THE MS150 CHRONICLES 2013 PART IV - SATURDAY EVENING

My ride is done for the day, and I’ve run the Paparazzi Gauntlet down the finish line, a hundred cameras capturing for posterity the fact that I finished in just under nine hours, which if you divide that into the mileage is a blistering 10 mph pace.  I take comfort in the fact that that includes all of the rest stops, but hey, it is what it is.  Maybe I’ll be faster next year.  I’m just glad to have finished, and I head for the Mattress Firm tent and the first of many comforts that will be provided.  Question is: which first?  Do I go straight for the showers?  Grab something to eat?  Perhaps a massage or a nap?  As I approach the tent, one of our volunteers opens a cooler and asks “what will you have?”  That settles that: beer it is.

Charity bike rides are the great equalizer, the distilled essence of what Ze French referred to as “égalité” during the Revolution.  See, Marie Antoinette didn’t lose her head for nothing, and my nine hour completion time accords me the same perks as Riders who did it in five, the only difference being that they’ve been enjoying all the Goodies since I was laboring back around, oh, Belville. 

Everything else falls into place as I sit outside the tent and watch the happy cyclists come in.  The weather has been perfect all day for riding, and now it is perfect for just sitting on a metal folding chair and kicking back with a mixed group of folks: Riders whose labors for the day are finally over, Volunteers whose labors for the day are just beginning.  After a while I mosey over and claim my luggage, then hop on a bus to take a shower at the Middle School.  This turns out to be a good decision, as I learn on my return that the huge portable showers at the fairgrounds had a one hour wait, and had run out of hot water, at least for the men.

Not that hot water is that big a deal.  For years, a bunch of us would bathe in some primitive cold showers set up at one end of a large pavilion otherwise reserved for livestock.  Granted, you bathed in your bike shorts, but it was amazingly refreshing, and there was no wait.  They got rid of those a few years’ back though, so we’re all relegated to a line sometime during the weekend.  Small price to pay though: I’m told that very basic motel rooms in LaGrange are going for $270 per night. 

I head back to the team tent and make my umpteenth attempt to call or text Sharon.  Curiously, her text messages get through, but mine won’t go out, so she starts to worry.  And, I’m running out of juice.  On a table at the end of the tent is the cell phone charging station promised in one of our e-mails.  I’m not sure what caused me to believe that they would also be providing the cables, but I did, so I was out of luck on that count, and had to rely on the kindness of a stranger who let me use her cable once she was done.  I checked in at the massage tent and booked the last slot they had for the day.  The Massage Lady also let me use her phone to text Sharon, since AT&T was apparently working intermittently, whereas Verizon was not.  I moved over to the buffet and had an inhumanly large plate of fajitas; a half hour later I was on the table getting a massage.

Now, the thing you should know is that the Masseuses at the MS150 consider themselves not so much massagers as they are physical therapists, so the massage is not your typical resort style rub-down.  The first ten minutes they rub everything, even your hands, which feels amazingly good, then do more PT in the second half of the session.  Your muscles are stretched and your joints are flexed and you will enjoy it, Meat.  My Masseuse was a cheerful gal in her mid-twenties, amazingly strong and offended by the inflexibility of my left hip and knee.  She went to work, moving both legs through a range of motion and trying to get the left side to approximate the right.  About the third time she pressed my left thigh into my chest, I actually had to Tap Out; probably not the first time a customer has been a weenie, but certainly a first for me.  I got a stern lecture to work on the flexibility in my knee and hip or they were never going to get better, and rolled off the table feeling wonderfully better than when I had come in.

I paid the head lady and thanked her “for the massage and the message, ha ha ha!”, but got nothing but a blank stare.  “You know, massage on table, message on phone.....nothing?”  This time I got a smile along with the blank stare.  I skulked away. 

After a day of bike riding, a shower, massage, dinner and a few drinks, it’s impossible not to feel at peace with the world; and it’s also impossible not to feel the siren-like call of your bed for a nap, the problem being that the nap might stretch to Lights Out (10pm).  Still, that was entirely more of an option because, being on the Mattress Firm team, we all did in fact have a mattress of our very own to sleep on.  By this point it’s almost 8pm, so I pull the sheet over me and read with a headlamp.  That doesn’t last long, as the temperature drops steadily until it is around 50 degrees just before lights out.  I zip the legs onto my bike pants around 9:30pm, bundle  up and call it a night,  but not before putting on something called a Breathe Right “Advanced” Nasal Strip.  I do this for the sake of my tent-mates, being an inveterate snorer: Epic, even.  Livestock have been birthed prematurely because of my snoring.



All The Comforts Of Home

 

The problem with the “Advanced” nasal strip is size: it is roughly as big as a full grown Monarch butterfly, and much the same shape.  This is supposed to go across the bridge of your nose?  No matter, it’s what I’ve got, so on it goes.  The lights go dim at 9:40 and out at 10pm.  They’ve already turned off all the generators, and there is literally not a human sound to be heard, nor that of a machine.  Thank god for the mattress, that was the only consolation to what turned out to be a humid cold night, and I was regretting not bringing a winter cap.  Didn’t matter; I slept.  The leg cramps got me on schedule, but I was actually able to walk them off in short order.  I fell back asleep almost immediately, and stayed that way, content to leave any further distractions to happen, or not, as they would.

The night on the whole was a good one, and I didn’t snore.

Hi, My Name Is Pete; I'll Be Your Entree

Our bicycling club had a "CychoHash" ride this past Saturday to celebrate the visit of good friends Debra and Sandy from Colorado.  A CychoHash, like a regular Hash, is a trail laid across a portion of town in flour by one individual (the Hare), for a pack of Riders (Hounds) to figure out.  At the end of the trail will be beer: All in all, a most enjoyable way to spend a few hours.

I was the "Hare" in this instance, and thought I would share an experience that I believe might benefit runners and cyclists who regularly encounter Pit Bulls, as I do.  First of all, this was not the first time.  I've been accosted by Pit Bulls at least a couple times per year for the past 25 years, mostly as a cyclist, but so far, bite-free.  On this particular morning, I was marking trail through a neighborhood just west of Buffalo Bayou on the near northwest side of Houston.  I drive down what is labeled a Dead End street but which I hope will open up to the bayou.  As I approach the end of the street, a dog barks on my right.  Turning to look back over my shoulder, I can see it is a Pit Bull sitting on a porch.  Swiveling around to plot my escape route, sure enough, there on the porch on the opposite side of the street and directly across from Pit Bull #1 is another Pit Bull, also apparently unchained.
 

(Not the dog himself.  I didn't stick around for pix)

We'll call him Pit Bull #2.  He turns out to be the trouble maker but I don't know that yet.  At this particular moment it's a new experience: Pit Bulls in stereo.

My relatively slow rate of speed as I drive past ends up acting in my favor and neither of the dogs chases after me, as they most certainly would have had I been going, say, 18 miles per hour.  See, in my experience, Pit Bulls loooove to chase their prey before they attempt to eat it, and while their walnut-sized brains are limited in their capacity to process information, they know exactly how long it will take to make up any ground between them and you.  They also have a very expansive view on the whole concept of territory, which is the moral basis from which they rationalize their intent to bite human beings.  Near as I can tell, if they can see you, you're fair game, and the fact that they're not chasing after me tells me that they know something about my bayou escape route that I don't.

