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Review of Three Especially Spastic Moments in My LifeWe all have spastic moments, right? I mean, even Abraham Lincoln must have had some nasty spaz attacks here and there. Maybe when he was brushing his teeth the day he gave the Gettysburg Address, his hand slipped as he went to start brushing, and he jabbed the toothbrush into his eye, and as he tried to get the toothpaste out of his eye because it was stinging so bad, he stuck his other finger in his nose, and got a bloody nose, and, well, you know how it goes. Even four score and seven years ago. Same as it ever was.
Well it’s like that for me. But more so. I, well, I, er, I’m kind of a spaz. I spaz a lot. As I walk around the office, which is a bit of a rabbit warren, I’m constantly cutting corners too short and smashing my shoulder on the wall, or misjudging the width of a doorway and running right into the door jam, or even missing my mouth with a cup of water and pouring the water all over myself.
Yes, I’m that guy.
Let’s review a couple of the best moments.
The Bike Spaz Most people who have ridden bikes for a while are either using, or are familiar with the oddly named clipless pedals. While de rigeur for any serious cyclist, these little contraptions are essentially ski boot bindings for your bike. Many things can impact how easy they are to get in and out of, but the most important of these factors is simply familiarity. Practice.
Right after I bought my first mountain bike, I also bought clipless pedals. Kim wandered onto the front porch to watch me try them out. I hopped onto my bike, clicked in, rode up to the porch, and fell right over into the bushes. Still trapped in my pedals, I thrashed around trying to free myself, oblivious to the sharp thorns on the bushes, scratching the hell out of my face, arms, and legs. Finally defeated, I stopped thrashing, and asked Kim to help me get out of my pedals. Unfortunately, she was so embarrassed that I did this in our front yard on a busy street, she had gone back inside and locked the door.
[For a video example of how clipless pedals can quickly turn from a rider’s best friend to his worst enemy, watch this, er, clip. The mayhem is at the 3:30 mark. Poor Tom doesn’t get released from the pedal until the 4:00 mark.]
The Falling Down Stairs, Run Into the Door Trick When I was growing up in Minneapolis, we remodeled and turned the garage into another family room, and an office for my dad, and put a new garage on the front. No, we didn’t leave the garage doors in place as walls. That would be cool though. I’ve seen it done—it makes moving furniture easy.
Anyway. We had a back staircase that used to be the stairs from the garage to the basement, with a small landing at the bottom, and a very heavy door leading into the rec room in our basement. When I was about 2 years old, I toddled to the back of the garage and dropped straight off the edge, and plummeted to the bottom of the stairs. Not down the actual stairs, but straight to the bottom. Think stairs with no railing. Probably not up to code. But this isn’t the spaz moment I’m going for. I mean, jeez, I was only 2.
When we remodeled, we carpeted the stairs and landing but left the heavy door. Once, in my teenage years, I was fleeing from my older brother, undoubtedly because I had done something particularly egregious to his sock drawer or re-ordered his 8 track tape collection, or something, and I was heading down those back stairs a bit faster than was safe. I slipped about halfway down, but not backward, but rather, forwards. With both arms outstretched to save myself, I flew the bottom 4 or 5 stairs, landed on my feet, but lurching out of control forward, and toward the heavy door, which was open and swung away from me.
Did I mention the outstretched hands thing? My left outstretched hand inserted itself directly into the gap between door and door jam. But with my palms facing outwards. My body continued flying past the door, and was abruptly caught by my by now bending completely backwards left hand, the fingernails of which were touching the top of my forearm. Eww. As my forward momentum arrested itself, my left shoulder, acting as a fulcrum, spun me hard to the left. Where, unfortunately, there was a very heavy door waiting for me. My face smashed into the door, breaking my nose and showering me and the door with blood.
That’s how my brother found me moments later. Deeming my punishment sufficient, he simply chortled and left me there. Which I appreciated.
Holden’s Rube Goldberg Trap A few years ago, when I still lived in Pleasant Grove, UT, Kim left town for a weekend, leaving me with the 3 kids. In those days, we had the master bedroom and two other bedrooms upstairs, and another bedroom in the basement. Holden, who was about 5 years old at the time, slept in the room across the hall from me.
