Got Any Grapes?

My younger brother Brendan likes to tell this one.

A mallard duck waddles into a crowded bar. Now this is no ordinary duck. By appearance it looked normal. But it's what happened next that made him stand out. The mallard walked up to the burly bartender, opened his beak and said, "You got any grapes?"

A woman in a black cocktail dress knocked over her drink. The crowd at the bar went silent.

Frank the bartender was astonished by what he had just heard. He stammered, "Ww-w-what did you say duck?"

"You got any grapes?" the mallard shot back.

The bar erupted in laughter.

The duck stood patiently until the din settled. He repeated, "You got any grapes?

Another uproar.  The bartender waved his meaty arms to have everyone settle down.

"No duck, I don't have any grapes. How 'bout a PBR?"

More laughter. In the chaos, nobody seemed to notice that the mallard had waddled out the door.

The next day, and for several days following, the duck returned to ask the bartender if he had any grapes.

Word spread about the mallard. People came by the droves to see it for themselves. Times were good. Frank was selling lots of PBR.

But after a few weeks, the crowds became complacent.  They only came to Frank's place to eat his free peanuts while the duck did his grapes routine. Beer sales were flat, and Frank grew resentful of the mess that was left behind.

Frank's resentment built up. One day, when the mallard came in and asked for his grapes, Frank snapped, "Do you see any grapes here, duck? No? Well that's because we don't serve grapes here. Got it, beak face? Just peanuts, beer and the hard stuff. So next time you come in, ask for one of those or you'll regret it!"

The duck flinched slightly as Frank yelled at him.  Aside from Frank's yelling, the bar was eerily quiet. The party was over. After Frank finished his tirade, the duck turned and waddled back out the door.  Frank thought he had seen the last of him.

But the next day the duck was back. He waddled up to the bar and proudly asked, "You got any grapes?"

Frank's face went flush. "NO! I DON'T HAVE ANY GRAPES. THE NEXT TIME YOU ASK FOR GRAPES I AM GOING TO HAMMER THAT BEAK OF YOURS RIGHT TO THE BAR!"

The duck turned and waddled out the door.

Again the next day, the duck waddled right up to the bar and opened his beak...

But before he could say anything, Frank interrupted, "Dammit duck, you'd better watch it. You'd better not ask for any grap--

"You got any nails?" the mallard asked.

"No I don't have any nails," Frank retorted.

"You got any grapes?"

--//--

That duck is my hero.

Some of you know that one of my favorite novels is Joseph Heller's Catch-22. It's a confusing story, but a theme that pervades is the idea that we tend to get caught in cyclical ruts. In these ruts, we can become complacent and even somewhat comforted to the patterns we subject ourselves and are subjected to.  In Catch-22, the protagonist Yossarian discovers how he has become stuck in one such maddening loop, and then decides to make a leap of faith to free himself of it once and for all.

For a while now, I've become complacent with my career. I don't exactly know when it happened, but over this period, I plateaued and my skills began to stagnate. That, plus the additional stresses in the work environment, and a demanding schedule finally led me to look at making a leap from the trap I allowed myself to fall into.

It took a few months of dusting off the resume and going through interviews, but I am excited to say that after nearly six years in my current role, I've accepted a new position within the company that will shake off the complacency and challenge me. I'm thrilled and can't wait to start.

Granted some of this euphoria is a common reaction to closing one chapter and beginning something new.  But still, I can't help but have a sense of hope that something else has begun.

It's good stuff. Indeed, it's wholesome, steel-cut goodness stuff.

You got any grapes?

Nice Rack

My workplace is friendly to cyclists. They actually encourage commuting by bike in a number ways. A few examples include participating in the federal cycling commuter tax benefit, providing clean locker rooms with showers and free towel service, and by providing ample parking at nice racks installed just outside the main entrance.

Speaking of nice racks...

Anyway, over the years, the committed commuter/cyclists have gone through a number of growing phases. Initially, it was simply exciting to ride your bike to work. Commuting by bike was counter-culturally cool. It was like going under the radar. And in those early days, not too many folks were riding. There was lots of space on the single rack outside.

Later, when the commuter tax benefit kicked in, more folks started riding. Or so it seemed. During the summer months, the number of riders swelled. Space on the rack became sparse. That's when a push was made to install rack #2.  Within a summer, that rack was also over-flowing. A third rack was then installed. Meanwhile, the skeptic in me had long-concluded that most of the bikes belonged to colleagues who parked just outside of the city's metered parking, and then coasted a few blocks on their bikes to avoid paying for parking.

