Turkey day

I am a terrible bowler. I like to attribute it to the fact that the ring finger on my right hand is crooked thanks to a flag football injury.* A bowling ball often gets hung up on the crooked finger, but that’s only part of the problem. The rest of the problem is that I suck at bowling.

*Two of my three worst permanent injuries were sustained playing intramural flag football—one as an undergrad, one in grad school; the third and worst of the three was sustained in a pickup soccer game—what’s up with that?

When we lived in Michigan, where bowling is quite popular,* some of my classmates formed a bowling league, and every Monday night from ten to midnight, I would be at the lanes with my three teammates, about 50 other MBA students, and a bunch of inebriated restaurant workers (the other league playing that night).

*One of the guys who graduated a few years ahead of me from the B-school forewent an opportunity to work on Wall Street or at a Fortune 500 company to join the PBA.

We were only allowed to bowl three players per game, so unless one of us couldn’t make it, someone had to sit out. Since Jake is good at every sport (assuming you consider bowling a sport), and Aaron was* Canadian and there’s no such thing as a Canadian who can’t bowl, at least none I’ve met, it was almost always Carolyn and me that alternated riding the pine.

*I say “was” here not because he’s dead, but because he’s now a US citizen—wonder if he can still bowl?

When it was my turn to play, my goal was always simply to not embarrass myself. Not embarrassing myself meant scoring at least 100. I think I actually fell short of this mark once.

Anyway, fast forward six years, and I’ve bowled exactly once in the interim. But on Sunday, JunkieBoy got it in his head that he really wanted to go bowling. He somehow was reminded of the one time we went a couple years ago and remembered it fondly.

JunkieGirl was less excited, I think because the first time she went bowling, also in Michigan, on the very first frame she slipped and fell, splitting her chin open on the bowling ball, requiring several stitches. Nevertheless, Rachel and the kids met me at the lanes last night after work.

Keiki was the first up. At two years old and 26 pounds, she needed some help, even with the six pound ball. It’s a good thing the lanes have a downward slope, otherwise the ball never would have made it to the pins. The highlight of the evening was watching her as she rolled the ball and then laid down on the floor, kicking her feet with excitment as she watched it knock over one, maybe two pins. JunkieGirl and JunkieBoy both made good use of the bumpers on their turns and were likewise pleased if any pins got knocked over. I chided Rachel that they should have left the bumpers up for her when her first ball went in the gutter.

She knocked down nine pins with the second one, though, and I got off to my usual, pathetic start and was sitting on 21 points after three frames. I was starting to get nervous that my two goals—to score over 100 and to beat Rachel—may not be realized.

Then I rolled a strike. Unfortunately, Rachel, or rather “Michigan,” since those latent midwestern bowling skills were waking up, answered with one of her own and held her lead. I rolled another and was feeling good. Rachel answered in kind.

I panicked. I knew that any kind of hot streak was going to be short-lived for me, and competing against a bowler who grew up in the Midwest is like starting a land war in Asia or having a battle of wits with a Sicilian when death is on the line.

My game was riding on getting the Turkey—I needed that third consecutive strike. I also knew the odds were against me, as I’d only ever bagged the turkey once before. I grabbed the ball and held it in my left hand as I held my right over the air drier. Focus. I put my fingers in the holes. Step, aim, release. It was going left of the headpin. My only hope was with the Brooklyn. The ball had good velocity and struck between the one and two. They all went down. The gobbler flashed on the monitor overhead. Michigan had no answer and never recovered. The game was mine.

Observations from Fall Moab 2010 (Fiscal), Fruita Edition

The last four days have been busy—in a good way. I didn’t go to work, church, or anywhere else where I had any sort of obligation. I just hiked, rode my bike, ate lots of good food, and generally goofed off. Today I feel great and have already accomplished more as I sit here eating my lunch at work than I would have by the end of the day or even the middle of the next day last week. I guess I needed the break.

