity. If you know me, you know I’m no stranger to a good bit of cussing. But never, and I think this bears repeating, never, have I just swore out loud with no person within acres of me just out of blind panic. Words I have not heard myself utter in decades came back to me like falling space debris – really fast and in bits and pieces – as I bounced along.

For all it’s grey-hair inducing qualities, however, I made two decisions when I reached the bottom of the hill alive and relatively intact. First, I thought, that was actually quite fun. Second, I thought, I’m never coming back to this place again.

I had originally intended to be on the trails for an hour, maybe 90 minutes. After two hours, I’d run out of water and a day that had started pleasantly in the low 70s was now into the 90s. I was still finding trail markers though, so I figured it wouldn’t be long.

Well into the third hour I got to see the “Evil Worm” which I noticed in plenty of time to walk down and I got to do something I hadn’t even considered when starting my ride. I got to fly.

That’s right, fly. Not far though. Early on in the ride I had a couple run-ins with large obstacles that stopped my bicycle’s forward motion but launched my prodigious girth right into my handlebars. My final act, however, involved no ground based obstacles at all. The path wound through the woods and right between two trees. (I’ve included the picture for you here).

It is realistic to think that if enough people have gone between these trees to have made a path, I should be able to do this. The ground was flat and thoughtfully devoid of large rocks and I had not yet entered a state of dehydration.

Well. You kind of know what’s coming don’t you? Kandy just kind of got stuck between the trees and at a fairly odd angle too it must be said. I had no such issues as I launched myself onto the path – and landed with my face just about the point I was looking at as I was riding.

I lay there on the ground for a moment, very happy for gloves and my helmet, going through body functions like a pre-flight checklist.

Arms? Good.

Legs? Good.

Back? Miraculously, good.

Ego? Oh, hell, we haven’t seen that for hours at this point.

Lying on the ground I started to laugh because ultimately, the only reason I’m on a bicycle at all is because my doctor said running would hurt my knees. I thought this hugely funny as I picked bits of gravel out of myself and made my way out of the woods and down “Hospital Hill” to my car.

Spinning Class Works

I can’t prove it but I’m pretty sure the help wanted sign read something like this:
Help Wanted: Sadist. Must enjoy inflicting physical pain upon others while listening to upbeat music in a specially designed room and with equipment made specifically for the inducement of such pain. Should be able to take part in said pain yourself while maintaining the ability to talk, yell to those under your ‘care’ and do it all without looking like it bothers you. If you think you have what it takes, please enquire for the job of spin instructor.

Yup, that’s probably what it said. About two weeks ago I thought it would be a good idea to start taking spin classes – you know, where you go in a room with other people and sit on specially designed bicycles that don’t actually go anywhere and proceed to sweat all over them.

I did this for a couple reasons: first, if you haven’t gathered by now, I’m not really that bright; second, a very good friend of mine whom I’m going to call out by name, Riley McAlpine, is one of these minions of hell out in California and she’s told me on a number of occasions that “spinning is great; you’ll love it; it’s so much fun…” the same type of thing you’d expect to hear from a 3-inch imp sitting on your shoulder with a pitchfork talking in your ear. But Riley has actually ridden real bicycles across the whole bloody country a number of times, whereas I have grown doggedly tired looking at a map of the country. So I give her the benefit of all knowledge where biking is concerned.

And, as my primary form of aerobic activity is now biking anyway, I figured, why not? How bad could it possibly be?

Turns out that…it’s not too bad. In fact, Tuesdays and Thursday evenings now are kind of the highlight of my week – or at least what I look forward to the most rather than just sitting around BOB2.0 and hoping someone puts up a something humorous on FaceBook.

Spinning is torturous in that it’s a hard workout and you sweat buckets; but it’s not un-doable – and that’s the magic component that makes it work and makes it fun. There always seems to be a couple folks in class who make me look svelte and they come through it just fine. As far as I can determine, the defribulator on the wall has never once been used. If you’re not in great shape, you don’t spin as fast so it’s not like weight lifting where 100 pounds is a 100 pounds and you either lift it or you don’t. (I don’t)

If you’ve never been to one of these classes and are interested, what you have is essentially a stationary bicycle but much better and with a flywheel mechanism so if you think you want to stop pedaling and coast…you can’t; it keeps pedaling. The other big component on the bike is the knob that adjusts the tension. This knob is our instructor’s favorite thing – especially when turning it clockwise. So with a little upbeat music (Madonna works really well for this and I’m not entirely sure why) and an instructor who every 30 seconds laughs while telling you to pedal faster and turn the tension up, an hour-long workout flies right by.