That leads us to the next stage of commuting evolution: contempt. Indeed, I have a healthy contempt for those who take a spot on the bike rack without earning it. Some may say that at least they're getting daily exercise. Bullshit. You don't get squat from coasting twice daily for three minutes.

I suppose it wouldn't be so bad if these fake commuters took a middle spot on the rack. You know, one that's not too presumptuous and stuff. But no, they are flaunting it with their rusty old heaps. They're taking all the good spots, like the end caps that have easy the access. And if they happened to get a crappy bike spot in the morning -- why, they'll snake your good spot while you're out riding over lunch.

I know, boo hoo hoo, it's just bike parking, right? Pfffff. C'mon man, we all learned the same lessons in kindergarten. One of those -- the place back -- is time honored tradition that states that when you leave your spot temporarily, you should expect to resume occupying it when you return, no questions asked. Nope. At my work place, you will be schwinned* when you leave the rack.

*schwinned: transitive verb 1) the act of discovering that while you were out riding your bike more than one mile over the lunch hour, a colleague has moved their POS Schwinn into your coveted end-spot on the bikerack. 2) the negation of the place-back.

The final stage of the commuting evolution is snobbery. I admit it, I've become a snob. I expect things to be in a certain order. And when they're not, I've taken it upon myself to make the necessary adjustments.  Again, take the issue of being schwinned.  To avoid being schwinned, some of us have taken to using a proxy -- or a pit bike -- to stand in our bike's stead while we're away.

typical pit-bike proxy

Snobbery? Yes. Do I care? No. Many times, finding a pit-bike proxy is just a matter of locating and then moving another POS Schwinn that a fake commuter had failed to secure properly. Or, you can do what my good buddy Shim did once: he brought in his own pit-bike in from home to serve as his proxy. It lasted about two weeks before it was stolen. Nice!

And while we're on the subject of snobbery, here's something one shouldn't expect to see at the bike rack: dirty laundry.

Exhibit A: this fella used his handlebars as a clothes rack:

Exhibit B: not to be outdone, here's someone's sweaty chamois.

I mean, in a word: ick.

Whew! It's time for a recap: 1) The work place bike rack should be reserved for those who actually ride their bikes more than a few blocks 2) Place-backs are to be honored. 3) The bike rack is not a place to air your laundry. It's for bikes. And by bikes, I mean bicycles. No motorized vehicles.

So that means one shouldn't expect to see a pink scooter parked at the rack.

There were a couple notes left on the scooter when I arrived. One note said, "this rack is for bicycles -- don't park your scooter here again."

The other one said:

I suppose having a pink scooter motor pace the lunch ride to the taco truck on Vinton Street is a fair trade for a spot at the bike rack.

It sure beats a dirty chamois draped over a POS.

Tasty Day

Bryan Redemske's been lamenting recently that it's been a long, hot summer.

With the type of heat we've been having around here lately, it's made it difficult to remain focused on training. And with local road cycling being mostly wrapped up for the season, there's even less to get all worked up about.  Still, on August 18th, the race calendar is double booked with the Papillion Twilight and Gravel Worlds.

That's a solid three weeks of training in this heat before race day.

Well, take heart Bryan and company, I've got some ideas -- only one actually -- that you might pay a veteran coach good money for. And today only, on Wholesome Steel-cut Goodness, it's yours, gratis of WSCG.

True story: I once was paid to be a coach. I trained 30 athletes at my peak.  They weren't cyclists. Nor were my athletes adults. OK, so I coached eight and unders swimming. That's still gotta be worth something, right? If for nothing else, how do you think I'm able to demonstrate such patience with Shim?

Anyway, when I was 18, I lifeguarded and coached swimming at a private neighborhood swimming pool called Hills West in Denver. The neighborhood was still under construction when I was there.  They had built up a nice community center with a six lane, 25 yard swimming pool. The neighborhood association wanted a swimming team and splurged on professional starting blocks and top quality lane lines to dress it up.  They only needed one thing: swimmers.

That's where I entered the scene.  Over the next couple summers, I literally taught nearly all the eight and unders how to swim. First, in group lessons, then graduating them onto the swim team. The kids were troopers. They could barely complete a single lap when they joined the team.

The Hills West Waves were in the "D" bracket in the first season. The D bracket was reserved for the least competitive swimming teams. That year, we lost every meet. We were the Bad News Bears of summer league swimming.

One day, after witnessing one of the kids bawling her eyes out after coming home empty-handed from yet another soul-crushing loss, I came up with a great idea to motivate them. FOOD.

Seriously, this is good stuff. Hang with me.