Rather than give a blow-by-blow account of the weekend, I thought I’d share some brief observations. It’s what you may have had in real time if I were Lance Armstrong and my blog were twitter and you had the patience to check for updates every 6.9 seconds. But I didn’t feel like interrupting my leisure time to update my status, so you get it this way, as I think about it, in not necessarily chronological order.

• A multi-hour hike is not likely to get better if you have the thought “I think these shoes are worn out—hope I don’t get blisters” in the first 200 meters.
• I can cover the distance from my house to the top of Jacob’s Ladder MTB trail way faster on a bike than on foot.
• There are some very cool vistas on the Lone Peak massif just a stone’s throw from where we ride bikes. I bet most riders don’t know they’re there.
• There’s nothing like the sight of a Rhino with a rifle case mounted to it parked at the top of the trail to make you second guess your choice to wear tan pants.
• Moleskin is of no benefit if it’s in your other backpack.
• If you’re not trying to summit anyway, cutting a hike short is way better than tearing up your feet the day before a mountain bike trip.
• Chocolate is a remarkably effective way to attract women to your house.
• Lightweight XC bikes do not help you go faster on technical trails in places like Fruita, CO. Ryan and Rocky on their squishy bikes were the rock stars in Fruita. Of course it helps to have mad skills.
• Lots more women ride trails in Colorado than in Utah. I’m guessing that this is because the women in Colorado are less likely to be home with the kids while their husbands are riding said trails. Thanks, ladies.
• If your friends all rode their bikes off a cliff (or a sizeable rock ledge, as the case may be, even one you would never, ever consider riding off of if you were by yourself) you probably would too.
• In a strange bit of irony, both the likelihood of the preceding and the fear of crashing in the process are much, much higher if someone is filming the whole thing.
• The stakes are higher still if that someone has one of the more popular cycling blogs on the planet.
• In another bit of irony, we take all sorts of care to arrange our bikes on the racks so that they aren’t damaged in transport. Once at the destination, we effectively throw them down a stone staircase. Repeatedly.
• If anyone can objectively determine which of a bratwurst around a campfire or a bacon cheeseburger at Ray’s Tavern tastes better, please let me know. I’ll take either over fine dining nine times out of ten.
• The best reason to carry a camelback is that you can have a cold diet coke halfway through the ride.
• Ryan may be more of a diet coke addict than me—he’s willing to drink it warm.
• 22 PSI is a bit too low for tire pressure in Fruita; I discovered that it is, in fact, possible to pinch flat a tubeless tire.
• If a movie theater in Grand Junction ever goes out of business, it’s not because of revenue problems. I think 11 of 14 shows were sold out at 8:00 p.m. on Friday.
• The guys from across the way who came over and said hello at our campfire probably weren’t as interested in making friends as they were in finding women and/or weed. No wonder they didn’t stick around long.
• If ever someone were named appropriately for the types of trails he likes to ride, it’s Rocky.
• Speaking of Rocky, having a tour guide throughout the weekend was nothing short of fantastic. Thank you!
• If Rick was on the hook for new shoes after 24 hours of Moab, I can’t even imagine what this trip is going to cost Eber after the poop and puke incident Sunday afternoon.
• Kessel run was worth lapping, even if I did get a flat the second time through.
• Though I doubted it at the outset, it is possible to go three days of riding every day and no showers without getting leprosy of the crotch.
• The Smith Brothers, Joseph and Hyrum, made Fruita a day trip. If that were my only option, I would have done the same. I don’t think they regretted it, and it was great to have them there.
• The Banksmobile was the perfect vehicle for the trip—captains chairs meant we were never close enough to have to smell each others’ funk. Thanks, Evil, for driving.
• As great as the weekend was, coming home to have JunkieGirl looking out the window for me and then run into the driveway to give me a hug was a nice way to finish.

The problem with immortality

Unless you're up really late, as you read this, I'm probably hiking Lone Peak from my house. I have no intention of reaching the summit--I expect there's too much snow. I'll be in running shoes, and I'll be alone. Slipping on snow or ice while scrambling to the top of the cirque with no safety equipment and no belay is not high on my priority list.