I have trouble getting to sleep when Kim’s out of town, and so I was up late reading, but I finally managed to nod off around 1:00 am. And, I’m not positive this is relevant to the story, but maybe it is, but anyway, in those days too, I often slept in my birthday suit. There, I said it.
So on this night, Holden started making noise about 2:00 am. I woke up, and stumbled across the hall toward his room to see what the matter was, still very groggy, since I’d only just fallen asleep an hour before.
I crept across his floor toward his bed, but he was silent, so I figured nothing was wrong. I reached down to pick up and replace his blanket which had fallen off his bed.
Whoops. I reached down too far and smashed my forehead on the corner of his desk, which was next to his bed. I grabbed my head with both hands and took a step back, right onto a stack of slick comic books. The comic books acted a bit like ball bearings, shooting my leg forward, and my shin right into the drawer. I wish the drawer would have stopped my leg, but it only slowed it down, so as my foot slid under the desk, my shin scraped, from ankle to knee, along the bottom edge of the drawer, peeling off all of the skin on the front of my leg, until my ungainly knobby kneecap stopped its progress.
I shouted a couple of very naughty words and jumped back, only to slip again on the now scattered comic books, and I fell hard on the floor. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if that portion of the floor weren’t strewn with jacks. You know. JACKS! As in little metal landmines that don’t blow up but do have about a million pointy ends. Which can end up actually EMBEDDED in your ASS if you fall hard on them. While you’re NAKED!
That one really sucked. I’m pretty sure that’s where Holden learned every sailor word in his vocabulary. I guess you gotta learn it somewhere. You know. For situations like this one.
--dug Review of the Best Practical Joke Ever Played On MeI’m not really a practical joker. The closest I come is hiding in closets or behind shower curtains or under beds to try to scare my kids. That kind of backfires, though, because then they can’t sleep, and guess who takes the hit for that?
Neither have I been the target of a huge number of practical jokes. Oh, sure, Elden used to put macros on my computer in the old days, slowing down keystrokes, or making WordPerfect type a “g” whenever I pressed “h.” Hilarious.
But, I have been the victim of one particularly subtle and carefully executed joke. In fact, I didn’t find out it was a joke until years later, and even then, only inadvertently.
I’ll start at the beginning, and just tell the story. I’m guessing you all will be smarter than me, and you’ll know right away when the joke starts. I didn’t. The lesson, as always: I am an idiot.
Kim and I have been married for a month shy of 17 years. Before we got married, Kim had lived all over the country, and had graduated high school in Chicago. I, on the other hand, lived in the same house pretty much my whole life, in a suburb of Minneapolis. Kim was hip, cool, worldly. I was, well, not. Kim had followed the Grateful Dead a bit during some of her high school summers. I played a lot of basketball in my backyard.
The summer after Kim and I got married, the Grateful Dead were on tour, and were scheduled to play Las Vegas, and since I was such a schmuck, Kim insisted we road trip to Vegas to see them play. After all, it was inconceivable that the only concert I had attended to that point was the Styx, Paradise Theater tour, and the woman I was married to had seen, well, EVERYTHING. I needed educating.
So we piled into my 1980 Mazda RX 7, and headed south, planning on hanging out on the Vegas Strip until the wee hours, then parking in the desert and sleeping in the car, true Deadhead style.
Somewhere around Cedar City, 3 hours south of Salt Lake City, I was driving, and since Kim and I had been married less than a year, well, er . . .
Let’s just say, the mouse was out of the house for a bit. More exactly, the mouse was out of the house, for a bit, Kim went to sleep, and we arrived in St. George and stopped at a gas station to fill up the tank and get some Diet Coke and other sundries.
Kim kept sleeping, and I filled the tank, walked inside, filled my coke cup, bought my Twizzlers, paid for my stuff, and went outside. I decided to use the rest room since there’s not much between St. George and Las Vegas, so I went back inside. I stepped up to the urinal, went to unzip and free the mouse, and lo and behold, THE MOUSE WAS ALREADY LOOSE! That is, apparently I’d been driving for an hour, and then walking around a crowded gas station buying coke and treats, with my junk aired out. No wonder the clerk behind the counter gave me the stink eye.