At the next morning's practice, I gave the "how proud I was of them" speech followed by "it's not always about winning..." rhetoric.  Their wandering eyes indicated I was losing them. I switched gears and agreed with them that winning was fun and encouraged them that they weren't far from tasting victory.  All they needed to do was to practice more and to give it their all instead of quitting on themselves when it got difficult. In short, they just needed more volume to get stronger.

OK now pay attention, this is where the coaching tip worth good money is.

Then to motivate them, I promised I'd treat McDonald's breakfast to whomever completed the entire practice on the following Friday.

Jeffrey Gaston, one of the eight and unders suddenly blurted out, "Sweet dude, it's gonna be a tasty day!"

Apparently, Egg McMuffins have some pull with the 8 & UN summer-leaguers.   Who knew? Over the next serval practices, the kids took to the water with purpose.  There was fire in their belly for greasy American fast food, and by hook or crook, many were planning to be among that number going to McDonalds.

When the test day finally arrived, Jeffrey Gaston was there early, wearing a small backpack. He looked like he was ready to embark on a cross-country trip. He reiterated his mantra, "it's gonna be a tasty day," as I unlocked the gate.

Not everyone made it through the entire practice that Friday. For those who didn't, they ether didn't care that much about swimming or flapjacks at McDonalds.

But the ones who succeeded were obviously motivated.  In the end, we took 19 in a caravan from the pool.  Jeffrey Gaston was among those counted. He had himself a tasty day.

--//--

In summary: simple rewards are strong motivators.

Wouldn't you agree Rafal? I mean, don't Bacon Rides make for tasty days?

There you go Bryan. Go get you some.

Happy training everyone.

Could'a, Should'a, Would'a: Sprinkler Dash

I had a healthy respect for my Dad when I was a kid. Still do. Back then, it was kinda like the fear of God thing. Dad came from a strict upbringing. He was disciplined as a kid by my grandmother, Nellie Murphy. I only knew the sweet, wholesome steel-cut oatmeal cookie version of Grandma Nellie. But from what I understand, she was a real whipper snapper in her day. When my Dad got out of line Grandma Nellie would tell him to go find a switch from the thicket out yonder. And before he could get out the door, she'd add, "if you don't find one of adequate size, I'll find one for you."

We depended on Dad for most things. He ran a very traditional household: he was the bread winner and Mom took care of the daily house duties and raising five kids.  Mom and Dad made up a good pair in many ways. One of the things they did well was the good cop/bad cop routine. Mom was good cop, Dad was bad.  This basically meant when we kids would mess around, she'd threaten, "Wait till your Dad comes home..."

You didn't want to hear that.

Dad was much softer on us kids than Grandma Nellie was on him. I never had to find a switch. Instead, Dad went to the leather belt. In truth, we rarely got the belt. Hand spankings were common (and plenty). What Dad did do with the belt was to fold it over and snap it together loudly. CRACK!! That got your attention quickly.

--//--

The swimming pool was open six days a week. It was closed on Mondays for maintenance. When the pool was closed, we had one legitimate option for cooling off: the golf course sprinklers. Pool-hopping was strictly off limits. Dad once told us that summer would be cancelled if he ever caught us pool-hopping. I'm not sure exactly what he meant by that, but I made a mental note of it that I didn't want to find out.

I came pretty close to finding out once. One summer Monday, I had invited my friend Tom Chiapelas (hi Tom, I live in Omaha now: brady dot murphy at gmail) for a sleep-over. Tom was one of the coolest kids I knew: he was good at just about every thing he did, he played all the sports, dressed well and listened to the best music. He just oozed of smug coolness and having him over for a sleep over was a big deal.

That particular summer Monday was a scorcher. The heat and humidity drove the heat index over 100 F. As such, Tom wanted nothing to do with the golf course sprinklers. Instead, he suggested to my older brother Matt and I that we forgo them for pool-hopping.

Instantly, I heard Dad's belt cracking inside my head. I envisioned a hand-painted "SUMMER IS CANCELLED" sign hanging on my bedroom door. I opened my mouth to protest, "But what about Dad --"

Matt cut me off.  "Shut up Brady, we'll be fine. We'll only go for five minutes. It's now five o'clock.  Dad doesn't come home from work until 6 PM. Trust me, he won't even know."

They grabbed some towels and were out the door. I followed sheepishly.

I have to admit, the pool was refreshingly cool that day. Five minutes slipped to ten. Then ten to 20 minutes. By then, we were going off the diving boards. First the low board, then the high one. Time kept slipping by: the clock now said 5:40 PM.

