Nightmare on 52nd Street

Last night I had a nightmare. Maybe it was the undigested pizza seeking its revenge. Or, it could have been because my wife stole all the blankets, leaving me shivering in a shallow sleep, which is prime for dream-making.

So anyway, I was commuting home by bike. My commute was quite dark, as the quarter moon was late in rising. It was also very chilly and I wasn't fully prepared for the cold. I lacked adequate protection for my head and face. I had a very thin skullcap under my helmet and had nothing for my face. My 8 3/8" blockhead was uncomfortable, but manageable, for the five mile commute home.

While my headlight flickered on the patchy street, puffs of steam belched up from my breath fogged my glasses. Perhaps due to limited vision, I didn't see the old man in coveralls until he suddenly appeared from behind a Ford 150's shadow.

"You aught'n slow down," he snarled at me.

The patchy snow turned into a nasty sheet of ice in an instant. I heeded the old man's warning, clipped out with one foot and feathered the rear brake. It was dicey. But when I came safely to a stop, I dismounted and walked the bike through the ice field. After remounting, I rode home without incident.

Oh yeah, what's this about? Sorry! I digress. I was supposed to tell you about the nightmare I had the other night, not my commute home from work. I must have been thinking about my commute as I fell asleep. Shortly afterward is when I had the nightmare.

In my nightmare, I dreamed that I was sitting on a stationary bike in a gym. Awful, no? Well hang onto your foam-rubber stationary bike handlebars, because it gets worse. It was about 85F and humid in there. I was staring at a paint chip missing from the burnt umber colored wall. I was staring at the paint chip in a feeble attempt at quelling my raging mind, which teetered atop an abyss of boredom and insanity. While I attempted to focus my mind, I sat and spun on a dated stationary bike that looked like it just came off the set of Total Recall (1990, not 2012). On my left is a woman that looks like Jane Fonda, complete with her trademark neon knee warmers. She's chewing bubble gum, and when not blowing obnoxious bubbles, it sounds like she's eating a live fish. On my right is a dude that looks like he just walked off the WWF (wrestling, not wildlife) wearing purple and black zubaz pants and a tanktop that would make Sammy Hagar weep. He's also humming off-key to 90s hairband rock, blaring from earbuds connected to a Sony Walkman. Let's recap my nightmare: the heat, the humidity; GI Jane stripping her teeth over that fish and the Bret Michaels-wannabe humming Whitesnake's Here I Go Again. All this, while I'm sitting on a stationary bike. AHHHHHH! I couldn't take it! It was way too much for my brain to focus on that stupid paint chip. I went into overload and screamed aloud, waking up my wife in the process.

~//~

As you can see, I hate riding a stationary bike. Trainers, too for that matter. I'll ride them when its absolutely necessary. Last winter, I rode a lot, but only once during a spin class, once on a trainer and twice on rollers. I'm saying that not to brag, like I'm some tough guy for riding outside in the winter or something. I'm sharing so you know how much I'd rather be outside than inside. And, if that resounds in you, that it's something you'd like to try too, then what's keeping you from joining in? Here's my encouragement to you: get out there and see for yourself what it's like.

First of all I can tell you what winter riding is not. No, it's not this:

icebike.org

But with a little preparation, it could be this:



Obviously, it takes a certain level of commitment to assemble the proper clothing and gear to do it right. But rather than hash it out here, why not take your next coffee break and read up on it yourself? There are plenty of good sites out there. One site I came upon recently is Icebike.org. It's probably as good a starting point as any.

I ride throughout the winter simply because its a lot of fun.

And it certainly beats spinning next to a guy in a pair of Zubaz.

Bless His Dear Heart

You know it immediately when you're the recipient of a backhanded compliment. Like when you're having a bad hair day, and someone says, "Did you get a new haircut?" Or, when you do nothing different than your normal, everyday routine and someone says, "Wow, don't you look good today?" Thanks. Now what does that say about yesterday, or all the days before that?

Another personal slight comes in the form of veiled pity. Like when someone says, "bless his dear heart" while describing a dufus neighbor's attempt at wrestling an overstuffed garbage bag down the driveway, only to have it tear open and spew everything out three feet from the curb. Haha, bless his dear heart.

Only slightly less obnoxious is the guy who can't help but comment on the obvious. Like when you bang your head on the corner of an open drawer and your colleague says, "Oh man, I bet that hurt."

Something like the last one happened to me at the Heartland Park Topeka Grand Prix cyclcocross race this past weekend.