I told Kim about my gaffe back in the car, we had a good laugh, and drove away. And that, as they say, was that.
Except.
Flash forward about 5 years. I am now working at Novell, in Provo, UT, in the technical documentation group, as a writer. My boss, Susan Salgy, heads up a team of about 10 writers and editors, a mixed bag of loose screws and uptight tools.
We meet every week for an hour or so to go over projects, deadlines, workloads, movies, and restaurants. During the big meeting, Rebecca, I’m pretty sure that was her name, is telling a story about the time she was in St. George for Spring Break with a bunch of her girlfriends, and there was some guy walking around a gas station/convenience store wearing ratty baggy shorts and a big tie-dye Grateful Dead shirt, with his junk hanging out.
Mark Talbot, privy to the story of my Las Vegas pilgrimage, immediately cries out “It was Doug!”
“Shut up!” I say tightly, kicking him under the table. Miraculously, he does.
Nobody seems to notice our exchange, and the meeting progresses apace and concludes without further incident.
But soon after, I decide the opportunity for comedy is too great to pass up, so Mark and I go to Rebecca’s office and I blurt out, “Rebecca, I’m sorry to say this, but I think I may have shown you my penis. I apologize.”
In retrospect, she was remarkably cool about the whole thing. “What, that was YOU?”
“Yes, yes it was. Well, probably.” So I tell her the story of my Las Vegas trip, and we decide that yes, the timeframe matches up, and I was almost certainly the junk dealer from her spring break in St. George. Crazy coincidence. And no big deal, really, except explaining to my peers why my junk might have been loose in the first place was a bit awkward. But other than that, no big deal. Funny story. Crazy coincidence.
Not.
Is the hallmark of a good practical joke that the chump involved never be let in on the joke? Maybe not, maybe that’s just one way to measure a good joke. Cuz other times, it’s the immediate reaction that’s funny, like with Candid Camera, or these jokes.
It would be another several years before Mark would accidentally let it slip that I was set up. Susan Salgy is a genius. And I will never tell her another embarrassing story again.
Wait, is this on the Internet? Damn it.
--dug Review of the Punk, er, Gentleman/Woman Who Broke Into My Car And Stole My Stuff Last WeekI don’t have a lot of experience with the kind of people who
break into cars and steal stuff. Well, actually, I’ve had various cars broken
into over the years, but I’ve never actually MET the person who did the
breaking in. Although, who among us hasn’t gone through a homeless, crackhead,
carjacking stage?
It’s time we at the Random Reviewer pay more attention to this important demographic. They may not be the target audience of Studio 60 on Sunset Strip, but who knows? Maybe they’re our largest reading audience. So welcome to you all. What Happened? Last Thursday I met Elden and Brad at the mouth of Emigration Canyon for a mountain bike ride. We parked in the dirt parking lot/trailhead across from the Hogle Zoo, like I’ve been doing for rides several times a week since I started working downtown, a year ago. When I returned to the car (94 Toyota Landcruiser), the front passenger window was missing. Well, not missing, exactly, but scattered and smashed all over the inside of my car, and all over the dirt outside my car. Some items besides the window were missing. Which is a relief, really, because I would hate for Bubba/Chico/Vladimir/Richard to have gone to all that effort for nothing. Not to mention being subjected to the danger of smashing a car window. Sounds like dangerous work. So a little booty was in order. Let’s Review Stuff First, the Method. You have to enjoy the smash and grab. Too many thieves these days go soft and only steal from unlocked cars, or even use some weeny gadget to get the car unlocked. You don’t get a lot of “grab a rock and smash the window” style anymore. It’s a dying art, like Cubism. Or maybe Cubism is already dead. I don’t know. I like the smash and grab. It makes me feel like I’ve been through something manly, like I’ve been roughed up a little. It leaves a mark (and debris, of course). Like a hurricane—I feel like I should name it. I choose to name it Bubba/Chico/Vladimir/Richard/Coco. And I give the smash portion of Bubba/Chico/Vladimir/Richard/Coco/Danny’s smash and grab 8 out of 10 hammers. Well played. Location. Location means a lot in cases like this, especially when you consider the method. You might get more of the smash and grabs at night, or in huge parking lots packed