I'm doing this hike in this manner for two reasons. First, the transition from biking to skiing is always more difficult than going the other way. I need some training walking uphill. Second, I stare into the Lone Peak cirque from my front window. I've lived in the shadow of that mountain for much of my life. It's a dominant landmark that conjures thoughts of home whenever I see it. If I can walk there and back without a shuttle or parking at a trailhead, why shouldn't I?

Friday I head to Fruita for the weekend, so this is it until Monday. I thought I'd leave you with something substantial to chew on in the interim. But first, a note about chocolate.

If you were reading way back then, you may remember my post about hauling 710 pounds of chocolate from a distribution center in Salt Lake to my former house in Boise. Well, it's that time of year again. Rachel is about to place another chocolate order. If you want in, or just want to sample some of the things she does with what always seems like an unreasonably large amount of chocolate but that gets consumed anyway, then stop by Thursday evening. But please, let Rachel know you're coming so she has enough treats for everyone. Rumors are that after about 8:30 or so there will either be skis getting waxed in the garage or ski movies being viewed in the basement. With lots of chocolatey refreshments.

I've brought up religion before, and while it's not a major theme of this blog, it's a major theme of my life. It occupies a significant portion of my non-working time, either participating in church functions or pondering, reading, or otherwise engaging myself mentally in it.

I'm neither a social scientist nor a statistician, but my gut feeling is that there is no correlation between church attendance and morality (I hate to use this word, but it seems the best fit). Some of the finest, most upstanding people I know--people who are honest and kind and care for their families and friends better than most (my definition of moral)--don't go to church. Though I didn't know it at the time, I've attended church meetings and perhaps even shared a pew with a child molester. I've sat in the same worship service as murderers. I've also met some crummy low-lifes that didn't go to church and seen shining examples of the kind of person I want to be from people who do. You come across all kinds, and you come across them within and without the chapel.

And while I'm not here to argue metaphysics or whether or not God or Gods exist or whether or not there's an afterlife, I do find that what is taught in more or less all religions is a useful framework within which children can learn right from wrong and adults can be reminded of where their priorities should be and how they should treat those around them.

Moreover, the belief in an afterlife, particularly one that is paridisiacal in nature, wherein we can be reunited with loved ones who have passed on, is sometimes the foundational hope that keeps people going day after day and allows them to carry on even as the challenges, disappointments, and even tragedies of life would otherwise tear them down to a state of unrecoverable depression.

But I fear that this belief in afterlife, which gives many so much hope, may also too often be a cause of pain and sorrow, not out of a fear of a final judgment, but because it takes away some of the urgency of today. If we think of our existence as a temporary thing, we may be more compelled to live life without regrets. To seize the day. To pay attention to the world around us. To not let a day go by that we didn't spend quality time with our children, our spouse, or other loved ones. When the days are finite, each successive one becomes that much more valuable as those that remain become increasingly scarce.

When we think of ourselves as immortal and our lives as eternal, some of this urgency goes away. The tomorrows become endless, as do the excuses to procrastinate some of the important things that we know we should be doing. Further complicating things is the prevalent doctrine that we as mortals are imperfect beings, born in a fallen state, bound to make mistakes. This too easily becomes a crutch. We may neglect a relationship, thinking it's not working because of the inherent flaws of our fallen nature. We may consider it in an eternal context and decide that it will be patched up when mortal weaknesses are no longer getting in the way.

But what are we missing out on in the process? Worse, what if we're wrong, there is no second chance, and this is the one shot we have of making a relationship work, leaving a legacy, learning, or otherwise finding joy? No redemption, no resurrection, no continuation. Would we make decisions the same way? Would we choose to attend a meeting instead of a child's ballgame or recital? Would we choose working late over a date with a spouse? Would we take better care of our bodies, knowing that we may as well be as healthy as possible so as to enjoy the years we have as much as possible?

