The Apprentice

Not Skinny, Small Boned

For the past few months, I've been doing a little soul-searching on why I choose to live an active lifestyle.

I know the benefits: excellent health, clothing that fits right and being able to do stuff that I enjoy doing.

Still, it never hurts to examine one's motivations.

Career
Career requirements can put a wrinkle in training from time to time. Meetings and deadline can often spill over into lunch and late into the night. Balancing career and stuff outside (health, family,etc) is always somewhat of a dance.

Change in Season
The change in season has also contributed to my recent ruminating. Truthfully, since the road season ended in June, I haven't had the urge to race my bike. Instead, as the weather has cooled and daylight has become shorter, I've swapped spandex for hipster threads on more than one occasion.

I've also wandered onto the sidelines to watch my friends compete in cyclocross. That's a first for me. Normally, I suit up for these local races. So far, not this year. Anyway, here's an example of me on the sidelines from last month's Omaha Weekend:

The caption above says that I was giving Rafal some pre-race tips. Nuh uh. If anything, Rafal was giving me the racing advice, like "Hey Brady, can I tell you something? You should be out here racing with us instead of painting your house."

Actually, Rafal did say that diddy about painting. He noticed and commented about the white paint on my hands from painting the windows sills I had repaired earlier that day. True story.

Health Reasons
Recently, someone said to me, "you're so skinny from riding your bike, I bet you can eat whatever you want."

Truth is, I'm not skinny, I'm just small-boned. Though I've never been overweight, I have a looming potential to be so.  But I currently appear 'skinny' because being so is a side effect of doing something I enjoy.  If I didn't enjoy it, I probably wouldn't do it. And with the 4,000 calorie diet I'm on, I'd sure look different than what you see today. Therefore, perhaps I'm contingently overweight.

But what if I stopped being active?

Till now, the thought of being out of shape has been my final, fail-safe motivator.  When I've got nothing else, this is what gets me out of bed for early morning swimming practice. It's what keeps me riding over lunch or after work, whenever.

And if that goes. Oh boy.

Former swimmers are the worst (best) at letting it go. I've known a couple former All-American swimmers who totally let it go and have realized their maximum contingency.  They were once ripped and could eat whatever the wanted. But that (swimming, not eating whatever) ended when they quit swimming.

Swimming rewards a voracious appetite.  Aggressive swimmers are just plain hungry all the time. That hunger manifests itself in and outside the pool. They're hungry for yardage, for food, for accomplishment.  A 12,000 yard practice? How about a 12,000 calorie breakfast to match?  The thing is, once the swimmer hangs up their speedo, only the grueling workouts end. That hunger never ceases.

I'm sorry to say it, but I predict that within ten years Michael Phelps will bump Kirstie Alley as the Weight Watchers Spokes person.  I don't say this to be malicious. The fact is that he is a very driven athlete who has won more Olympic medals than any other before. And now he hates swimming.  But I bet he still throws down three fried egg sandwiches, choc chip pancakes and five egg omelettes and such for breakfast on a regular basis.

The hunger never ceases.

YPG. I gotta wrap this thing up. Swimming practice is at dark thirty.

The Time I Nearly Froze to Death

It was 80° F this past Tuesday. Wednesday brought high winds, thunderstorms and a 40° drop in temperature.

Inevitably, when the temps fall below 50° F, many cycling folks begin salivating about embrocation.  Embrocation is a liniment rubbed on bare skin to mask the effect of cold.  It doesn't make you any warmer. It just feels like it. I'm not sure if that's good thing. You know that pain that you feel when you're getting frost bite? Well that's nature's way of indicating that you should probably put something warmer on than scented butter. And the stuff ain't cheap, either, costing upward of $5 an ounce.  That may not sound like much, but that's $640 a gallon.  Not that you'll need a gallon. You'll be long dead of hypothermia before a pint of that goop is gone.

Anyway, if you're a newbie and are considering riding outside this winter, you aught to consider investing in some decent riding gear. It's worth it.  And if you're local to Omaha, Mark Savery is putting on a free winter riding clinic at the Papillion Trek store (73rd and Giles) on November 5th.  Mark knows his stuff. I've learned lots from his listening to his advice.

The cold weather also means that we all have a choice on whether to ride the trainer or to embrace/tolerate the cold outside.

Since I hate spending time on the trainer, I'm in the latter camp. I tolerate the cold.

