Pack of Trust

Last night I was reading a book. I was laying down. My dog, Emmylou, was my pillow. While I was reading the book, she was destroying a rawhide bone. Both man and beast were contented.

I gave her the rawhide about 15 minutes beforehand.  And for the next ten minutes after, she was besides herself with it. She clutched the rawhide in her jaws while pacing around the interior of the house. She then took it outside, but that only lasted for one pass around the backyard. It was obvious what she was doing. She was showing off her prized possession. Even more, she wanted somebody or something to challenge her for it. 

At first it was just simple pacing. But by the time she had her made tours of inside and out, she was getting bored of simply showing it off.  That's when she started up with her high-pitched whistling through her nasal cavity. The whistling is grating on the nerves and quite effective at getting someone to focus on her.

That would be me. And since Emmy had no dogs to challenge her, I got down on all fours and began to slowly approach her. 

Now there are many things that I cannot do well in life. Like dancing. Trust me friend, you don't want to see this white man's overbite.  

Playing the role of a dog, however, is something I somehow excel at.

I'm a keen study of behavior. It doesn't matter if its humans or animals, it just comes naturally to me. I probably should have been an anthropologist. Or a dog-thropologist. Huh, what's it pay? 

Anyway, it only takes a few minutes of meeting a dog (that doesn't want to immediately rip my head off) to get insider their pack of trust. It starts with the non-threatening visual contact, then cautious posturing, which gives way to the obligatory sniffing, and finishing with feigned boredom and darting eyes that break contact as soon as its made. Repeat, etc... A couple minutes of this and I'm no longer that funny looking human, but an even funnier looking canine who's been accepted into their pack of trust. 

I've been in Emmy's pack of trust for nine years now. I rescued her from the Humane Society when she was about a year old. She's some sort of lab mix, very friendly and loves attention. She's also a somewhat neurotic and may or may not suffer from anxiety/depression/OCD. --  Prozac Nation 2.0 

So back to last night: Emmy was playing hard-to-get with her rawhide. Even after parading it around, all she wanted to do initially was to play with it. When I'd get near, she'd get all growly and such at me, then break it off and wag her tail. Then I'd pretend I wasn't interested, and then she's shove the rawhide back in my face again. This went on, back and forth, for a few more minutes until she was satisfied that she was the alpha dog. For the moment. That's when she started chowing down on it.

At this point, I began reading a book and used her as my pillow. Of course, I was only using the book as a ruse to make her think that I was reading it.

She took the bait. Within a couple minutes, she had forgotten about me.  I waited until she was well into gnashing that thing into a bloody stump before making my move.

As they say on TV, please do not try this at home. What you're about to see is the true sequence of events as they unfolded and were caught by my phone's camera. 

Emmy's settled in, mouwing down on that rawhide. Look at the hyper-extended jawbone! Amazing. Meanwhile, the pack of trust is in full effect. Brady's apparently no threat to her busy work.

Emmy's all CRUNCH! SNAP! RIP! She has no clue what Brady's scheming.

Emmy: Oh no, what's this?
Brady: Groaaaaaaaarrr!!!

Hey Emmy, who's alpha dog how, huh?

Yeah, pretty good.

Winter Cycling: the Good the Bad and the Ugly

Every winter, cyclists must decide if they are going to ride inside or out.

For those who choose to stay inside, there are options like spin classes, stationary bikes, trainers, and my personal favorite: rollers. Rollers are just what they sound like: a set of drum "rollers" connected by an elastic band that one rides their bike on top of. It's like a treadmill built for bicycles. I like them because it's the closest thing to actually riding a bike indoors. Because you're riding on top of drums, and not physically connected to anything, you not only have to balance but steer your bike to remain on the drum. If you ride off the drums, well, that's where it gets interesting. Can you bunny hop an ottoman? Yeah, pretty good.

It can be intimidating at first, but after a session or two, it ain't nothing but a 'thang.  If you're interested, Mike Munson is selling a set for $75 bucks right now.  That's a great price. You can use them for a few seasons and sell them again for at least that much.

If you ask me, your best bang for your buck is investing in good cycling clothing to ride outside. I mean, you can get by with a lot of stuff you have already. I've seen folks riding in fleece pullovers and snow pants. It's doable. But it can be a lot more comfortable and enjoyable if you start investing in cycling specific clothing.

There are lots of benefits to riding outside. For one, riding indoor sucks. I know that's not a benefit for riding outdoors, but let's face it, the only thing worse than riding a stationary bike|trainer is running on a treadmill. And that's not far behind.

Riding outdoors in the winter is fun. It's that simple. Just fun. Ah, that deserves it's own paragraph.

It's fun because it's more social. Social because you'd be an idiot to ride fast in cold weather. You ride slower so as to not overheat and sweat when  it's 3°F outside. As a result of slower speeds, the pack tends to stay together. That allows more time to dawdle. Besides triathletes, who doesn't enjoy dawdling?