Regardless of whether or not there is an afterlife and whether or not the family bonds and personal relationships we know and enjoy will continue in a hereafter, what's certain is that they will not and could not be the same. Your children cannot remain your adolescent children; at best they will be peers that were raised by you in mortality. The hierarchical family structures we know in this existence are a special, unique aspect of this life that will never be repeated.

Indeed, it will never be the same once our children move out on their own. Those twenty or so years are when our greatest legacy is made, in this, the next, or any other notion of life. Perhaps the only legacy more important is our relationship with a significant other, with whom the legacy of children is shared.

If I view my own life through this lens, in many ways I find energy and comfort in approaching my days as if they were finite, knowing that I need to make the most of each. Centuries ago, monks were known to keep skulls on their desks as a memento mori, a reminder that they will die and that they must make the most of the time they had. While I don't need such macabre reminders that regardless of what lies ahead, this is a temporary state, I don't think it hurts to once in a while turn our beliefs on their heads, however deep our convictions, and ask ourselves what, if anything, we would do differently if our notion of life, nature, and eternity were wrong.

Embracing my demons

I don’t really like getting up early in the morning. But an analysis of my behavior would never suggest that. A long time ago, before I began cycling, I used to meet a friend every morning at six to run for an hour. Exercising at that hour is never my first choice, but if it comes down to exercising early in the morning or not exercising, I’ll choose the early start every time.

After I moved to Boise, I decided to sell the second-hand, ill-fitting road bike in my garage and get a mountain bike. I figured a mountain bike I rode once-in-a-while was better than a road bike I never rode. But I never intended to ride it daily. I was still a runner (albeit not a very good one), after all. I just figured I’d tool around the neighborhood and occasionally hit the trails.

Then Psycho Rider started inviting me to ride with him and another friend before work. Before I knew it, I had given up running altogether and was on the bike almost every day.

I’ve had the best ski days of my life after 4:00 a.m. wakeup calls. It never gets easier to get up early, but seldom if ever do I regret it once I’m out of bed and on the trail or the skintrack.

And so it was this morning when Alex and I met for a ride on the Pipeline trail. Evidently it was too early or too cold or too whatever for anyone else to consider it worthwhile to be out. With the time change, we were able to start at 6:20 without lights, and aside from a couple runners, we had the trail to ourselves.

Conditions were perfect—the trail was milk chocolate tacky with just a few mud puddles. If ever there was a time to clean the Rattlesnake Gulch climb, this would be it. In fact, I was disappointed when Alex dismounted after I hit a rock wrong and had to put a foot down, because I think he could have cleaned it had he kept going.

Of course early mornings aren’t the only things I’ve found difficult or disturbing but have embraced and been glad to have done so. The 7-eleven two blocks from my office is another. I know at one point I swore off it and vowed to go elsewhere. But as I’ve mentioned before, I backslid out of convenience and a lust for popcorn. Well, the staff and other customers have become no less savory, but rather than being disturbed by the experience, I’ve chosen to enjoy it for what it is.

Had I not, I would have missed out on some fine entertainment. For instance:

• The woman who would buy a loaf of bread there, eat half of it, stick it in her cupboard until it molded, and then exchange it for a new one. After three or four times of this, the clerks got wise and sent her packing. And threatened to call the cops when she refused to leave. I watched the unraveling of her ruse go down, and it was awesome.
• The city worker who was cleaning leaf debris out of the gutters. I walked out of the store, rounded the corner, and the first thing I saw was a good six inches of butt crack as street worker squatted to scoop up some leaves. I did a double take, not believing someone’s pants could be that far down without falling completely off. Unfortunately, I was too slow with the camera phone.
• And last but certainly not least, today I saw an honest-to-goodness, Rocky Horror Picture Show transvestite with legitimate looking boobs AND five-o-clock shadow. This time I had time to get out the phone and snap a picture but chose not to because a) I figured someone that gender confused was already tormented enough and, more importantly, b) I did not want to risk getting beat up by a “woman” in downtown Salt Lake.

And these are just the things I’ve seen in the last five days. Seriously, the diet coke has become secondary to the entertainment. I’ve got the diet coke. I’ve got the popcorn. But the show is better than anything in the theaters.