It was about then that I saw Dad's company issued fleet car, a maroon Buick Century, enter the neighborhood. And as he drove by, I swear I saw his head turn and take a long hard look at the swimming pool. He was keen as a hawk. At that very moment, my buddy Tom was standing on the high board, getting ready for yet another cannonball.

"IT'S DAD!!!"  I yelled in panic.

Tom, still standing on the high dive, sorta crouched and covered himself as if he suddenly realized he was naked or something.  Meanwhile, all that was left of brother Matt was a trail of wet foot prints across the pool deck that ended abruptly at the fence. From there, at about 100 meters, I picked up his trace. He was sprinting ass and elbows towards home.

I was quickly at his feet. Till this date, I wonder if I had ever run any faster.

Now remember just a few paragraphs ago that I said that Tom was good at just about every thing he did? Well, he sucked at running. Really. He was an awful runner. I mean, he must have had double-triple-jointed  hips and knees, because when he ran, it was comical.

Somehow, Matt and I beat my Dad home. With a whoosh of the sliding glass door, we were back inside our living room where we had plopped ourselves on the couch. We were fully dressed, and our chlorine bleached straw hair was mostly dry.  Matt flipped on the boob-tube's Wheel of Fortune just as Dad had walked in. He had a surprised look on his face.

"I just saw some kids up the pool. I thought they were you for a second," Dad said.

"Nope, not us, Dad. We've been watching Vanna," Matt lied.

"That's good. You know how I feel about pool hopping."

"Yeah, Dad, summer will be cancelled or something."  Matt was pushing the envelope.

"That's right," Dad said as he fiddled with his belt-buckle. "You two will be sorry if I ever find out you're pool hopping on Monday."

-- uncomfortable silence --

"I thought Tom Chiapelas was spending the night tonight?" he continued. "What happened to him?"

-- whoosh, the sliding door opens. It's my buddy Tom. He's panting out of breath, dripping wet and standing in a speedo --

"Hi Mr Murphy! Did you have a nice day at the office?"

--//--

Tom's parents had arrived to pick him up before his hair had dried. Party over.

Matt and I were spared the belt and/or switch. We were too old for that stuff.  If I recall correctly, we were grounded from the pool for a week and had to do manual chores like weed pulling and hand-picking dirt out of the carpet.  Dad called that the "human vacuum cleaner". It was one of his go-to favorites.

--//--

Fast forward to the present: Golf course sprinklers are an excellent way to cool off during the dog days of summer.  I've been checking out the local scene. With this drought, they're running the sprinklers every night at the Elmwood Park golf course. So in honor of my good old buddy Tom Chiapelas, who chose pool hopping over sprinklers, I propose a could'a, should'a, would'a re-do for him/us to get it right.

I'm serious. Here's what I propose:

The Inaugural Tom Chiapelas Sprinkler Dash 5K
Where: Elmwood Park Golf Course
When: Friday July 20
Meet: 9:30PM in the Elmwood Park Pavilion parking lot
Pace: what, are you kidding?

Bring: running shoes and extra clothes. And a towel.  Don't forget your towel.  Whatever else --  speedos --  I don't care.

First round of beers on me at the Crescent Moon to whoever joins in.

Hope to see you at the park.

Strong Program

During one of my warm up sessions last week I took some tips from one of the Masters swimming coaches. He was helping me with my start from one of those new-fangled, rhomboid starting blocks with the finned tail on the back. We were working on my track-start. I felt like a rock star.  Back when I was swimming summer league and high school, we started off blocks.  Just square blocks. 

Anyway, that volunteer coach gave me some good pointers. And he also seemed genuinely impressed that I signed up to do the 400 IM and 400 freestyle in my first meet in decades.  He called it a "strong program."

I felt pretty good about my strong program until the meet announcer drew my attention to Bob Doud, who was swimming the 100 butterfly just two hours after competing in the 400 IM. I should also mention that Bob Dowd is currently 89 years old. Dang Bob, that's a strong program!

And then there was Joan Campbell, who started swimming masters at age 59, and was competing in the 200  butterfly at age 82. She also swam the 1500 free, 400 IM, 400 free, 200 breaststroke and 200 free. Dang, Joan, that's a strong program!

This swimming meet was an eye opener. I had a great experience both competing in, and witnesses some fantastic swims from all ages and abilities. I'm looking forward to exploring more of these events in the future. Heck, I've still got nearly 50 years to prepare for doubling up on the 400 IM and 100 butterfly.  

Do your worst, Bob Doud. I'll be bringing my strong program.