Another benefit is the scenery. The snow changes everything. There have been many occasions that I've ridden familiar roads as if it was the first time on them.

For others, it's facial scenery. Take for example our own ginger, Lucas Marshall. For him and others alike, one of the major winter cycling benefits is to show off your ice beard. As one breathes, exhalation condenses and freezes onto facial hair. Apparently snot does, too.

In a word, ick.

Anyway, despite all of its benefits, some resist winter cycling out of fear of the unknown.

After seeing this picture that Fred posted on Facebook, a friend and newbie cyclist sent me a message inquiring if cycling "was possible in the snow and how safe was it?"

Now that was a curious question to ask me, since the picture clearly shows that it's possible to ride a bike in the snow. But was it safe?

Sure, there is an element of risk here. But it's manageable risk with some basic winter riding skills.

I've ridden for many years now and still marvel how a bicycle can stay upright over a sheet of ice. It's turning an braking where things can get a little dicey.  On a recent ride I got going a little too fast on a descent. I panicked and squeezed the back brake too hard, locking the wheel into a skid. The wheel got squirrelly beneath me. That spooked me enough to keep me from touching the front brake. This only made the situation worse as I kept accelerating down the hill. I starting passing friends, one by one. On both sides of the road were drainage culverts. At the bottom, the road junctioned with another gravel road that had its own ditch on the far side. While passing, I told Rafal that it was nice knowing him, then pointed the bike toward a band of snow along the shoulder with the hopes of getting traction there. Fortunately, my plan worked and I didn't dump it. What a rush of adrenalin that was.

My rendition of East Jefferson Avenue and Mudhollow Road, Iowa

For the record, that was the hill that Lucas said he'd like to put on a pair of Carharts and just let 'er rip and see what happened.  Also for the record, Shim said that he didn't touch his brakes at all. He probably clipped out for a one legged-drill. Soft-pedaling of course.

So that's the worst it can get. From this experience, I learned a few things, like not panicking, looking for snow for better traction and how to effectively feather the front brake. I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have gotten this same experience riding a trainer while watching the movie Predator.

Is winter riding risky? I suppose it can be. But riding on your rollers over your cement basement floor can be risky, too. Heck, I saw Shim crash on a trainer before a cyclocross race this year. And he never crashes.

But with a little precaution, riding outside in the winter is not only possible to do so, but it can also be safe.

Happy Winter Riding Everyone.

Resolved

I've been traveling this holiday, so this one will have to be brief.

As we come to a close of another year, it's time to start getting a resolution list together. Here's one that I intend to make next year: get my act together. More planning, less reacting. That kind of stuff.

For example, I resolve to be like those people who send christmas greetings in the mail each year. For those who sent us a greeting, I'm impressed. Thank you, we do appreciate the thought and snapshot of you and your little ankle biters. The greetings get a special space on our fridge and stay up there for nearly the entire year, mostly because I don't have my act together enough to tidy up afterward. (Another resolution for next year, noted).

I had every intention of sending a greeting of our own this year. That goes for last year and the year(s) before, too. Like this one, which goes back a few years, before I was married and before my kid brother Brendan was born.

Oh well, better late than never.  Happy Holidays everyone. Be safe and stay healthy.

My Favorite Christmas Present Ever. Like Ever.

What was the greatest Christmas present you ever received under the tree? I've had some good ones over the years.

The big wheel from Santa was undoubtedly breath taking.

A few years later, the wind-up Evel Knievel stunt bike from Ideal brought hours of entertainment.

The problem of receiving gifts like these was in trying top the experience year over year. That's all fine and dandy when you start off with rootie toot toots and rummie tum tums, but what happens when you climb all the way up to the top and have yourself an  Evel Knievel Christmas? Where do you go from there?

Flying Finnegan. That's where.

Flying Finnegan was a Kenner's answer to Milton Bradley's Mouse Trap board game. In Mouse Trap, you built this rube goldberg contraption as your mouse moves around the board collecting cheese. Once the trap was built, you hoped to avoid elimination by not landing on the crank wheel case, for doing so could lead to... MOUSE TRAP!

Flying Finnegan was like Mouse Trap, but supposedly better. Better because instead of building a mouse trap, you built a circus with a flying trapeze that launched Finnegan across the room and into a shark tank.

I can just imagine the Kenner marketing wizards pitching the idea.

Kenner Rep 1: "Hey, how's this sound: 'Flying Finnegan, like Mouse trap only better!'"
Kenner Rep 2: "Ew, ew! What about this: "'Flying Finnegan: think Mouse Trap with circus freaks and a shark jum--'"
Kenner Rep 3: "-- Circus freaks? Might as well say 'trailer park trash' while you're at it. No. We have got to believe that we built a better, uh, mouse trap. I mean, we got ourselves a frickin' shark jump don't we? No, we don't need anything fancy slogans, just a picture of two snot-nosed kids  --with hands waving in front of them for dramatic effect -- with the banner, "FLYING FINNEGAN, ACTION GAME OF SKILL AND DARING" right above Finnegan as he's going into the sharks. Shoot, it'll be a slam dunk!
-- Reps 1 and 2 sat dumbfounded, jaws agape --
Marketing Rep 3: "Anyway, no worries, PT Barnum's already shown that a sucker is born every minute."