The Heartland Park Grand Prix venue is held on and around a "dirt velodrome" race track on the outskirts of Topeka. The course worked its way through technical sections in and outside the velodrome with two sets of barriers, one with a small fly-over with a ramp, and there was one small but very steep hill that followed a choppy technical section on the backside of the course. It was also a night race. Nothing like racing under the lights on Saturday night.

Anyway, there were 19 starters in the 40-49 masters race. My buddy Shim was there. And another Nebraskan, John Rokke, was in the field. I started in the back row, but by the end of the first lap, I had worked myself into the lead group of six, which included Shim and John Rokke. I sat in with them for the majority of the second lap. That was, until disaster struck: just before the steep hill, I bounced the chain off my front ring. Without power, I was forced to dismount, lug my bike up the hill and then go about resetting the chain.

That's when I first heard the voice from a bystander nearby: "Oh man, that's too bad you dropped your chain."

Yes, that was too bad, especially because after remounting, I had to burn a match to catch back on to the lead group, who were now in the process of trying to reel in a solo breakaway. But I did catch them, and when I did, I intended to sit-in for a breather. That was, until disaster struck for the second time. Again, just before the steep hill, I bounced the chain off my front ring once more. So I lugged the bike up the hill and reset the chain.

The same bystander took couldn't but comment once more, "Oh man, that's too bad you dropped your chain again."

Ugh.

I remounted, and furiously burned another match to catch back onto the chase group. By the time I had arrived, the leader was 10 seconds up the road, and another was attempting to bridge up to him. I didn't wait. I immediately counter-attacked my attack. Shim blocked while I worked on bringing back guy #2. By the time I did, I was content to sit on and catch my breath.

That's when disaster struck for the third time. Yep, another dropped chain -- this time on secluded section of the course. Whew! I wasn't sure how I would have taken hearing that guy tell me how bad it was that I dropped my chain again.

I remounted as the chase group came by and swept me up. We remained that way until midway through the bell lap. When the guy up front sat up on a flat section with a tailwind, I punched it hard. I figured I'd either succeed in creating a buffer, in the event that I had another mechanical, or I'd go out in a flame and let Shim reap the benefits of another awesome lead out. A chaser jumped on my wheel & Shim on his. In a short while, the guy behind me sounded like a horse in labor. We carried speed through the technical section just before the steep hill. And that's when disaster struck again: I heard the chain's unmistakable frame-slap a moment before I lost power. The moment of dread was upon me.

The dread was not that I had just dropped my chain for the fourth time in a race.

Nor was the dread a result of realizing that a chance at a podium had just slipped by.

The moment I dreaded was waiting for me at the top of that damn hill. Sure enough, as I worked that chain back on for the final time, that guy just couldn't help himself repeat once more:

"Oh Man, that's too bad you dropped your chain"

Looking back on it now, I'm sure he really meant what he said. It was indeed bad that I dropped a chain in a race, let alone four times. But c'mon. Offering pity once is understandable; twice is pushing it. But anything beyond that, bless his dear heart, was just speaking the obvious.

Stolen Trek X02 Cyclocross Bike RECOVERED

STATUS: RECOVERED
$$ CASH REWARD $$

11/11/2011: My friend's stolen bike has been recovered from a local pawn shop. Call off the dogs.

Year: 2010
Make: Trek (cyclocross bike)
Model: XO2
Serial#: 165SZ0865E
Size: 56 cm
Color: Black/white/red. Terry saddle has Zebra pattern
Wheels: Bontrager Race Xlite rims, Fango tires

Call#: (308) 641-4191
Email: lkleager[at]gmail[dot]com

Last Seen:
12:30PM Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Union Pacific Railroad
1400 Douglas Street
Omaha, NE 68179

A Word From Our Sponsors

Around 10 AM Thursday, I took a coffee break to see what was going on in the world. My escape is cnn.com. When I got there, I immediately saw the BREAKING NEWS headline in the humongous letters. Apparently, word was out that Moammar had been hunted down and killed. I quickly clicked the link, but before I could actually read the BREAKING NEWS, I had to sit through a product endorsement for yogurt.

I like yogurt. And I don't have complaints about the commercial content: smiley, happy people enjoying a delicious snack that was conveniently fortified with calcium for strong bones and teeth. And the kicker was that a portion of the proceeds goes towards the Susan G Komen breast cancer foundation.

Now I'm all for smiley faces, strong bones and teeth. And healthy breasts are about as wholesome steel-cut goodnessey as you can get. But these were the furthest thing from my mind when I was trying to find the low down on ol' Moammar, who was apparently not only way dead, but was also quite gruesomely so. After the 30 second spot, the commercial transitioned to the following:



So like you did and are about to do again, I clicked on the following (be forewarned) link.