Review of Halloween

I don’t care much for Halloween. I know a lot of people really get into it, which I’ve never quite understood. For kids, sure, it makes sense. Knock on doors and get free candy. What could be better? But for adults, the appeal seems to be for women an excuse to dress like hookers and for men an excuse to look at women dressed like hookers. Which, I guess could be as appealing as free candy now that I think about it.

Part of my problem with Halloween is that adults have a hard time finding the right balance. I mean, if you’re an adult, and you’re going to dress up, you need to actually dress up. None of this putting on a black headband and expecting people to know that makes you a ninja stuff.

Or if you really are going to dress up, be sensible about it. No wearing a black cloak and carrying a stick and painting a scar on your forehead thereby coming clean about the fact that you are way more into Harry Potter than is healthy. I don’t want to know that. Dress up as something that’s not part of your weird, delusional, fantasy world psychosis, because I’ll never think of you the same if you don’t.

And if you go to a church party where there are lots of little kids, don’t dress in a gorilla suit and mask and walk around scaring two-year-olds. And then, if the dad of one of the two-year-olds, whose daughter is petrified and clinging to him as if to save her life, asks you to take the mask off, don’t shove the mask in the two-year-old’s face as if that’s going to make her OK with it. Because if you do that again, I will punch you in the nose rather than restraining myself like I did this time. Even the six-year-olds were scared by the creep in the gorilla suit, as evidenced by Jonnie J’s daughter who wrote (in six-year-old spelling) “I’m scared of the gorilla” in crayon on the paper table cloth.

This lack of sense some adults seem to have when they put on a costume is precisely why I’m not a fan of Halloween. It’s worse than if they were drunk. And if they get drunk, watch out.

On the other hand, Halloween did afford some good times this year. First, I got to blow off significant steam after the gorilla incident on Rick’s Helloween ride. Seeing Aaron dressed as an 80’s hair metal rocker, singing “Kick Start My Heart” as he rode the pipe,* was the highlight of the event.

*The “pipe” is a section of trail where there’s concrete-covered water pipe that’s about a foot wide and drops at about a 30% grade for 25 feet or so. It’s rideable, but in the two times in my life I’ve ridden that trail, I’ve never tried it. Most people walk that section.

The ride itself was challenging for me without even thinking about riding the pipe. I blew up in the first 100 yards deluding myself that I could contend for the cash. Then I had a metallic taste in my mouth for the next hour as we climbed endlessly at race pace. Then I had the impression that we were going to keep climbing and suddenly somehow end up at the parking lot without ever descending. Then we descended and the trails were somehow steeper than what we went up and I was scared for my life because I was wholly unfamiliar with them, they seemed to drop off hundreds of feet on one side, my light sucks, and I still don't have my mojo back after the crash. Then we were back at the car and I realized I had thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Most people were in costume, with two notable exceptions. First was Kyle, who won the cash. I thought you had to be in costume to win, not that it would have made much difference. The dude can climb. Second was Mike Young. Someone asked him why he didn’t dress up and he said something like “I don’t know. Couldn’t think of anything.” When it was suggested he dress up as his brother he responded “Huh. Never thought of that. That one would be easy too, since I already have his jersey and pants.”

I guess that’s how it is. To you and me, Steve’s a Hall of Famer, Super Bowl MVP, and Monday Night Football analyst. But when he’s the guy that gave you noogies* growing up, he remains first and foremost the guy who gave you noogies and not much else. Nice perspective.

*Inevitably, one of you, probably one with no older brothers or who has older brothers but who knows noogies by a different name (I’m sure there are regional variations), doesn’t know what a noogie is. It’s when someone, typically your older brother, puts you in a head lock and rubs his knuckles on your scalp. I can’t imagine they feel good, but since I’m the oldest brother, I have much more experience giving than receiving.

Believe it or not, I’m eleven paragraphs into my review of Halloween, and it was just barely officially Halloween when the ride ended and we headed to Denny’s. The actual day brought a great deal of dread because I knew we’d have to take the kids trick-or-treating.