Notice how I didn't say that I embrace the cold.  I may have tried fooling myself  into "embracing" the cold weather at one time in my life. Back then,  I was delusional. Aside from the occasional nice winter scenery, cold weather riding basically sucks. It sucks because, in addition to being cold, it's often wet and/or windy. Nice. And throw in four months of bleak, gray cloud cover. Meh, embrace that, cold-winter riding fans.

YPG, it still beats the trainer.

I could have used some of Mark's winter clothing advice one winter. It was a frigid day with wind chills that made it feel like -10° F. Visibility was poor due to blowing snow.  But I wasn't afraid. No, I was a macho.

I was also seven years old and was preparing to go sledding.

Back in the 1970s, we didn't have any of that fancy-schmancy $640/gallon embrocation gunk. Times were bad. We had to make do without.  I got ready for cold weather the old fashioned way by layering it on. Knitted hat, fake fur lined jacket, mittens, scarf, snow pants over wide-wale corduroys, a sweater, turtleneck, thermal unders and a pair of itchy wool socks. Over my leather shoes I wore black rubber boots with rusty, adjustable clasps, only two of which were functional on each boot. I put plastic bread sacks around my shoes to help slide them into the boots. Mom said that the plastic sack served as an  additional layer of insulation to keep my toes nice and warm.

Of course all that bundling and exertion resulted in a sweaty mess before stepping one foot out the door.

The walk to the sledding hill was just over a quarter mile. The blowing snow found its ways inside of gaps in my layering and onto clammy skin. By the time I arrived, my sweaty feet had already gone numb, but not numb enough that I couldn't feel the burning cold or my itchy socks.

I took only one run down the hill before deciding that I wasn't nearly as tough as I had previously thought. I  started home.

I walked only 50 yards before believing that I was going to freeze to death.  I decided that survival was my top priority and headed towards the first sign of civilization, which was Mr & Mrs Aldinger's house some 50 yards from where I stood.

I trudged through snow drifts. I turned my back to the driving wind. I curled my fingers in my mittens. Finally, I arrived at the Aldinger's front door and rang the door bell.

Mr Aldinger answered the door. He looked surprised to see me.

"I'm freezing to death, can I come in?"

"Y-Yes, by all means, please come on in."  Mr Aldinger adjusted his bottle of oxygen from his right to left arm and then swung the storm door wide enough to allow me to enter. He took a deep draw through his plastic nose tube, then said, "It sure is nasty out there, young feller. You could catch pneumonia --"

"Who's at the door, dear?" called Mrs Aldinger from around the corner.

"It's young Brady Murphy from up the street, Gladys. He's been out in the weather and needs to warm up or he says he'll freeze to death. Now we wouldn't want that, right? How about fixing him a nice cup of hot chocolate while I call his parents to let him know that he's safe with us."

For the next hour, we drank hot chocolate and ate sugar cookies while playing checkers together.

After I had sufficiently recovered, I layered back up to embrace the brutal cold hike back home.

We lived all but five houses away.

Never Leave A Man Behind

"I don't suppose you boys have IDs on ya?" asked public safety officer Joe Hardy.

It wasn't a difficult question. We didn't have our IDs. But nobody wanted to talk. Shrugged shoulders and vacant stares was all PSO Hardy got from us.

"I didn't think so," Hardy said. "Get out of the pickup truck and into the patrol car. We're going to have to go get this thing written up."

An hour earlier, I was with my three roommates and two other friends at our house at 34th and California Street.  It was Wednesday night October 9th, 1991.  A half a pot of coffee on the dining room table had gone cold as we studied and did school work.  At around midnight, I had had enough and needed a break.

It was warm that night and I wanted to get out of the house. Suddenly, for no better reason than why not, I shut my book and said, "I'm going streaking. Who's with me?"

For me to suggest something like this was out of my character. There was a moment of silence as the rest tried to figure out if I was joking or serious.

"I'm totally serious," I said.  "Who's with me?"

My roommate Scott Alter was all about this kind of mischief.  He lived for the moment as well as anyone I've ever known.  He could walk into a party knowing no one and emerge being everyone's friend. Scott simply knew how to have fun. Of course he was with me.

There was also no need to persuade roommate Robert. Robert -- or Rocking Robbie Pisco as he preferred -- was a hot blooded Italian who backed down from nothing or no one. Sports, academics, women -- there was no challenge that was too great for Rockin' Robbie Pisco. When he saw that I meant what I said, I believe he just stood up and yelled, 'YEEEEEEEEEAAAHHH!"