Nothing like a side of bloody Gadhafi's face with my wholesome raspberry yogurt. Mmmmm, yogurt. Mmmmm, Moammar.

I understand that somebody's got to pay the bills. I really get that. But yogurt? Now?

Look, if you're gonna be all gristly and such, then why not pitch rifle ammunition, or bludgeoning devices like Louisville Sluggers? Those make far better product-placements than flashing my retina with pro-biotic yogurt a moment before trotting out the bloody boogie man.

Thanks CNN, now I have to find a substitute smoothie mix-in. Bloody Moammar face yogurt isn't going to cut it anymore.

I Prefer Barry

Hello, my name is Brady.

No, it's not guy.

Nor is my name Dude, although I have a tee shirt that says so.

My name is simply Brady.

But Every once in awhile, somebody gets it wrong. That happened to me the other day, and it triggered an unfortunate memory and subsequent venting about That Guy Who Called Everybody Guy.

Don't fret. We're not going back there again today.

The other day, a colleague called me by the wrong name. He called me Barry. Twice, actually. This colleague travels frequently and is rarely in the office. Having returned from a long absence, he needed some assistance installing a printer to his new laptop. So while I was downloading the driver, we passed the time with the small chit-chat that normally occupies office space. He remembered that I was a cyclist and a swimmer. We talked about our families a little. Then, after successfully printing a test page, he thanked me for getting him hooked up. That's when he called me Barry.

I gave him the benefit of doubt. Perhaps the chatter of the printer made me mishear what he said. But then as we were walking out, he praised me again -- this time distinctly as Barry -- for my efforts.

It was okay. It wasn't the first time I've been called Barry.

Over the years, I've been called a lot of names besides Brady. The most common has been Brad. I hate being called Brad, but not nearly as much as I hate being called guy -- whoops, there's that guy word slipping in again. --  I'm surprised at how much I dislike being called Brad. It's a mystery because I have friends named Brad. I suppose it's because of the context. I'm usually called Brad by a bank teller or someone trying to sell me something. Uh sorry, but Brad's not going to be buying any Florida swamp land from you.

Besides Barry and Brad, I've also been called Grady, Bradley, Brandy, Braddy, and even Bob once. Bob? Here's how that one went:

Me: Hi, my name is Brady.

Them: Nice to meet you, Bob.

Me: Um, you too, guy.

Anyway, about this Barry thing. The first person to call me Barry was Mr. Conway, my high school religion teacher.

Mr Conway was an icon at St. Louis University High School. By the time I sat in his freshman theology class, Mr Conway had served in various roles in the school administration and taught nearly every subject. He had a wealth of experience and was an excellent teacher. The finer details, like remembering the name of another know-it-all-snot-nosed punk sitting in the second row, just wasn't that important to Mr Conway anymore. He just called it the way he saw it.

I can still picture him sitting behind that big old oak desk, his bright, wide eyes staring at me through his Mr Magoo-like glasses, while asking me something like, "How old did the Bible say Methuselah was, Barry?"

I had corrected him a couple times early in the semester. He'd call me by my proper name for a few weeks before being drawn back towards his old standby, Barry. So by the time we were through the Pentateuch, my new name, Barry, was firmly rooted. I/we all kind of got used to it. It was fine.

It was that way until late in the semester. We were studying the minor prophets, when classmate Leonard Shelton broke the silence. He just couldn't take it anymore.

Mr Conway: ...Popular belief is that the Bible says that Jonah was swallowed by a whale. But did the Bible really mention anything about a whale? What does the Bible say, Barry?

Barry/Me: The Bibl --

Leonard: -- MR CONWAY, HIS NAME IS BRADY. FOR GOODNESS SAKE, WHY DO YOU INSIST ON CALLING HIM BARRY?!!

Mr. Conway: Because he looks like Barry Manilow.



The classroom roared with laughter. Mr Conway lets everyone continue for a moment before raising his hand to silence the class

Mr. Conway: So what were you about to say, BARRY? Was there a whale?

Barry/Me: ... no, Mr Conway.The Bible never mentions anything about a whale, it just says a large fish swallowed Jonah.

Mr. Conway: Thank you, Barry. Now Leonard, come put your demerit card on the corner of my desk...

***

From way back then until till now, many years have passed since I've been called Barry. I still don't mind that one.

This much's for sure: being called Barry is much preferred over being called guy by the guy who called everybody guy.