I finish driving all the way to the bayou - the dogs still keeping to their respective properties - and look around.  It is open both left and right, but unfortunately covered in some kind of tall grass, and it didn't reconnect with Buffalo Bayou, so it would end up taking me well out of my way.  That left me with two choices: 1) Do a long and slow diversion on the bayou and risk not having the trail done on time, or 2) Drive back down the side street and take my chances with the Pit Bulls.

Normally, the decision to simply run away would have been a no-brainer, but I did have one ace up my sleeve:  the bag full of flour I was using to mark trail.  This was comforting because in my years of cycling I had distressed many a Pit Bull with commonplace substances like water or Gatorade.  Gatorade in particular is not only surprisingly effective, but causes the Pit Bull to act like he's just been shot.  Pit Bulls are the animal kingdom's Drama Queens and very entertaining when inconvenienced, such as with the aforementioned squirt of liquid, or your stubborn insistence on riding away from them on your bike as fast as ever you can peddle, depriving them of the opportunity to catch you, sink their teeth into your calf or otherwise express themselves.  After all, what's the point of being a Pit Bull with front porch privileges if you never get to do anything with them?

Anyway, the flour was at hand, and I was sure it would work as a deterrent.  I also took some irrational comfort from the fact that the dogs were loose on their porches, intuiting from this that their owners had raised the non-lethal kind that would bark but otherwise not accost passers-by.  My only other concern was whether or not both dogs would rush me, and if so, would I have time to flour them both?  I'm thinking the best case scenario is if one of them takes the initiative, I deal with him first, then turn to the other.  Fortunately, this is how it plays out, with Pit Bull #2 - now on my right - rushing off his porch as I approach.  I had a brief moment to look to my left at Pit Bull #1, and to my relief saw that he was chained to his porch.  Curiously, though, he wasn't upset at all, only excited, as normal dogs typically are when humans are around and other dogs start kicking up a fuss.  What dominant mad-dog gene was this one deprived of, I thought, that made him so different from 95% of his murderous cousins?  Or is it that Pit Bulls - like children - crave limits and are simply misunderstood? 

I've only been bitten by one of the two, and it's an interesting notion that I will contemplate at greater length; just not right now.

I turn my attention back to #2, pointing my bike at him and yelling a bunch of nonsense including the command to "get back on your porch!"  This strategy fails to deter him in the slightest, as it has every other time I've been chased by Pit Bulls.  As he approaches, #2 starts doing that little dance Pit Bulls frequently do before they move in to bite, which is to bounce on their front paws as their rear legs propel them forward.  I'm not sure why they do this, other than to size you up and get their best estimate as to the number of your extremities are available to chomp, based on their vertical leap.  Suffice to say, the whole notion that Pits are doing the math on the probabilities is disturbing.

Apparently, he's seen what he needs to see, and all of a sudden makes a rush for my feet.  I lean over with the handful of flour, knowing from experience he will pull back just a bit if I aggress, and deliver an exquisite bloom of Gold Medal directly into his face.  As I expected, he was completely disoriented.  He also looks ridiculous.  He sneezed, and a puff of flour came out of his nose; he barked, and a puff of flour came out of his mouth; he shook his head, and a halo of flour came out of his ears.  And all the while as he is retreating to his porch, his bark expresses not so much rage but hurt disapprobation, as if he had been wronged and wouldn't somebody - say his owner - please come out and rectify the situation?

Pit Bull #1 across the street was no help; he still looked positively friendly, so #2 got up on his porch and stayed there, his face still a hilarious white mask compared to his otherwise uniformly tan exterior.  I pedaled back to the cross street and safety, but not before calling him a Nancy Boy.

I guess the moral of this story is that, while there are a lot of different Pit Bull Repellents - and arguably several that are much more portable and convenient - for effectiveness and the personal satisfaction of seeing a Pit Bull get his, you just can't beat a handful of Gold Medal baking flour.

Not that I'm expecting to see that listed as a use on the label anytime soon.

THE MS150 CHRONICLES 2013 PART III - SATURDAY AFTERNOON

After lunch, I make the mistake of laying down in the grass at the Bellville fairgrounds, a fluttering breeze wafting down upon me, the sun a gentle kiss upon my brow, my ass and legs sinking further and further into the turf, perhaps there to remain for the rest of the day, the balance of the day’s MS150 ride a fond if abstract regret.  But no, it was not to be.  Duty called, and after a 15 minute nap I was back on the road.  I cruise through the tree-lined streets of Bellville, the townsfolk cheering on both sides.  Several houses have bubble machines going that spread a wall of soapy confection across the Riders.  I’m waving and calling out, suck down a few bubbles to no ill effect, and then break out onto the open road.

 

I go a few more miles, and I’m now closing in on the halfway point of my ride, so I know that whatever pain I’ve experienced up to that point, it’s only going to be worse for the second half.  So thank you, nameless bike mechanic, for selling me new Kevlar tires that amplify the impact of the minutest pebble in the asphalt into a machine-gun like vibration that is relayed directly to my scrotal sac, as well as to my increasingly aggrieved left knee.  Apparently there is a price to pay for failing to challenge that whole Tire Rot scenario back at the bike shop. 

Whining about it isn’t going to do me any good, though, so I roll on several more miles and come upon a most welcome traffic sign that reads: LaGrange 28 miles.  This would turn out to be egregiously and infuriatingly untrue.  My first hint is four miles later as I pull into a rest stop.  I’m turning into the driveway, and a lady with a megaphone is repeating “12 miles to your next rest stop; 28 miles to LaGrange.”  I roll by and ask her how this could be true, seeing as how there’s a traffic sign four miles back that says “28 miles to LaGrange”?  “You can’t believe everything you read, Dorlin’”, she said.  That would not be the last time somebody would call me Dorlin’ that weekend, and while it was sweet, it still didn’t take away the sting of disappointment, nor allay my newfound paranoia that traffic signs might not necessarily be telling me the truth.

I take care of business at the rest stop, and I’m back on the road for only a short time when I look over to see one of the familiar big white MS150 support vans driving by in the left hand lane.  Most of these vans have a sign in the right rear passenger side window with cheerful slogans and encouraging words for the Riders.  In multi-color lettering, this one says simply “The MS150 sucks”.  I do a double take, but it’s travelling slowly enough for me to be sure of what I’ve seen.  Now what local knucklehead, I’m thinking, goes to the trouble of owning a plain white panel van, much less cruise it up and down the ranks of thousands of Cyclists so as to give them the Raspberry?  Or this is a deranged SAG driver?

I don’t see him again.

I peddle about four more miles and haven’t had long to contemplate the bizarre van before I roll up on a very large, official looking MS150 sign along the right shoulder that announces “LaGrange 28 miles”.   “Are you f*cking kidding me?” I say to myself.  Apparently I say it loud enough for others around me to hear it.  I press on without offering any explanation, but somebody owes me one.  This is the third time I’ve informed various body parts that we were within 28 miles of the finish, and they are not amused.  On the plus side, I do notice that I am passing riders consistently, the left leg finally called to its duty, with me clipping along at an 18-19 mph pace on the flat, the wind having veered ever so slightly out of the SSE to our left front quarter.