Friends Dan 0'Keefe and John "Hugs" Hospotka were not roommates but happened to be at our house that night.  Dan was the quiet type. They say that you never know the quiet types. He simply nodded his head to indicate that he was in.

In truth, I'm unsure why Huggs was at our house that evening. John was not on your traditional four/five year plan. He was a lifetime student. He knew just about everyone on campus. Or at least, just about everyone knew him. They knew him because he gave everyone hugs. I'm not kidding here. He just went around literally hugging everyone. So much so that that's what everyone called him: "Hugs".  Anyway, Hugs gave the thumbs up that he was also in on the plan.

And then there was my roommate Tom. Tom was the most pragmatic of my roommates. He was the thinker. He represented reason amidst the chaos that the other three of us presented to him. As a result, Tom was entrusted with the household budget. He collected rent and paid the bills. He got us to school on time. And he could prepare a can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs like no one.

When Tom saw that all of us knuckleheads were committed to streaking, he agreed to be our get-away car driver. He also happened to be the only one besides Scott who had a car, and there was no way Scott was going to miss out on this. So, we sorta needed him to drive or it just wasn't going to work.

The plan I suggested was have Tom drive us to campus in his pickup truck. He would drop us off at the top of the mall, at 24th and California, right next to the all-women's dorm, Deglman hall (#26). At that point, we would only be wearing boxer shorts. On top of our heads. Just boxer shorts. Nothing else. We would then proceed westbound down the mall, passing by Swanson Hall (24), St John's chapel (28), the Library (29), the Student Union (22), then Kiewit (21) and Gallagher Halls (19). Finally, at the bottom of the mall, Tom would be waiting for us with his pickup truck at Wareham parkway. In all, a distance of two city blocks that was home to 2,000 on-campus residents.

It was a reasonable plan.  We were all college students in relatively good shape. Well, Hugs kinda looked like the Buddha (the fat and happy Buddha), but the distance wasn't that far.  It was after midnight, midweek. We'd be there and back before very many noticed. Right?

Tom dropped us off as planned. We streaked past Deglman and Swanson Halls without issue. I was the first to reach the fountain in front of St John's. On the spur of the moment, I climbed up on top of the six foot pedestal. It was at that point that I heard some girls yelling out Swanson Hall's windows. I looked and saw silhouettes gathering at the windows. I climbed back down and started heading down the mall.

Robert was next to climb the fountain's pedestal. More yelling from Swanson Hall. Robert started yelling back. This only encouraged Scott to be even more obnoxious when it was his turn.  When I looked over my shoulder, Scott was cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his yelling. By now, cat calls were also coming from Kiewit and Gallagher Halls. I started running. Really fast.

I spotted Tom waiting with the pickup truck on Wareham parkway. I was the first to climb in. Then Scott, Robert and Dan. By now, the entire center of campus was in an uproar. I saw camera flashes from dorm windows.

"LET'S GO, LET'S GO!" Scott yelled while pounding on the truck's sidewall.

"Wait, Hugs is not with us!" Robert countered.  "Never leave a man behind!"

To my horror, I looked up the mall to see Hugs strolling leisurely along as if he was the Grand Marshal of the Rose Bowl parade or something. Only this Grand Marshal's boxers were draped over his head.  Not that that would have stopped him from giving you one of his namesake hugs.

It probably only took an extra 30 seconds, maybe a minute, but it felt like an eternity before Hugs finally climbed into the back of the pickup. Tom sped through the parking lot to exit campus property. I sighed in relief. I thought for sure that we were going to be caught.

That's when we saw the flashing lights of the public safety vehicles speeding to block our exit. PSO Joe Hardy nabbed us.

YPG.

Bring Me a Bucket

I've reached a new low.

This past Wednesday evening, I rode my Madone to KFC to buy a bucket of fried chicken.

As in finger lickin' good.

Anyway, I don't think the good folks at the KFC on 40th and Dodge had ever seen a high end road bike parked outside their door. They sure liked my fancy road shoes, though.  Even said so.

"Those are some fancy shoes there."

"Thanks.  They're made for my bike pedals. They clip right in, locking shoe to pedal."

"Ha ha ha, that's funny. Regular or extra crispy?"

Funny was those fancy carbon fiber road shoes on greasy KFC floors.