The best thing about the class is that audience participation is not frowned upon. In fact, I think it’s nice that some people can actually get out sentences while the rest of us (me) are trying desperately to draw breath. A rather portly gent in my class talks nearly as much as the instructor – usually following up her demands for “two full turns to the right” by saying something witty and clever like, “You said left, yes? I don’t want to miss it if you said left…”

Ok, spin class isn’t a night at the Improv, but it’s a convivial atmosphere for a workout. And don’t misunderstand, it is a workout.

In the first 5 minutes of my first class I thought maybe I had gone into the wrong room. “Riley said this was hard…” I thought, “Maybe she’s just trying to make it seem harder because that’s her job…”

Forty-five minutes later, I had run out of water, had two sweat-soaked towels on my handlebars, and thigh muscles which were making promises about me walking funny the next day they were determined to keep. It’s plenty difficult.

But even after only half a dozen spin classes, the difference on a real bike ride is far from negligible. The pedal cadence is smoother and more consistent, the ride a little faster and, let’s face it, the ‘hills’ in spin class are far longer and steeper than anything I’m coming across in San Antonio.

In the end, I don’t know if my instructor or Riley think of themselves as sadistic cyclists or not, and truth be told I don’t really care because as ironic as it is, I think I may be getting somewhere in my quest for better fitness by sitting on bike going nowhere.



PS – Thanks so much to the following people who have already sponsored by bike ride for the Wounded Warrior Project which takes place Nov. 12.

If you are interested in sponsoring me on this ride, I’ve set a goal of $1,000. So far, thanks to the generosity of Lynne and Steve; Scott; Ed; and Jon and Marie, I’m already a quarter of the way to that goal.

If you’d like to help, please visit my donor homepage to learn more. The Wounded Warrior Project helps our veterans who have a lot bigger issues than losing a few pounds. If you can, please consider it. I would also consider it a favor if you could repost the site to your own FB page or send an email to your friends.

http://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=447736&lis=0&kntae447736=D37418DC04A240E58F94CC3521DDC2AA&supId=334307797

To learn more about the programs offered to wounded veterans through WWP, please visit:

http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/programs.aspx
Thanks again.

28 People are Responsible for all Your Spam

You’ll have to excuse any abnormally large amount of spelling or grammatical errors this week. You see, I’m all a flush with excitement from an email I received from Mr. Solomon Johnson who has offered me the most singularly spectacular opportunity I have ever received from an unsolicited email.

Now, Sol – I’m going to call him Sol because he’s now my BFF – Sol understands that we all want to make a difference in the world and as a wealthy man (a $10.2 million fortune no less) he wants to not only help the less fortunate, but he wants to help me – and by helping me, help others even MORE, by allowing me access to his fortune (because he’s dying) to help the needy. Apparently dying people where Sol comes from can’t get access to their terrifyingly large wads of US currency.

So all I’ve got to do to earn this fortune is give Sol more information than I give to the US government to earn a security clearance. That sounds legitimate to me, I mean, you don’t just hand someone $10 mil without some information right? I mean, you have to turn over a great deal of personal information to get a driver’s license, so this is nothing. Bring on the giant check.

Fortunately, if you have enough brain activity to keep pumping oxygen into your body without conscious thought, you know that Sol is one of a myriad of scam artists who generally say they are from Africa (Nigeria is popular) and who, despite being enormously wealthy, cannot afford to hire someone to proof-read their email for simple English juxtaposition.

And if you’re reading this, I expect that you have a higher than average intellect and have probably asked yourself the same question I posit to you now… Who falls for this?

Well, as it turns out, enough people to keep this little scam going for something like 80+ years.

Yes, you read that right. This isn’t an invention of the internet age – but that’s a good place to start. According to ZDNET, spammers, on average, get one response for every 12.5 MILLION emails they send. This number is not made up apparently. It is the result of a study by researchers – probably researchers who sent 12.5 million emails until the US government answered one and gave them grant money. But I digress.

Anyway, after about 350 Million emails (one for every man, woman and child in the U.S. or thereabouts) they get 28 responses. This means that there are more than 2 dozen people in the U.S. at this very moment that are receiving and allegedly reading emails and who are clinically brain dead.

If you ever needed proof of the Zombie apocalypse, here it is. The Zombies are among us and they’re breeding. (In all likelihood, more prolifically than you or I)

Now the emails sent by Sol, are not stuff of well financed cyber criminals - the ones that use bogus web sites which look almost identical to actual bank sites and stuff. Thousands of people fall prey to those every year and they have my genuine sympathy. It’s not as if they’re guileless, just extremely unlucky. Like people who bought a LeCar. Ok, probably a bad example.