I come up on Mile 65 or so, and there finally is a field of Blue Bonnets, Indian Paint Brush and a little tiny sunflower-looking plant whose name I don’t know running out as far as the eye can see.  Curiously, I’ve not seen a lot of other plots of the famous Texas wildflowers - much less in such abundance - and I will not see another one for the rest of the ride.  Small matter; I saw this one, and got a picture:
 

 

Sorry, cell phone cameras just don’t do it justice, so I got a close-up of one patch:

 

 

We’re down to about eight miles to go to the finish, and I’m nursing things along.  My thighs and calves have started cramping, and once a big one hits, I’m generally done because I can’t make it go away, so I’m pacing myself.  We finally reach the “T” that signals the left hand turn and a two mile home stretch, and once again I’m amazed at the number of folks who’ve come out to cheer us on. 

Soon enough I’m making that familiar right hand turn into the Finish, running down the chute, and wondering how it is physically possible for the several hundreds of photographers that seem to stalk every mile of the MS150 to all make a decent living photographing the Riders, much less how half that number are implausibly stuffed into the hundred yard length of the Finish Line.  Back in the old days, there would be a Photog every few miles and a couple at the end, and you would receive your notice that the Brightroom package could be had for a mere $29.00 for the CD, $35.00 for actual pictures including an 8 by 10 suitable for framing.

I blame TV.  See, I can’t shake the conviction that in a media saturated age where literally anybody - ANYBODY – can get onto a Reality TV show, that EVERYBODY must assume that someday one of those Bodies might just be them.  How else to explain the popularity of “Buckwild”, a show about a handful of inbred Goobers who claim to represent West Virginia, doing nothing more than getting drunk and playing the fool? 

This notion would resonate with a bunch of folks who dress like peacocks to get in their exercise.  We all look better, photograph better and have all of our teeth.  It would also explain why the Paparazzi – benevolent though they may be - are so thick on the ground.  So, at least for the weekend, we are all Lindsay Lohan or Tom Cruise: minus the personal drama or height challenged paranoia, of course.  The Papa’s are literally lining the left side, their humungous camera lenses practically resting on the shoulder of the guy in front of them, so our interaction with the Folks is limited to the right side.  Friendly hands reach out toward us as they cheer us on, all of them now expert at accounting for your 10 mph speed and letting their hand yield as it comes in contact with your own, so that your hand feels the palms slip through it at the rate of sometimes several per second, with nary a distraction from keeping your bike upright.

I slow, turn the corner, and the Day’s ride is done.  I’m still surrounded by friendly smiling faces and walk towards the Mattress Firm tent, secure in the knowledge that a hot shower, a good meal, a wonderful massage, a gallon of measurably applied fluids and a genuine mattress as my cot will in no way prevent the multiple leg cramps that will hit me all at once around 3:15 in the morning, causing me to shoot up in my cot and exclaim “son of a bitch!”

My tent-mates will be serenely undisturbed.....

The Property Tax Scam

Regarding "Tax protesters do better on their own" (Thursday Front Page), while it's gratifying to know that the little guy can do well when he goes up against the system, what is lost in the debate is why it is necessary to protest your property taxes in the first place.  In the past decade that I've been protesting, it is a fact that property owners in Harris County get a reduction just for showing up.  But if the county's appraisal practices were fair, how could this possibly be? 

 

The answer is that their practices are not fair.  HCAD consistently overvalues properties when the market is hot, always goes for the maximum allowable increase, and is very slow to offer any reduction when the market tanks.  Only the tiny percentage who protest their appraisals get a fair shake, and everybody else gets milked.

 

The policy makers at HCAD and similar agencies across the country are supposed to be public servants, not the enablers of berserk government spending.  Hopefully this article will be the first step in recalling them to their duty.

 

Pete Smith

Cypress

Less Is More

Regarding "Whereas, do-nothing Legislature is running out of time ..." (Wednesday City & State), Patricia Kilday Hart criticizes the Republican-led Texas legislature for passing only 9 bills with but 33 days remaining in the session, compared to the 31 they had passed at a similar point two years ago.

 

Calling Republican legislatures "do nothing" is a recurring theme for Media pundits across America.  Every Republican-led national Congress in recent times has suffered that accusation, but is it fair?  Only if you think - as Ms Hart apparently does - that quantity equals quality.  A lot of thoughtful people are of the opinion that government at all levels is drowning in legislation, with every successive bill adding a further layer of complexity and bureaucracy that is literally strangling the nation.  I don't think it would be unfair for me to assume that if Ms Hart thinks 9 bills is too few and that 31 bills is good, that 100 bills would be just awesome.  But surely there's a point at which even she would draw the line. 

 

I think that for every bill that is passed, the Texas legislature should kill one that had been passed previously.  Until that happens, the less bills they pass, the better.

 

Pete Smith

Cypress

THE MS150 CHRONICLES 2013 PART II - SATURDAY MORNING

Disclaimer: During the narrative below, I will frequently say I was at “Mile 12” or “Mile 85”, etc.  The exact Mile Marker I was at for a lot of the things that I observed are just approximations, but close enough for government work. 

Sharon got up with me at “way too early thirty” on Saturday, and dropped me off at a gas station near Rhodes Stadium, where the Mattress Firm luggage truck was located.  Rhodes is in Katy, so I’ll end up doing something less than the 100 miles I would have done from Tully Stadium, but it’s well worth it not to have to put up with the wait to get a car into Tully, much less get it out again, much less then stand next to my bike for two hours waiting for the rolling start.  I run across a friend from the Hash, Jason, and his friends, who are making a pit stop before heading out themselves.  It’s the last familiar face I will see all day.

I pull out my bike just before 7am, kiss my wife goodbye, and just like that, I’m off, flying solo.  There’s not another Rider within a hundred yards of me.  It is bliss, but it will not last.

At Mile 12 I hit the first rest stop, and I’m determined to hit most of them because my left knee has not cooperated for the past year now, much less on my training rides.  With three prior surgeries, the resulting scar tissue and an increasing lack of flexibility, it requires much attention and usually hurts for the first couple hours of riding.  I approach the medical tent for an early dose of ibuprofen.  The volunteers also rub some topical gel on my knee, the first of many times I’ll get this done.   I take note of a giant communal bottle of “Butt-R”, the emollient that Riders smear on their nether regions to relieve the rash and neuralgia of riding on those tiny seats for hours at a time.  Attempting humor, I ask “who applies that, ha ha ha”.  Without missing a beat, a lady points at a boy of about 16 and says “that’s his job!”, then she laughs out loud, as do a couple of the other volunteers.  It’s the weirdest and most inappropriate thing I will hear all day.  The kid just rolls his eyes and in a flash it’s clear: that is his Mom; Mom is drunk; Mom says things like this all the time; which means Mom drinks a lot. 

A few miles down the road, I’m approached for the first time by another Rider who – upon reading the back of my jersey – will ask “does the Mattress Firm provide a mattress in your tent for every rider?”  It will happen a few more times, and every time the person asking will be a woman.  So, the Mattress Firm jersey makes me a chick magnet; or is it the mattress?  I think Mattress Firm needs to use the whole mattress thing as a recruiting tool.  Sure, St Arnolds gives you fine beers, but a real mattress upon which to lay your weary bones?  No comparison.