with cars. But at a relatively busy trailhead, middle of day, only 5 or 6 cars? Not so much. Bubba/Chico/Vladimir/Richard/Coco/Danny/Famke has balls as big as church bells. On the other hand, a demerit for dirt parking lot. If I had parked across the street, in the paved, more civilized Hogle Zoo parking lot, I’d add some points. So I’m going to call this a push. 5 out of 10 parking spaces. How about Damage Inflicted? My car door was still attached, and even functional, but the window was completely demolished. And I found no large rocks nearby that might have been the tool of choice. So I’m flummoxed. What did Bubba/Chico/Vladimir/Richard/Coco/Danny/Famke/Lolo use? His/her elbow? Did he/she bring a hammer along? I like to think it was a massive head butt right to the center of the window, like I was being robbed by The Rock. That would be cool. Anyway. The window was completely disintegrated, but the door still works. I had to get the window replaced (by my good friend Mario, who only has one name like a European soccer player), and discovered that a tiny bushing had cracked when the window shattered, so instead of just a $135 bill for the window, I had to order another $120 “regulator” since Toyota won’t sell you just the bushing. So kudos for both the obvious smashed window, and for the hidden sneaky damage, and of course, having to spend an hour at the local carwash, vacuuming the car. Which actually is a good thing. Like my bikes, my car hasn’t been washed since I got it. 7 out of 10. And finally, let’s rate the booty. Not the badonkadonk, but what they got away with. A 30 gig iPod ($399—at the time, not anymore of course), a Monster iPod radio transmitter thingy ($79), my Maui Jim Sport sunglasses ($199), and my Smiths Sliders ($125). Oh yeah. And my PANTS. They took my pants, along with the underwear still inside them. I can only guess they thought that I have excellent taste in cargo shorts. Or that they thought my wallet was in the pocket (it wasn’t). And so yes, I spent the rest of the day in my bike shorts. Which aren’t as comfortable as you might think. Good for sitting on a bike seat, not so much an office chair. And isn’t this how people get yeast infections? Gross. I’m going to give my new little friend 9 out of 10 clams for the booty. The sunglasses and iPod seem a little ordinary (and the iPod has “dug loves kim” inscribed on the back, a treat for any crackhead car thief), something they might get from any smash n grab. But it’s not every day you head butt a car window and walk away wearing someone else’s underwear and Old Navy cargo shorts. Kudos. Overall, I’m going with 7 out of 10 crack pipes for my friend Guido the Killer Pimp. And a demerit for stealing my underwear along with the pants. Couldn’t Guido at least have gone commando? Review of My Ability to Tell Stories to ChildrenI'll admit it: I get into trouble when I have to make up stories to tell children. I'm not sure what the problem is. Using the clearest pop psychology terms I can think of ― and please understand that I've never taken a formal class in pop psychology ― I'd have to guess that cognitive dissonance runs deep with me, and some part of me wants to undercut whatever a different part of me wants.
Gather 'round childrens
The other day, Luke brought me a set of greeting cards that he found stashed away in a bookcase. "Read, Daddy." I told him to go get me a book because the greeting cards aren't story books. But Luke pointed at a greeting card and said, "Read, Daddy. READ!" The card had two cats and a mouse on the cover and nothing on the inside, not even a cheesy Hallmark poem. But hey, Luke's in charge, so I told him a story.
Pretty Kitty
The sad thing is that's nothing compared to the story I told to a friend's kid. Here's the setup. Some kayaking buddies and I were camping in a trailer near a river. Gary brought his 6-year-old son, Boy, along. (The kid's real name is Spencer, but no one called him Spencer because Gary waited about 6 months before finally deciding on a name. The rule of thumb is that if you're going to wait six months to name your kid, you'd better come up with something better than Spencer. So we continued to call him Boy.) Boy wanted to hear a ghost story, and he wanted me to tell it to him. I said I didn't know any ghost stories, which is true. Sure, I had heard campfire stories like the one that ends up with a hook on the car door handle, but I had no idea where to begin. The other kayakers chimed in with Boy and insisted that I tell a ghost story. "Come on, Bob, tell us a story!" So I tried to piece together a story that seemed vaguely familiar.