I was one of those suckers. I wanted it. No. I needed it. No. I must have it, that Christmas. Resolved, my greedy mitts ripped the page right out of the Sears Roebuck and presented it to my parents. No Red Rider BB Guns, no Zeppelins, just Flying Finnegan. Thank you.

Christmas morning came and Flying Finnegan was under the tree with my name on it. I tore in and had it set up in minutes. The first few launches had Finnegan wildly missing the shark tank. But with each attempt, my range and accuracy improved until I finally dropped Finnegan right into that shark tank. The lid snapped shut with a loud bell. It was exactly like the picture of those bratty kids above. I repeated the process.  Finnegan again flies through the air, lands smack in the middle of that tank, lid shuts and bell dings. Sweet. Again, shark tanks, ding. Again, sharks, ding...

After a couple of more tries, I hated that game.

As it turned out, Flying Finnegan was a complete bust. It took about five minutes to master and then it was totally boring after that. I suppose the silver lining was that it taught this third grader a valuable life lesson on Moore's Law of diminishing returns. But it was a cruel lesson to learn at a young age. Flying Finnegan ruined the thrill of Christmas for me.

By the time I was in eighth grade, I could care less if I received a gadget or another acrylic sweater. It was all the same.

That was, until a pair of Bauer Turbo hockey skates appeared under the tree.

The timing couldn't have been better. That winter, a strong cold snap fell upon our hometown of Kirkwood (St Louis, MO). The golf course's hole #12's lake had completely frozen over, creating a perfect opportunity to learn how to skate. My brothers, who also received skates, and I spent our entire Christmas holiday at the lake. These were all day affairs. It wasn't pretty at first. But as soon as I got some of the basics down, I tackled the cross over, skating backwards, and then even the backwards crossover. When it snowed, we brought shovels to clear a sheet. Others arrived from around the area for pickup hockey. I was no Wayne Gretzky, but by then end of that winter, I could skate and manage a puck well enough.

I never outgrew of those skates because I stopped growing that year. I've still got them. And use them, too. That's 28 years worth of usage! Looky here, from this past weekend with Ms Katherine at ConAgra's downtown rink:

Thanks for the blades, Mom and Dad. It was my favorite Christmas present ever.

Merry Christmas everyone.

A Bat, a Cat, a Dog and a Kat

As I mentioned previously, this past week's bat wasn't the first in our house. We had one a few years ago.

I was in the basement working on my bike. I heard a blood curdling scream upstairs from my wife, Kat.

I hurried upstairs to find Kat shrieking and eeeking while running around the dining room table.

Behind her was a bat. The bat, while chasing Kat, was flipity-flapping his wings every which way, causing its flight to suddenly droop and swoop.

Just then, our house cat Newton entered the room. Newton was attempting to catch the bat, the bat that was right behind Kat.

When the bat's flippity-flappings caused his flight to droop and swoop, the cat tried to pounce and trounce.

This commotion roused our dog Emmylou from her nap.

The dog came howling and growling just as Kat, being chased by the bat, being chased by the cat, went past.

OK, got it everyone? Sing along now! On three: one, two, three:

♫Kat shrieked and eeeked,
while the bat drooped and swooped
and the cat pounced and trounced
and the dog growled and howled...♫

I scratched my head and scowled, while I thought of ways to fix the situation.

Kat, the dog and the cat belonged here.

The bat needed to go.

But how, with the dog chasing the cat chasing the bat chasing Kat?

Kat was first. I grabbed her on the next pass and diverted her into the bathroom. "Wait here," I said while shutting the door.

Next came the dog, still chasing the cat chasing the bat.

I corralled the dog into the den and commanded, "Stay Emmy!" and shut the door.

Then came the cat chasing the bat. A furry-fury ensued, but into the sun-room went Newton. "Scat," said I, and then shut the door.

Whew. No Kat, no dog and no cat. I could now deal with the bat.

I opened the front door and grabbed a blanket from the couch before going back to the dining room.

The bat was there, still swooping and drooping, despite neither cat, nor dog nor Kat.

When the bat came around, I opened the blanket as wide as I could. Success! The bat was diverted into the living room.

In the living room, I stood near the open front door.  When the bat made another pass, I opened the blanket once more....

... and out he flew through the front door.

But then -- just as it cleared the stoop -- Shim popped out from behind a bush.

"I GOT THIS BARRY!" he whooped.

The bat swooped just as Shim scooped. It flew right into Shim's hand --and then Shim promptly bit its head off and spit blood and grimy guts everywhere.

The end.

Alternate ending:
My apologies for those who intended to use as a bed time story for young children. Don't fret, I've put together an alternate family-friendly version here.

The The end.