Mile 18.5 and I’m in to the second rest stop.   By now things are jammed up because the pack is apparently going faster than my blistering 14 mph pace.  As the mass of Riders turn in, the volunteers are asking Riders to “move to the right; wayyyyy to the right”.  I will hear this all day, because there are thousands of Riders, and as each Rider gets off their bike they lay it on the ground, sucking up valuable real estate.  They lay it on the ground because they don’t have kickstands.  They don’t have kickstands for the same reasons they will dress in helmets and bike outfits that make them all look like a casting call for La Cage Aux Folles.  They are driven like so many cattle away from the food and portable toilets and out into the surrounding fields because their bikes take up so damn much room.

They do it all for the sake of vanity.

To amuse myself, I do the math in my head: an acre of land will hold around 1200 bikes lying down; that same acre will hold 5,000 bikes with kickstands.

Dealing with this logistical nightmare, the volunteers are encouraging Riders to prop their bikes upright by leaning two bikes into each other.  This turns out to be a hysterical affirmation of my long-held claim that in addition to being vain, most other bike riders are also insane, at least by Einstein’s definition.  They are insane because propping bikes together rarely works, with the bikes constantly falling over, frequently with a chain reaction that knocks yet more bikes to the ground.   Why not just purchase a kickstand?  Not sexy enough?  No vanity appeal?  For a group of people so obsessed that they allocate more space inside their homes for their bikes than their pets, not using a kickstand makes absolutely no sense.

And then I have my Next Big Idea: I will produce a line of kickstands that are as multi-colored as the typical Rider’s helmet; I will call them anti-gravity devices; they will have meaningless Flare, a Spoiler and glow in the dark; I will sell them for fifty – no – one hundred dollars each.  Fat City, baby.  Fat City.   The Volunteers will speak my name with reverence, and in 2014 I will come out with a version that is solar powered…..

Around Mile 20, the Tully and Rhodes routes merge together, and the Tully pack – which started quite a bit further back - has also caught me.  However, we’re all at a standstill because a Rider is down.  It takes about 15 minutes to walk our bikes past the Rider, a woman who does not appear to be too badly hurt, and I overhear one of the EMS Techs say that anybody that goes down is getting strapped to a board as a precaution.  That’s new since my last ride in 2010.  Fortunately, that’s the only accident I will see all day.

I motor on for another 13 miles or so to the next rest stop.  I roll in, park my bike, and I’m immediately seized by a sneezing fit.  This has been a brutal allergy season.  The girl next to me says “gesundheit”, and in classic Valley Girl launches into a description of a product at Walmart that was “kind of like a Tea Pot that you used to flush out your sinuses, but not like you boil the water because would that be painful but just, like, warm the solution, turn your head sideways and kind of like, let it flow?  And you’re thinking you’re going to choke but you won’t?  And then when you’re done you’re like oh my god do I feel better!  And every time I use it I am like good for the day.  It’s amaaaazing.”

I’m stupefied, because this girl is, like, 21 years old, and I didn’t think anybody Gen X or lower was capable of actual conversation anymore, at least not without cell phone in hand, text at the ready.  I thank her, wish her luck, visit the Med tent and move on down the road.

I got into Bellville for lunch around 11:30am, and there was no doubt that I was in the back of the pack, and at the present pace wouldn’t be into Lagrange before 4pm.  No matter; here was the totality of the Riders for me to view on one big open fairground.   Lunch in Bellville is the only opportunity to see all of the Riders with such an unobstructed view.  As I got my sandwich and pasta, I observed that on the whole Riders are a very amiable group of people.  For one thing, they smile a lot more than Runners do.  They all make room for one another, and since cycling is so cultishly obsessed with technology and accessories, keeping up a steady stream of small talk with a complete stranger is no problem at all.

I’ve zinged my fellow riders for their devotion to fashion in virtually all my earlier posts, and this year will be no different, albeit that it is done affectionately.  Let’s face it: cycling is different than any other sport.  You don’t just get on your bike and ride, particularly since clip-on bike shoes became so popular.  You must assemble the shoes, gloves, outfit, helmet, bandana and sunglasses; you must inventory your repair kit; you must air your tires, lube your chain and frequently tweak the brakes and derailleur; you must fill your water bottles and pack your supplements.  Never was a more support-intensive sport.

Which brings us to the helmets: While the outfits are flamboyant and I noticed with amusement that a significant percentage of Riders have purchased bikes whose colors seemed to match their team uniforms, it is the helmets that stick out.  They are oversized, bursting with violent colors and tortured into shapes that might be dramatic, but are hardly practical.  Modern cycling helmets remind me of a prop in one of my favorite movies of all time: the 1987 epic, RoboCop.  In the movie, my former hometown of Detroit is a ghastly dystopia: the city is a crumbling ruin, the people live in squalor and the streets run with blood; In other words, the Detroit of today. 

Set in the relatively near future, this future Detroit still produces automobiles, but only one model: the 6000 SUX.  The car looks like a 70s era Matador on steroids, with square yards of boxy sheet metal that serve no purpose; it gets 8.2 miles per gallon; it is a gaudy tank suitable for urban combat and little else.  This is what today’s bike helmets remind me of.  Think I’m exaggerating?  You be the judge: 

  

Stay tuned for Part III.

THE MS150 CHRONICLES 2013 - BEFORE THE RIDE

As the regular contributors to my MS150 campaign know, every year I inflict my innermost thoughts about life on the MS150 bike ride from Houston to Austin on everybody I know.  This year will be no different.  Full Disclosure: The names Nancy Pelosi and Sandra Fluke will not get worked into the narrative, however great the temptation may be.

Registration was a breeze as it has been four years in a row now.  Registration was in years past a constant thread and source of annoyance in my MS150 write-ups, seeing as how my very common name – Pete Smith – was so prone to be absorbed, processed and regurgitated by the MS Society’s vintage IBM System 360 mainframe as something other than my name, or as somebody other than me.  Sometimes I didn’t exist.  Sometimes my name was in the system, but I, my phone number and e-mail address were distributed amongst other riders whose last name was Smith.  Sometimes they had me logged as an inanimate object under “LaGrange Infrastructure”.   This year my identity was not challenged except at the very end of the weekend, and then only for a moment, and then with a most charming conclusion.  More about that later.

Suffice to say that the initial registration went through and packet pickup was a breeze.  Plus, they served burritos.  My first sign of any trouble that beset me – other than an uncooperative left knee and hip - came in a helpful e-mail from The Mattress Firm ride coordinator, reminding our Team of the various things we needed to do prior to the Ride itself.  One of those was to get a bike safety check done by any one of a number of bike retailers in the area.  I picked one of those affiliated with my team, and gave them a call.  I won’t say who the company was, but their name rhymes with Dike Darn.

The phone conversation I had with them should have been my first clue: “I want to bring my bike in for an inspection for the MS ride; got any openings today?”  “Sure; we’ll do a complete inspection, and most typically, we don’t find anything more than Tire Rot.”  Almost at once, my Spidey sense was tingling.  Why did he volunteer that comment about tire rot?  Why was I suspicious?  Where had I heard this before?  It only hit me later.