Not only was this a terrible story to tell a 6-year-old boy, but I told it wrong. I was supposed to mention that there was a legend of an old woman who cut the heads off of cats and petted them in her mountain shack. That was just an awful performance on my part. Oh, and for some reason, Boy couldn't sleep that night, so Gary had to bail on the kayaking trip and take him home. True story.
Review of Story Telling Abilities
9 out of 10 stars
-Bob
Review of The Gauntlet! II--This Time It's Personal!A while ago (okay, a loooong time ago) Elden wrote about a ride that he dramatically named “The Gauntlet!” (I added the exclamation point. It just feels right.) You can read about his little Gauntlet! Ride here.
Last week my friend Joe (the only friend I’ve introduced to mountain biking NOT to have been seriously injured) asked me about doing the Gauntlet! But, well, with a little twist—When Elden did it, he rode up Provo Canyon, did Squaw Peak and South Fork, rode up the Sundance side of the Alpine Loop, then down to Cascade Springs and back, and down the American Fork side, doing the Tibble Fork spur on his way down.
Joe contends that’s cheating, since Elden didn’t go back UP the American Fork side. And he proposed that this was like Sir Edmund Hillary only getting to the Hillary Step, but not all the way up. I think that’s airtight logic.
And thus 7.5 hours of intense suffering was born. This morning, Joe Jensen, my brother-in-law Rick Sunderlage, and I did the Gauntlet! II—This Time It’s Personal!
A bunch of others came along, but since they had no intention of completing the entire ride, well, they don’t get a mention. Even though some of them are famous, and most of them can kick my ass up the hill.
I will review the Gauntlet! II—This Time It’s Personal! one climb at a time, along with a general score. In other words, my review shall contain scores. That’s how I roll.
Tibble Fork, American Fork Canyon (cat 2—3 miles, but only the last mile is steep) We met at the mouth of American Fork Canyon at 5am, and were rolling by 5:15 (still AM). It was not as light as I would have hoped. In fact, it was downright dark.
We felt good, we rolled fast, and made it past Tibble Fork reservoir to Granite Flat in about 10 minutes.* Total climbing to Granite Flat was about maybe a couple hundred feet.* The descent was very cold, but jolly.
* Perceived time and distance
Score: 3 out of 4. I’d like to rate it higher or lower, but jeez, it was the first climb of the day. Kind of like when you skate first in figure skating. The judges have to save the good scores for later. And no, I’m not French, effete, and I don’t wear fur.
American Fork Canyon, Main Climb to Summit (hors category—11 miles, and mostly very steep) We still had about 6 miles and 2,000 feet to get to the main summit of the Alpine Loop. Not to mention that we then had 4 major climbs after that. So I thought it imprudent of Rick to just fly off the front and pretty much get all Lance Armstrong on Joe and me on this climb. Turns out I was riding with Spiderman and Batman (Joe and Rick). Which brings up an important point—who would win a fight to the death between Spiderman and Batman? I say Batman. He’s older, more experienced, wily, and has unlimited resources. My kids disagree. Well, except for Maddy—she’s a daddy’s girl.
Anyway, I took it easy up this climb (as easy as you can ride on an average 9% grade), and rejoined Rick and Joe at the top, where they began their ritual of saying, “Hey, nice going, we’ve only been here for about a minute,” which was just mean.
I think we climbed this in about 20 minutes. (I’m totally pulling your leg. This is a little known measurement I like to call “perceived time and distance—so from now on, * means “perceived time and distance.” I think it will catch on.) The elevation gain might have been about 500 feet.*
Score: 5 out of 6. I love this climb, it’s my favoritist in the whole world. But, still early in the ride, so I can’t go overboard.
American Fork Canyon, Cascade Springs (hors category—7 miles and wicked steep) From the summit, we headed down the backside to Cascade Springs, a 7 mile descent, losing about 2000 feet. Justin was with us for this descent, and took off fast, showing us what he’s got. The road was a bit gravelly and sketchy, but since I was climbing so slowly, I felt it important to show the one road biking skill I have. I believe Justin’s exact comment to Rick at the bottom was “your bro-in-law is F#$%ING NUTS!” So, I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.