Sol, however is not alone in his perfidy. In 2002 – nearly 10 years ago when we were, as a nation, so much more innocent and gullible – the people running what is known as "the Nigerian scam" (like Sol’s letter) raked in $100 Million in the United States ... that we know about. (This bit of information is from a website everyone should have listed as a favorite called: http://www.snopes.com/ This site will help you determine the veracity of many urban legends and emails that you receive that start with the letters “FW:” in the subject line. Go to Snopes before forwarding emails. Please.)

So, in ‘02, Americans were bilked out of $100 mil and it wasn’t new even then. In fact, again according to Snopes, this type of ploy has been around since at LEAST the 1920s, when old fashioned paper was used and stamps were purchased and scammers could be discerned by copious paper cuts on their tongues. In the ‘20s, however, it was known as the “Spanish Prisoner” scam. The son of a fabulously wealthy Spaniard was jailed and they needed to raise money to get him out of a Spanish prison and they would pay you blah blah blah.

If we could just find the 28 people in question and take away their internet, you have to assume the emails would stop. There would be no point in sending emails asking for money if no one responded, right? But how do we find these people?

It’s urgent that we do find them because about 90% of the more than 2.8 million emails sent every SECOND, are spam – roughly the same percentage of junk mail I get in my real, paper post letter box.

So, here’s what I suggest. Everyone should send me their bank account data and passwords so I can do a full review and cross your names off my list of people who could potentially be answering these emails and thereby flooding all of our email boxes with junk.

After I receive all of this data, I’ll buy a small Caribbean island, a magnificent boat, and probably a sandwich because I’m sure I’ll be hungry by then; and I’ll put an end to spam once and for all by finding the 28 miscreants responsible for this mess.

If you need me before then, I’ll be hanging out with Sol.

Go fast + turn left = NASA

One of the really neat things about my job is that I get to meet or at least talk to some very interesting people. For instance, a few weeks ago I spent some time talking to a man who had flown on three space shuttle missions – and while speaking with him, I was looking at a photo of him taken from space with the Earth as a backdrop.

It was from this very smart person, a rocket scientist no less, that I learned one inviolate truth about the world we live in … we need to send some poets into space.

Ok, maybe not poets, but at least someone other than engineers. Don’t get me wrong – I’m all for engineers. They build cool stuff – like space ships. But I think they should be limited to designing and building them – they shouldn’t own the only set of keys to the things.
The reason I say this is because when I asked him what it was like – you know, being ‘in space’, he said the following:

“It’s pretty cool.”

Honestly, that quote isn’t entirely accurate. He didn’t actually say ‘it’s pretty’. He just said, “cool.”

I suppose a writer worth his salt would have asked an obvious follow up like, “how cool?” or “would you like to try again for those of us who aren’t high?” but I was just dumbstruck.

All I could think was, “Really? That’s all you’ve got? We spend millions of dollars to send you into space and you come back with, ‘cool’? You should be put in prison.”

But being a professional, I didn’t actually say this; I just thought about it for an extended period of time, mumbled something and hung up.

So, who is to blame? I mean, someone has to be held accountable don’t they?

The answer came to me as I stared at the phone. I thought about what it would really be like being up in space zooming around the planet and then – WHAM!

NASCAR. A space ship is nothing more than a 17,000 mph race car – it goes fast, flies in circles and requires the pilot to keep turning left. It’s obvious. You see, nuclear, electrical, aeronautical and mechanical engineers are all the people who work in the space program. They and the other ‘hard science’-type people need a way to blow off steam – you know, fling off the pocket protectors, unclip the bow ties and just really let loose. The space program is their reserve and they’re guarding it jealously. As soon as people find out what it’s really like, everyone will want to see it.

From the beginning of the space program up until June 2010 only 515 people world-wide have reached earth orbit. Only 24 – about the same number of people who go through the check-out at the grocery store while I’m waiting behind some blue haired old lady trying to find a penny in the bottom of her purse - have gone beyond low earth orbit and only a dozen have walked on the moon.

There are nearly 7 BILLION people on this planet and we can not only count the number of people who have been to space, but I’m sure with a little bit of research, I could find their names and nationalities. I know people with more FaceBook friends than the total number of people who have been in space.

But putting writers or artists into space doesn’t seem to be much of a priority, which is really an opportunity lost to bring some of the magic of spaceflight and really, the magic of what these engineers have created, to the significant portion of the population that aren’t rocket scientists.

Until NASA starts fitting artists with space suits, they should require engineer degree holding astronauts to take some additional classes. I would like to suggest the following:

- Creative Writing 101 - Describing what you see using at least four of your senses
- Your friends, adjectives and adverbs
- Colors and why people like them
- Bob Ross painting (I can totally see Bob Ross in space… “We’ll just add a little supernova off in the distance there to give it some color and depth. That’s nice.”)

Until we do these things, the 6,999,999,485 of us without access to space will just have to keep hoping space telescopes keep sending us back images that we can all look at and say, “cool.”