I know it defeats the purpose, but I would much rather just buy the candy and give it to my kids than take them door-to-door for it. Besides, that way, all we would buy would be butterfingers and heath bars and snickers and reeses cups, which my kids like less than I do. Fewer cavities and more treats for me and no two-year-olds throwing up in bed on Halloween night.

On second thought, that’s a bad idea, since one of the reasons I dislike Halloween is that it’s the beginning of my annual weight gain. The combination of lots of sweets and limited daylight hours in which to burn them off usually always results in my waistline expanding a few inches and my weight going up about ten pounds between Halloween and whenever I start dieting in the spring. I try to keep it under control, but Halloween is followed closely by Thanksgiving, which involves pie, the first thing against which I am powerless. Thanksgiving is followed by the season of giving, and the giving usually involves cookies, the second thing against which I am powerless.

Anyway, I’m never real thrilled about the idea of trick-or-treating. Except this year, my kids wanted to go with their cousins, so we went to my sister’s house to trick-or-treat in her neighborhood. I actually have no idea how her neighborhood compares to mine, since this was our first year in our neighborhood and we went elsewhere, but I can’t imagine any neighborhood being better.

Her kids told me that one of the neighbors gives out soup. I told them we could skip that house, because I thought that was lame. Until I got there. She didn’t just hand out candy, she invited us all in, where she had hot soup and cider on the stove as well as an array of cheeses and crackers and veggies. She gave the kids candy and toys and glow sticks, and I left thinking trick-or-treating was cool.

Not to be outdone, a couple blocks away, my sister’s dentist was in his front yard with a fire in the firepit, hot cocoa, and hot dogs on the grill. The kids sat by the fire and ate hot dogs while he made sure my sis’s father-in-law’s root canal was doing OK. Then I found out he was also a Big Ten guy, so we talked about our mutual hatred of Ohio State, even as some fat kid in an Ohio State hoodie ate his second and third of generous dentist’s hot dogs.

Finally, when the kids’ candy bags were approaching the too-heavy-for-them-to-carry point, we got to the best house of the evening. As we approached the door, we were informed that this friend was a fantastic cook and also a reader of Rachel’s blog.

When the door opened, I could smell something frying. As we chatted, we talked about food and Rachel’s blog, and fantastic cook neighbor mentioned she was making spudnuts. She offered us one, which my sister and wife tried to decline because they are not as sensible as I am and were aware that they had already eaten plenty of junk for the evening.

I accepted the invitation, so we all went in. Again, the girls foolishly took half a spudnut, but I took a whole spudnut. They took a half thinking that if it didn’t live up to hopes and expectations, they wouldn’t be stuck with the whole thing. I knew if it didn’t live up to hopes and expectations that we were leaving anyway, and I could throw it in the gutter. Because if food doesn’t taste as good as I want it to and the effort of burning the calories is greater than the satisfaction their consumption brings, I have no qualms about throwing treats in the trash. Or in the gutter or bushes or neighbor’s backyard as the case may be.

I wish I could have snuck a second one without looking like a pig. It was one of the best things I have ever eaten. Fortunately, Rachel has been promised the recipe, and I suspect it will make its way onto her blog. They were dense and heavy and had to have had a whole lot of calories, but they were delicious. Fried food is challenging because if the oil temperature isn’t just right, it can either be soggy and soaked with oil or burned on the outside and raw in the middle. These were perfect. And if she’s making them again next year, perhaps I’ll look forward to Halloween.

Either that, or we’ll have hot dogs, soup, and spudnuts at the ready at our house so that people in our neighborhood go from haters to evangelical about trick-or-treating in one night. The guy in the gorilla suit will not be invited in, though.

Nobody to blame but myself

Well it's the last day of Official Rant Week, and I have to say it's a real disappointment. Not a disappointment that it's over, but a disappointment in how pathetic I was. I mean, I started out OK with the drivers. Then I actually hit my stride with the pronunciation rant--it takes a truly bitter person, after all, to rip a ten-year-old for mispronouncing a six syllable word.