The climb back out of Cascade Springs fills me with a sense of dread. It’s long and steep, and I was with fast guys. Luckily, I also had Mr iPod with me. You may have read the Fat Cyclist rail on riding with iPods in groups over on his obese site. The Fat Cyclist is a ninny and a Quaker. Riding with iPods is the bomb, and may have saved my life today. I’m thinking of writing a letter to Steve Jobs.
This climb took a little longer, maybe 40 minutes, and gained more like 8,000 feet in 7 miles.*
Score: 3 out of 7. This is a good climb, but by the top, I was feeling a bit spent, and started worrying in a big way about the 3 climbs to come. On the other hand, I got to listen to Fergie sing My Humps 3 times on this climb, so maybe I’m being a bit harsh.
Interlude At the summit again, we relaxed for a couple minutes, munching on whatever we had. While we were standing there, some kind of nexus of ride buddies occurred. Rick Maddox, who had started late, came over the hump from American Fork, and joined us. And Elden suddenly appeared out of nowhere on his mountain bike, having just climbed Tibble Fork, descended Joy, and climbed back up. He couldn’t join us, since he needed to get to work and act all impressive.
Anyway, this is an example of how cool this area is. We are at the summit and center of maybe the best riding in the universe on a Monday morning, and suddenly, 70 percent of the friends I ride with appear. Maybe it’s just me. Am I babbling? Okay, I’ll stop.
We descended the Sundance side, pushing the pace hard. The top of this descent is twisty and densely wooded, and the lower section below Sundance has sections where you can push over 55mph pretty easily. I like it. This descent gets a score: 9 out of 10. Cuz this is MY review (with scores).
Provo Canyon, Squaw Peak (cat 1, but only because it’s short—4.5 miles, and brutally steep) Rick M rode out Provo Canyon with us, but, like the churlish dog he is, bailed on Squaw. Rick S, Joe, and I started up. Now, the fastest I’ve ever climbed Squaw, at my absolute best, is just under 30 minutes. But as we were in the middle of the Gauntlet! II—This Time It’s Personal! I figured we’d soft pedal up and save our energy for the final climb up past Sundance.
Well, I did that, but Spiderman and Batman had other ideas. I’m not even Robin or Mary Jane to these guys. I got to the top in about 38 minutes, not really a bad time, considering. Rick, of course, immediately says “we’ve only been here about a minute.” He’s obviously lying, since he had a roaring fire going, and was barbequeing the goat he had killed and skinned. I hate Rick. They climbed the sucker in about 31 minutes. Yeah, I always go for my personal best on the middle climb of a SIX climb ride.
The Squaw Peak road used to suck, with large, bus-sized potholes and lots of gravel, making every descent white knuckle. Not any more. Now it’s a recently-paved descending paradise. Still white knuckle, but for different reasons.
Score: 1 out of 10. Did I mention that I hate Rick?
Provo Canyon, South Fork (cat 3—four miles, but very gentle) South Fork was like a vacation compared to Squaw Peak. Or at least it would have been if it weren’t climb number 5 out of 6. At least Rick and Joe weren’t setting any personal bests on this one.
I have very little recollection of the South Fork climb, maybe because it came sandwiched between Squaw and Sundance, and was fairly pleasant. Apart from the fact that my legs were starting to feel like Jello that hadn’t set yet.
Score: 0 out of 0. Since I don’t really remember it at all.
Provo Canyon, Sundance Side of Alpine Loop (hors category, 8 miles, and the first half is mind-bendingly steep, and I’m told the second half is very pleasant. I wouldn’t know, since I had already gouged my eyes out by the time I got to the second half). As we started up the Sundance side, once again, Batman and Robin receded into the hazy distance ahead of me. Whatever, I hope they get hit by a dump truck.
Until today, I would never have imagined being able to soft pedal up the Sundance side. But given the exigencies, today was the day. I started hallucinating early, and not in a good way. Elvis (the fat Elvis) was riding on my handlebars.