As I waited my turn to turn my bike over to a mechanic, one of the other employees was urging me to buy a new helmet because “helmets are only good for 3 to 4 years you know.”  Seriously?  Styrofoam and plastic have a half life?  Who knew?  What has become of the structural integrity of my now 15 year old helmet?  I finally begged off by telling the guy “you don’t have my color”, and sure enough, they didn’t.  All of the helmets in the entire store looked like various tubes of paint had exploded on them more or less randomly, and that was the least offensive thing about them.  I noticed that the structure of the helmets themselves had been blown out in various directions, with a most dramatic swooshing flair at the back end made to give an impression of speed. 

This would prove to be a source of mild but consistent amusement for the entire weekend of the ride.

A few minutes later, sure enough, the mechanic found tire rot, and recommended replacing them with Kevlar coated tires.  Now, I was going to cross examine him on this: after all, I had just been hustled about a helmet on a similarly flimsy premise, and had blown the Helmet Huckster off.  On the tires, though, I was smitten.  What red-blooded American male could resist the opportunity to own something covered in Kevlar?  In a day and age when public officials and even your nattering friends are making you feel guilty about owning a 30 round rifle clip (much less ten of them), Kevlar tires were the  politically correct way to invest your bike with just a smidge of the lethality we associate with any substance that can stop a bullet.  I will grant you that I didn’t know if my Kevlar tires could stop a bullet, but I didn’t know that they couldn’t.  Hey, if the other guy had told me his helmets had Kevlar in them, the deal would have been done.

My new Kevlar tires would become important about the midpoint of Day One, though.

As I left the shop and was loading my bike in my car, it finally hit me why the promise to get me out the door on a routine inspection without finding “anything more than Tire Rot” was so familiar: it reminded me of AAMCO’s (“Double A ‘Beep Beep’ MCO”) radio and TV ads for the past twenty five years proclaiming that “only one half of our customers are in need of serious transmission repairs!”  The first time I heard that in the early 90s, I laughed at the sheer, utter audacity of AAMCO.  Here they were literally promising their customers that if they brought their car in – for any reason – there was a 50/50 chance that they were going to “find” major damage and milk them for thousands of dollars.  And not only were they proud of that fact, but they felt that their customers should be proud of them too.

That slogan gave the concept of Truth-In-Advertising a whole new aspect, and me a whole ‘nother level of respect for AAMCO.   

Everything else about preparations went pretty much according to plan, with one important distinction: I was going into this year’s MS150 determined not to fret a single detail that had occupied so much of my time and energy on dozens of prior long distance rides.  No fretting about packing sunscreen, spare tires, tire pump, tools, Tums, Butt’r, energy supplements, DMSO or the fifty other things I used to pack.  This year, the MS society was going to tend to my needs, and boy, did they come through. 

This year, it was going to be a Man and his Bike; and his Kickstand.

Why Do You Think They Call It Dope?

Results of ditchweed?

Regarding "Marijuana rally marred when gunfire injures 2" (Page A3, Sunday), is this what happens once pot is legalized?

Prior to legalization, about as worked up as dopers got with each other would be to say "don't bogart that joint, man." I never even saw them squabble over the munchies.

It's a sad day in America when marijuana consumption begets violence.

Pete Smith, Cypress

 

http://www.houstonchronicle.com/opinion/letters/article/Letters-Health-care-Houston-Aeros-ditchweed-4457827.php

 

Adventures in Babysitting V - Toddler Wrangler

The signs that Jenna Grace might need a nap are not subtle.  It was mid-afternoon, and "a certain somebody” was getting crabby with her older sister.  I used this neutral language in describing the development to Sharon in a completely conversational tone on the mistaken assumption that Jenna (the certain somebody) would miss the fact that I was talking about her.  Her offense was a classic in the arsenal of Little Sister deeds that will drive a Big Sister crazy without of themselves warranting any reprisal.  In this case, JG was doggedly pursuing Kayla Zane wherever she went, walking exactly one pace behind, stopping when KZ stopped, and starting up again when Kayla moved without missing a beat.  When KZ would lay down with her Fairy Castle, not only would JG lay next to her, but right up against her.  This had been going on for about 15 minutes before the pattern became clear, and KZ was growing impatient.

This all took place during a Mama Sharon TV timeout so the girls were playing throughout the house, including the fort Sharon had built out of blankets and the dining room table.  The Girls were playing, I was sitting on the couch and everything was fine, right up until the moment it wasn’t.  KZ came and sat next to me.  JG sat next to her: right next to her.  KZ turned to me and in so many words demanded that something be done.  “What’s the problem?”  “She’s BOTHERING me.”  “Jenna, stop bothering your sister.”  In response, Jenna stood up on the couch, stepped over her sister and dropped herself into a non-existent space between me and KZ, smiled triumphantly and yelled “Hah!”  My left arm was now pinned under JG, as was half of Kayla.

Recognizing the signs, I extracted myself from the couch and trooped into the office to present the case to Mama Sharon, KZ and JG in lock step behind me.  Sharon listened to my brief explanation and matter-of-factly proclaimed "I think somebody needs to take a nap", looking directly at Jenna as she said it.  JG immediately began to protest, and not just protest, but to hurl slightly incomprehensible accusations complete with dramatic hand gestures in my direction, accompanied by many a dark look.

It occurred to me that Jenna had interpreted my earlier unwillingness to resolve the dispute between her and Kayla as a sign of weakness, and thus directed her invective against me instead of Mama Sharon, whose calm manner literally oozes Authority.  After several more seconds, the stream of vague and infantile profanity began to wind down, and her arms lowered to her sides.  That little dark cloud over her head remained, however, complimenting her furrowed brow and conveying her overall dissatisfaction with the present situation.

In the meantime, I had more or less backed her into the corner of the office, using the angles and my size to counter her incredible foot speed.  Sharon asked loudly "Papa Pete, do you want to take Jenna up for her nap?”, intending no doubt to transfer a bit of her authority to me.  I said why yes, yes I would, and perhaps we might even read a book, and extended my arms to JG.  Jenna's extremities retracted as dramatically as a pill bug, with nary a purchase for me to pick her up, willing or unwilling.

It's amazing how kids can do that.

At this point, KZ piped up and said "I'll do it, Papa Pete", and just like that, I was not only absolved of any responsibility, I was positively dismissed.  And not just dismissed, but with a minimum of words and facial expression made to understand that she had little  confidence in my ability to handle her little sister, even though she appreciated the effort.  I was still handy for carrying the reluctant toddler upstairs though, still drawn in like a pill bug, which forced me to carry her as one might carry a watermelon; a very heavy and uncooperative watermelon capable of shifting its center of gravity.  Once upstairs, I was allowed to stay long enough to witness Kayla tell Jenna that she should lay right next to her, and watch Jenna respond by collapsing directly on top of Kayla, who accepted this development with a cheerful indifference, stroking her little sister's hair.  I angled in for a kiss on top of JG’s head but got the kiss-off instead, her face turned resolutely away.  That was followed by another incomprehensible lecture from JG on what I assumed to be my many faults as a Toddler Wrangler.  KZ and I made eye contact, and her facial expression said “you don’t want to know”.