But the next day, when I gave Roxy Lo a B for designing a pretty bike with no useful bottle cages, that was really soft. She should have had a straight F. After all, what business does a non-cyclist have designing a bike anyway? And spending two paragraphs ripping on the French for designing a bike with no conceivable reason not to have bottle cages was downright pathetic. The French should have been ripped for two solid paragraphs just for being French, and then I should have mustered a lot more vitriol in the two paragraphs more where I did rip on their stupid bike design. Opportunity squandered.

Then there's yesterday's post about sharing trails with horses. Well yesterday's post was very nearly conciliatory. What did equestrians ever do to deserve such polite treatment? Especially from the same guy who has been known to try and spit in the open windows of their trucks as they pass him on the way up American Fork canyon. Where is the requisite hatred these unpredictable scatterers of feces deserve?

If I were to do Official Rant Week justice, I'd be taking advantage of opportunities to go off wherever they present themselves. For instance, I'd use the book I'm presently reading, The Innocent Man, a non-fiction work about men wrongfully convicted of some murders in small-town Oklahoma. The state is full of NASCAR-loving, bible-thumping hillbillies who proclaim to love Jesus and espouse his word and follow it literally. Except that even though Jesus teaches forgiveness, whenever a murder is committed, they want nothing more than to convict and execute someone in return, regardless of whether or not there's a shred of evidence against the accused.

The pathetic ignorance of these inbred wideloads isn't limited to the lower socio-economic strata, either. Cops, crime lab techs, prosecutors, defense attorneys, juries, and judges all the way up to the appellate level are all equally inept and unperturbed by constitutional violations, a lack of proof, and prosecution cases built on perjury and laughable circumstantial evidence. And of course Oklahomans aren't alone in their appalling, blood-thirsty cheers when someone is actually executed. If I were truly venemous, as befitting Official Rant Week, I would somehow express in words my nearly uncontrollable urge to vomit repeatedly as the book unfolds.

If anything I've said this week deserved the label of "rant," I would have of course included the teenagers in American Fork (the town, not the canyon) being cited for being disorderly in public after they rapped their order at a McDonald's drive-thru. Again, it's a case of room temperature IQ's at all levels, starting with the night manager, who claimed to feel "her safety was at risk;" extending to the cops who felt like anything had been done wrong in the first place; and finally with McDonald's corporation for standing behind the stupid night manager who had clearly blown things out of proportion. There's simply no excuse on my part for not finding and taking advantage of these truly rant-worthy current events.

Even had these opportunities not presented themselves, were I a ranter worth my salt, I could have of course ridiculed the single most prevalent example of stupidity rampant in urban areas worldwide: wannabe bike messengers riding old, crappy bikes around town with no helmets. Do these idiots really think urban riding is that safe? Have they not noticed the cars, buses, and garbage trucks they're sharing the road with? Or are they just so stupid as to think they, because of the phenomenal bike handling skills they've developed in the three months since they started riding, won't be hurt by any of these?

And then, as if these imbeciles needed encouragement, along comes Rapha, a company founded on stupid ideas sold to stupider people for way more money than a reasonable person would ever pay for a practical, well-designed version of the product. I mean really, who wants to wear a suit jacket on the bike anyway? People dumb enough to ride without helmets, that's who. But really, even if you did want to wear one, just to be ironic (if that floats your boat), why wouldn't you get one at a thrift store since it's just going to get trashed anyway? Had I been paying attention, I would have picked up on this and made it the subject of a blog post.

I won't ask you to forgive these oversights. I won't take a mulligan on rant week and try again later. I have nobody to blame but myself. Because there was more than enough to rant about this week, and the subjects I did actually select were worthy topics. I just failed to give them a worthy rant. I mean, I could have outdone yesterday's rant with a rant about the smelliness of my own gas yesterday afternoon. And about the nauseating toxicity of the air inside my car as I was running errands on my lunch break. Or I could have done a third-person rant from the perspective of the finance manager at work talking about the disgusting pig she works with who fouled the air of his own cubicle right before she walked over to ask him a question. And how it made her eyes water as she stoically stood there and absorbed it. But I failed to pick up on any of these topics and undoubtedly disappointed my readers, all six who remain, as a result.