As I trudged down the stairs, I could not help but be a little bitter about the whole turn of events, what with my efforts to resolve the conflict that had begot this whole affair.  On the other hand, I had snitched JG out to Mama Sharon, a decision I regretted extremely.  The conclusion was upbeat, though, as a fresh-faced, rested and sunny if disheveled Jenna Grace came tottering down the steps two hours later, a huge smile on her face, high praise from Mama Sharon and the close attentions of her big sister.  And while there was no official recognition of Papa Pete, I was rewarded when the royal cheek was turned up in my direction for the expected kiss.

Hey, you take what you can get.

Adventures In Babysitting IV - Let’s Make A Deal

I’ve described various instances of the horse trading that goes on around meal time, and the Hensley Girls are naturals.  If there are different things to eat, there is a market, since some foods will just naturally be more desirable than others.  Case in point: a piece of cinnamon toast is worth an entire bowl of oatmeal, even if the oatmeal is loaded with brown sugar and cinnamon.  Everybody knows this.  And – as with past visits - Kayla Zane would make inquiries for both her sister and herself.
 
Thursday night after eating her meal, she asked for some of the pizza I had on my plate.  “You must negotiate”, I told her.  “What does that mean?” she asked.  “You need to give me a reason to give you food off my plate."  "Why?"  "Because you need to bring something to the table.”  “What table?” 
“When I say ‘bring something to the table’, that’s a figure of speech.”  “What is a figure of speech?” 
“Focus.  What I’m saying is that if you want something, you need to be prepared to give up something in return.”  “Like what?”  “Well, you want some pizza; in return for the pizza, you might offer me your dessert.”

This earned me a blank stare.  “OK, never mind; would you like some of my pizza?”  “Yes!”  “Am I safe in assuming Jenna’s wants some pizza?”  “Yes!”  “Mama Sharon, we need more pizza!”  Suffice to say, I didn’t think anything I said about negotiating made any impression on her. 

It’s Friday morning after breakfast and KZ sidles up to me as I sit on the couch, her manner reserved and modest.  She clasps her hands demurely at her waist, cocks her head ever so slightly, and says "Papa Pete, Jenna asked me to ask you something."  This approach was new, so she had my complete attention.  "What does she want?” I asked.  "Well", she said, "Jenna wants to know if we can watch 'My Little Pony' episodes on the computer."  What is interesting about this charming fib is not just that it is Kayla herself who is the unqualified lover of My Little Pony - capable of repeating the dialogue of whole episodes, not to mention providing a plot summary for seasons 1 through 5 - but that she qualified the request by vaguely referring to “episodes”.  In other words, she has laid the procedural groundwork to watch a My Little Pony marathon, assuming that I was not sharp enough to pin her down on what she meant by “episodes”.

Also, her contention that she was doing this on behalf of her little sister was the perfect closing tool: given the language barrier, it prevented me from drilling down on the particulars with Jenna Grace, put the burden of disappointing poor JG on me, and not coincidentally took Kayla Zane directly out of the accountability loop.

All in all, a masterful implementation of the Assumptive Close.  In Sales, the Assumptive Close presumes not only that the Buyer’s interests are being provided for, but that Buyer has already agreed to the particulars put forth by the Seller.  In essence, if you disagree with the Seller’s conclusion, you are obliged to argue with yourself.

I was completely hemmed in.  Yes, I could challenge her on any of the particulars, but any close scrutiny of those particulars would almost certainly cause KZ distress.  There might even be tears.  Now, here’s the thing about tears: in a Toddler, even I am mostly immune to them, given the ruthless disregard with which Toddler’s deploy them.  I have even been known to laugh at, say, JG’s tears, after first checking with Sharon and of course, never directly in Jenna’s presence.  It’s a different ballgame once they’re past age three though.  Men assume the tears are real from ages 4 to about 12, after which the tears are once again the province of gamesmanship.

Kayla Zane is five, and what kind of Hump would I be to provoke her tears?  And that is what made Kayla’s negotiating tactics so impressive.  She didn’t use the tears to get her way, even though she could have.  She had her tears completely in reserve; which brings us to Example Two of her negotiating skills, also Tear-free:

When the Girls come to visit, Kayla Zane pretty much calls the shots as to programming on the TV or the computer.  Jenna defers to her, and she makes good choices.  Otherwise a singularly undemanding child, on this visit as we watched television, KZ quickly grew impatient with my handling of the remote control.  It started out innocently enough.  As we would watch TV, very infrequently (or so I thought) I would pause the program to offer some commentary to amuse the girls, such as a brief recap as to how Sponge Bob Square Pants got his name.  Turns out they were not so much amused as they were bemused, and finally KZ declared "Papa Pete, please give me my remote control."  I asked her why it was "her" remote control.  "Because I picked this show."  She had me there; she had picked the show. 

But, I was in a bit of a quandary.  Nobody had ever demanded I turn over the remote before. What to do?  A moment’s introspection showed that my options were pretty limited: I could either hand over the remote, or argue with myself.  Dumfounded, I handed over the remote.  She said, "How do I unpause it?"  "Press that button", I said.  And, Technomorphs that kids are, she didn't ask another question about how to change the channel, adjust the volume, use the Back function, etc; she just figured it out.  A half hour later when Jenna Grace said "pause, Tayla, pause, I have to go to the bathroom", KZ stopped the show, and I came to the realization that my days of monopolizing the remote control in my own house were over.

Negotiations were also a whole new challenge: Kayla had two clear wins and hadn’t used tears once, but they were there.  Oh yes, they were there.

Adventures in Babysitting III - I’m Not Eating That, And There’s Nothing You Can Do About It

When we had the Hensley Girls over weekend before last, we were reminded yet again of a Toddler’s pure, simple and cheerful indifference to any moral authority that can be brought to bear to compel them to eat, with Subject Zero on this particular occasion being Jenna Grace. We also got more than a few first-hand demonstrations of a Toddler’s highly theoretical and ever-evolving relationship with the Truth, as in: the complete randomness of the prospect of them actually telling it. It’s not a moral failing per se, as any parent would acknowledge; rather, for Little Ones truth is a commodity, something that can be produced, withheld or parsed out, depending on the situation. In the right circumstances, it is a favor, a gift that Kids bestow upon their parents and other guardians: the Kids eager to please, the adults eager to be pleased.

Given their tenuous grasp of English, toddlers in particular have a monopoly on this form of currency. I won’t say they willfully leverage their nominal language skills so as to create the ambiguity which gives them some wriggle room, but I’m not at all convinced that it’s not happening, and on their terms. After all, if you’re not fluent in “Jenna Grace”, maybe you misunderstood the conversation, and perhaps there was no prevarication at all.

It’s breakfast time Saturday morning, Mama Sharon has whipped up oatmeal and cinnamon toast for everybody, and Jenna is slow-rolling us once again, the meal winding down and the previous night's Spanikopita Incident still on everybody's mind. Last night’s affair started with JG admitting she loved her Mom’s Spanikopita, and ended with none being eaten, interspersed with cajoling, stern voices, an escalation of tensions on both sides, tears, a plate shoved sullenly to the center of the table, and JG’s hilarious exit. In this case, the exit came about because JG mistakenly thought a leg of the table was right in front of her; she stiffened her body with the intention of reaching out to kick it, missed, and slid silently and completely out of her chair, her wide-eyed face disappearing, but not before I caught the expression on her face, an expression which I will preserve and carry with me always.

But, I digress.

Now it’s Saturday morning, and prior to taking any notice of Jenna, I watched in wonder as Kayla Zane wolfs down her entire breakfast, as in, like a wolf. She used both hands, alternating bites of oatmeal with bites of cinnamon toast. Sharon was amused; I was amazed and a little bit afraid. At one point, a wisp of hair had fallen across Kayla’s face. I would have brushed it back, but was uncertain that I would come away uninjured. So, we let her eat, and I swear her breakfast was Gone In Sixty Seconds.

I had noticed that she did this regularly so as to clear her schedule for the Jenna Grace sideshow sure to follow.

By the time Kayla was done, Jenna had yet to eat any of her oatmeal. Mama Sharon saw the trend early on and reminded JG that she had to eat her oatmeal, not just the cinnamon toast. Jenna responded with a masterful combination of feints meant to approximate the act of eating, including picking the spoon up, slowly raising it to her lips and opening her mouth, all with a winning smile and excellent eye contact. The final flourish would be to close her mouth over the completely empty spoon, fake chewing and swallowing followed by another winning smile. Then she would show her tongue.

Suffice to say, there was no actual eating done after the promise was made.

After regular entreaties by Sharon and me to eat her oatmeal, Sharon finally said "Eat five more bites". The cinnamon toast was of course, gone, accorded the same discretion JG had shown the oatmeal cookies from the day before, and I couldn’t help but feel that we had lost some critical leverage in the negotiations that were to follow.

See, in saying “Eat five more bites", Sharon was already throwing Jenna Grace a face-saving bone by allowing everybody at the table to accept as truth that any bites had already been eaten. Jenna looked at both of us as if she was sizing us up, deciding how much further she could push the envelope. We all knew what was going on.

A full minute passed before Jenna Grace proudly proclaimed “I ate five more bites!” This statement was accompanied by her Number One smile and both hands extended victoriously over her head, inviting us to share in her accomplishment, assuming we could suspend disbelief given the impossibly short period of time that had gone by since the original request, and seeing as how her oatmeal was serenely undisturbed, now going on a full fifteen minutes.

At this point, the negotiations were at a critical juncture. JG hand gone “All In” with her bold claim. Still smarting from my complete failure the night before, I said nothing. Sharon finally said “OK, three more bites Jenna, then you can get down”. You can imagine what came next. Suffice to say, the spoon did finally disturb the oatmeal, and at least one bite was consumed. Crisis averted.

Kayla took the whole thing in with a big smile on her face, hugely amused by her little sister’s performance art.

Besides the constraints of language, there is another important ethical point to be made here, mostly based on the age of the perpetrator and her tenuous grasp of mathematics. Being only two, Jenna might reasonably be cut some slack on having eaten exactly five bites, “five” being a fuzzy concept at best. For example, I had observed her attempting to count the fairies in Kayla's Fairy Castle the day before, a game that involved nothing more than attaching the fairies and flowers to the cardboard uprights that comprised the castle, taking them off, and then putting them back on again. When Jenna joined in, she insisted on counting everything, a deviation that Kayla bore with great good grace, even counting them slowly out to ten and then waiting for JG to repeat the gesture. And while JG could in fact count to ten, she would count certain objects twice, and others not at all. On that basis, we might fairly conclude that she understood the moral difference between, say, eating "zero" bites of oatmeal, and, say, "many", while everything in between was a little fuzzy.

But, back to the breakfast table: It is safe to say that on this occasion, the adults won a moral victory only. It is also safe to say that Jenna Grace did not eat five extra bites, but did eat more than one, assuming you count the bite that fell out of her mouth onto the chair, which she then picked up, swiped past her mouth and then discretely put back in her bowl.

Her victory at the breakfast table near complete, JG's gleeful, unselfconscious and wholly inconsequential lies proliferated. The afternoon of the last day, I ate a later lunch than the girls and had a plate of crackers, olives and cheese whilst watching TV. Jenna walked over, looked at the crackers, looked at me, and waited, her huge blue eyes soberly locking my gaze. "Yes", I said. "You may have some crackers." With that, she ate several in rapid succession. Kayla had some too. As the meal progressed, the girls got rambunctious and started running about. "No running with crackers!" I commanded, surely the least of any seasoned parents’ concerns, but hey, they were on loan here. I was bound and determined to return the Girls in at least as good of condition as we got them, Sharon’s amused lack of concern notwithstanding.

The point is that I as an adult had made a demand of the Girls and gone to the trouble of explaining that I didn’t want them running around with crackers in their mouths and choking on them, and wouldn’t it be terrible if they were to choke? Jenna nodded solemnly and around a mouthful of crackers told me with great difficulty that she did not have any crackers in her mouth. “No crackers in your mouth?” “No”, she said, as she reached for another handful. She then proceeded to run around the house with a mouthful of crackers and a handful of crackers, secure in the knowledge that the established protocols had been observed.

At least as she interpreted them.

Adventures In Babysitting II - Official Toddler Interpreter

It struck me that both of the Hensley Girls were talkers from a very early age: All baby talk, of course, but wonderfully varied, with a complex grammar all its own. To Sharon’s and my great amusement, they could hold up their end of any conversation, never mind that you couldn't understand a word they said, as Jenna Grace demonstrated about a year ago when I was on the road and happened to phone home. The Girls were staying over, and after I spoke to Sharon and Kayla, Jenna Grace climbed up in her lap and made it quite clear in baby pantomime to Mama Sharon that she reeeealy wanted to talk on the phone, her grubby little mitts clenching and unclenching until Sharon handed it to her, after which Jenna and I proceeded to talk for about 15 minutes. I didn’t know it until the end, but as we spoke, JG was apparently embellishing her babble with elaborate hand gestures and facial expressions, which explained the laughter I could hear in the background from Sharon and Kayla as the conversation progressed.

 

Fast forward to present day, and in the past several months, that language has evolved. Recognizable phrases and whole sentences are now the rule, but – not being exposed to Jenna-Speak every day - an interpreter is frequently required. Enter Kayla Zane. Case in point, we all sat down to lunch on Friday, the Girls having a smorgasbord of veggies and hummus, me eating a grilled cheese sandwich (which I had quartered) with a pickle. Jenna looked at me and said something I couldn’t make out. I asked her to repeat it, she did, and I still couldn’t quite make it out. I turned to Kayla and this was our conversation:
- “What did she say?”
- “She wants some of your sandwich”
- “How much does she want?”
- “Just one piece”. Jenna’s head bobbed in agreement.
- “I’ve only got four pieces. Will she trade?”
- “Jenna, will you trade?” Again, she shakes her head.

We do the deal, and I get two pieces of green pepper and a cherry tomato in return. A minute later, Jenna pipes up again. I turn to Kayla. “She wants more of your sandwich” “Is that all?” “No, Papa Pete, I’d like some of your sandwich too.” The exchange rate having already been set, I’m cleared out of the remaining half of my sandwich, and staring down at a measly collection of veggies. Kayla’s are perfectly clean, if few; Jenna’s are disturbing to say the least, having been handled repeatedly, and there’s at least a few that would fail the five second test, her having such a relativistic outlook on which horizontal surfaces are appropriate for food storage. No matter; a deal’s a deal, and at this point it would be fatal to show weakness. Besides, it’s not as if I’m in a position to trot out my killer argument, the one that goes “you know, you could just make yourself a grilled cheese sandwich”. But oh, just you wait Little Missy; Just wait until you’re, like, seven. Then the shoe will be on the other foot.