At this point, all I can do is apologize. I am truly sorry.

Do unto others

I admit that I am probably not the best person to share a trail with. On more than one occasion, I’ve come around a blind corner only to encounter someone else coming up and been going too fast to politely stop and let the other person by.

I hope other trail users will forgive these instances, as they are neither malicious nor intentional. I hope they will forgive them just as I am willing to overlook the many, many instances when I encounter dogs off leash, even when the signage clearly states that dogs must be on leash.

And while I’ll admit that I’m not willing to go off trail or risk crashing for the sake of avoiding a dog that’s supposed to be on a leash but isn’t, I have never intentionally hit one. I’ve hit them by accident, but it’s always been slow speed, and they’ve always jumped in front of me at the most inopportune moments. (Why is it that the owners of the stupidest dogs, i.e., those most prone to jumping in front of cyclists at the last possible moment, seem also to be those most likely to let their dogs off leash when they’re not supposed to be?)

I’m willing to overlook these off-leash dogs and the bags of poop left trailside that may or may not actually be picked up by the owner on the way out, because I’m generally a pretty tolerant person out on the trail. My mood is almost always good, because being active outdoors is my drug, and I am an addict. It is an upper like no other.

Sometimes, in my exuberance, I’ve been known to ride a trail or two that I’m maybe not supposed to be on. Like Pinebrook, or ducking into upper Millcreek on an odd day, or the little spur that turns Shoreline into a lollipop instead of an out and back. (Thinking about this, Alex has been with me on most of these occasions. And when I haven’t been with Alex, I’ve been with Ed. Are they bad influences on me? Or is it the other way around? Hmm.) But when I do so, I’m extra, extra polite, always stopping and letting other trail users by, and very conscious of the fact I’m not really supposed to be there.

I hope my politeness will lead others to forgive these indiscretions. My experience is that it’s quite easy to get along with people who are polite and considerate. Getting along with other trail users really isn’t that hard, because in general, we don’t get into each other’s way, and we try to be nice when we do.

There’s one huge, glaring exception, though: horses. I understand some people are really into horses, but frankly, they take way more than their share.

The trucks hauling horse trailers take more than their share of road going up American Fork canyon. I’ve seen them run cyclists off the road and pass others way too close. And then they act like the cyclist is at fault for being there in the first place. The horses themselves take more than their share of trail—they are too big to get around, and encountering one is an ordeal for all involved.

Encountering a horse on the trail is scary. They’re scared by my bike, I understand that. But my bike weighs 25 pounds, is easy to control, and doesn’t do anything under its own power. On the other side of the equation, though, horses are massive creatures that weigh 1,000 pounds or more, they spook easily, and despite the riders’ best efforts, it’s impossible to know for sure what they’ll do. It’s a lopsided affair in the horse’s favor.

As if that weren’t enough, cyclists have poured hundreds and hundreds of hours into building new mountain bike trails in Corner Canyon. Now that one of them, after a full season of effort, is almost done, one of the equestrians on the trails council had the audacity to propose that, since the mountain bikers had their own trail, Clark’s trail should be made equestrian only. As if. Here’s a better idea: why not organize yourselves and build your own trail. Preferably in Herriman. Or better yet, Delta.

Really, though, for all the problems they create, I’m almost willing to have a quid-pro-quo with horses and mountain bikers on the trail—you tolerate us, we’ll tolerate you, we’ll all do our best to get along.

I say almost because there is one thing that decidedly tips the scales in favor of the mountain bikers in this equation: I have never, ever, not even once, pooped in the middle of the trail. And even if I did, and especially if mine were 86 times its normal size like a horse’s is, I certainly wouldn’t leave it there.

(Photo courtesy of Brandon, who has to deal with more horses than I do.)