This is running through my head as I make eye contact with JG and get a big sunny smile in return, her happily holding up the grilled cheese sandwich for my inspection. No need for Kayla to translate this one. In the NFL it’s called Taunting, and it’s a 15 yard penalty assessed on the kickoff.

Kayla’s skills as an interpreter serve us well throughout the weekend, especially when Jenna Grace is excited or upset, at which point in time the language skills break down. And having foolishly committed to a basic exchange rate for food items, I’m going to need KZ to keep from being fleeced at the next meal. I ask Kayla how she can understand her sister and she says “I just can”. I ask her if she can understand other toddlers, and she claims that she can.

I believe her.

Regarding "Report: Global warming didn’t cause big U.S. drought", (Friday Nation Page A6), a study by "dozens of scientists from five different federal agencies looked into why forecasters didn’t see (last year's) drought coming".  They concluded that it was a freak of nature that could not have been foreseen.

 

For us Global Warming skeptics, this is delicious.  The Global Warming community has made hay for decades by blaming every weather event on manmade CO2, going so far as to expand the symptoms from simple warming to the now universal "climate change".  Under this catch-all, if everything can be blamed on manmade CO2, then anything can be blamed on it, including colder weather, hurricanes and drought. 

 

How ironic, then, that having constructed models that required their predictions to be accurate, they repeatedly get caught flat footed.  The bickering within the climate change community merely exposes the nature of the scam, as when other scientists slammed the report, saying that last year's drought was in fact due to global warming.  So which is it?  Either Global Warmers can tie manmade CO2 production to climate events, or they can't.  And if they expect to be taken seriously, they ought to at least be on the same page.

 

Pete Smith

Cypress

Don't Go All Bud Adams On Me

Regarding "Plans again take shape for future of Astrodome", (Thursday Outlook) Harris County Sports and Convention Corp. chairman Edgar Colon writes about the "slow process" of repurposing the Astrodome, although he is encouraged by the recent interest of private investors, something that has been lacking until now.  This may well be true, but Greater Houston taxpayers need to be wary.  It is a simple fact that every major sports and convention venue built in Houston has been heavily subsidized by taxpayers, as well as any subsequent modernizations, most notably the $90 million dollar face lift to the 'Dome back in 1988 that was supposed to get us a Super Bowl.  Back then, Bud Adams and the sports authority used both carrot and stick to get their taxpayer subsidies, at least until in 1993 when Adams demanded a new stadium and Mayor Bob Lanier finally said "enough is enough".  Adams, infamously, abandoned Houston for Nashville.

 

The common thread between events of the Bud Adams era and the 'Dome today is the carrot and stick approach.  NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell suggests none too subtly that the Super Bowl might not come here unless Houston does something with the Dome.  Edgar Colon promises a "first-class, multipurpose complex" that will bring "economic development and jobs to the region".  While the tone is friendlier than Adams' mix of wild promises and threats, the endgame seems to be the same: taxpayer funding for the private gain of a wealthy few, at least based on Mr. Colon's promise to "continue to develop information to allow taxpayers to make sound decisions". 

 

Mr. Colon needs to elaborate on these private investors who will be the salvation of the 'Dome and whether it is feasible for them to pick up the whole tab.  Houstonians have made every one of  these investments a success by purchasing tickets and patronizing the concessions.  There's no reason why we should have to pay for them as well.

 

Pete Smith

Cypress

Adventures In Babysitting

The weekend before last we babysat the Hensley girls, names Kayla Zane and Jenna Grace, ages five going on six and two going on three respectively. Kayla is the poised, elegant older sister; long brown hair, soulful eyes, thoughtful and ethereal. Jenna by comparison is the Tasmanian Devil: a shock of unruly blond hair and blue eyes, mercurial, emotional, messy and indestructible; a typical two year old, larger than life. It probably bears mentioning that Kayla was very similar to her little sister at a similar stage in her life, albeit not quite the Tomboy that JG is.

Quarterly or so, the Hensley Girls come to stay with us overnight, and occasionally for a weekend. Their parents go to great pains to provide a naturalistic diet and lifestyle, with lots of vegetables, fiber and roots untainted by pesticides or preservatives, mostly raised in a homeopathic environment, heavy on nature and light on preservatives. The milk and most of the foodstuffs they consume are steroid-free, the supplements all contain naturally occurring substances that strengthen their immune systems, and the infrequent animal proteins are free-range, locally produced and have themselves achieved a fair degree of self-actualization before going under the knife.

Hippie culture influenced by science, one might say. Liberal in the best sense of the word, the Hensleys are very open-minded folks when it comes to their Kids' upbringing, including who they entrust them to. There's a double handful of relatives and friends who the girls visit with on a regular basis, and we are on the honored list. Cheryl mentioned that they encourage it because their circle of friends and family is, well, eclectic, and her sound theory is that the girls will glean the good stuff, end up more self-sufficient and sociable, and being kids, are durable and resilient enough to handle the changes in diet and routine.

When they visit the Smith Household, that means access to things they are likely not to have regular exposure to in the course of a day in their own home. I am referring, of course, to four different kinds of ice cream, girl scout cookies, individually wrapped American cheese slices, microwavable pizza bites, far too much television and a Little Pony marathon on my laptop, virtually none of it certified organic or likely under any circumstances to be ever mistaken as such. Not to say that it's all bad or unhealthy here in Tower Oaks. It is to say that it is very much influenced by my habits and very little influenced by science, with Mama Sharon acting a ref, such as when the Girls ask me for ice cream after breakfast, a decision I sensibly punt to her.

The culture thing, though, works both ways. Since Mom brings over prepackaged meals for the Girls, I get first hand exposure to the joys of Almond butter and whole grain sandwiches, home-made Spanikopita, and an antipasti of hydroponically grown dwarf peppers, cherry tomatoes and radishes; and since they are both very generous little girls – not to mention cunning and motivated negotiators - over the course of the weekend I had the opportunity to sample it all. More about that later.

Anyway, we love our younger friends. They expose us to so many new and interesting things.

And all that said, it's clear their diet for the Girls works. They are healthy, socially adept, extremely bright, bursting with energy and show not the slightest interest in video games, texting or Reality TV. They will happily play for hours under a dining room table draped with blankets, a battalion of stuffed animals recruited as their playmates. And while they can zone out with the best of them on a cartoon marathon, there is barely a sigh of protest when Mama Sharon says "enough TV; you kids need to play."

When they come to visit, Sharon and I mark our time with Kayla Zane and Jenna Grace by episodes. By that I mean some event worth taking note of, whether it is JG's endless capacity to disassemble puzzles, furniture and major appliances without a single tool, or KZ negotiating for unlimited My Little Pony access on my laptop using the Assumptive Close, a technique I didn’t master in sales until I was in my mid-thirties.

Anyway, I've whipped up a series of episodes of their most recent visit that I'll share over the next couple weeks. Those that know the Girls know that these stories write themselves. Those that don't will soon figure it out. Such a short visit; so many stories to tell. I'll post the first one tomorrow.....