After somehow muscling my way up the steep stuff to Aspen Grove, I spent the next 3 miles telling Elvis (the fat Elvis) to F#&K OFF! He kept telling me I needed to sit down, just for a minute. But I knew, if I got off my bike, even for a second, chances were good I’d never remount again. Ever. We had this same conversation 8,000 times in those 3 miles. The tunnel of pain got narrower and narrower. Do you know what got me through?
My iPod, of course. Turns out, Fergie singing My Humps is the best climbing song in the world. It’s good for other stuff too, but Fergie saved my life today. That tears it, Zinedane Zidane is out, and Fergie is IN.
Score: negative 100 out of 1,000. I will never climb the Sundance side again. And not just because I hate Sundance (which I will review at a later date, but here’s a little hint: it doesn’t reflect well on Sundance), but because climbing that side made me want to die. And that violates the greatest cliche in the world: Tomorrow Is Another Day! And I don’t even remember the descent, maybe my favorite descent in the whole world. And that’s just a crime.
On the other hand, that shower I railed on a few weeks ago? I take it all back.
The Gauntlet! This Time It’s Personal! Final Score: 6. The Numbers: 7.5 hours (slightly less for Rick, since he dropped us hard on the final climb to get to work because he’s VERY IMPORTANT!), 87.5 miles, and about 13,000 feet of climbing. --dug Review of DiversI have never been a big fan of sports whose outcome is determined by subjective methods. There needs to be a scoreboard, a timer, a finish line, or some other objective method to determine the winner. Which is why diving, figure skating, freestyle skiing, and even freeride mountain biking (something I love to watch but not as a competition) have always struck me as more an exhibition than a sporting event. I appreciate and admire the athleticism that is involved in all of these "exhibitions," but I struggle with the notion of a panel of judges (subject to corruption, myopia, or perhaps just indigestion) determining a winner. Unless of course, I am the sole judge. Given that divers are accustomed to having subjective judges review their performance, I thought I would offer them the refreshing opportunity to have an unbiased observer perform a head-to-head review of various divers.
Greg Louganis Perhaps it was the unusual passion with which TV commentators described his physique, or possibly that horrifying incident when he smacked his head on the board, but for some reason Greg Louganis is the only Olympic diver that I know by name. Talented and accomplished, Greg was able to achieve a fairly significant amount of fame and glory from a fairly insignificant exhibition that only becomes semi-important to Americans every 4 years. For that, he deserves credit. Greg gets 5 out of 6 (due to a mandatory one point deduction for always performing in a Speedo).
High Divers Here we're talking the Acupulco variety from the Wide World of Sports of my youth. These folks take the antiseptic world of platform and springboard diving and do it in a far more scenic location and from a much taller platform. Fun to watch if I'm bored and flipping through the channels, but nothing I would ever use Tivo hard drive space for. I jumped off an 80 foot cliff at Lake Powell once. I went so far under water that sunlight no longer penetrated the depth. The only reason I was able to find my way to the surface was because one of those luminescent fish I thought only existed in "20.000 Leagues Under the Sea" swam by and I could see the bubbles rising towards the top. Of course it doesn't help that I float about as well as a chunk of limestone, but it was deep either way. High diving requires more skill than BASE jumping, but it's much less risky. 8 out of 18, including mandatory one point deduction for performing in a Speedo.
Jacques Cousteau The "other" diver people know by name. Certainly worthy of consideration given the impact he had on the world. From the environmental movement to science, Cousteau was a pioneer in many respects. He co-invented the "aqualung" and was the first to take color TV footage from undersea. Only one problem: he also performed in a Speedo. 85 out of 86.
Italian World Cup Team I thought in this year's World Cup that FIFA was going to crack down on diving. Instead they have rewarded it. Witness Italy's advancement to the quarterfinals. The Italians take diving to a new level. Here I thought that in order to dive properly, one needed a body of water to dive into. The Italians have proven me wrong. The drama, flair, and enthusiasm with which they dive are unparalleled. Their passion for hitting the turf belies the fact that they are tripping over mere blades of grass. I never knew that playing soccer at the most elite level required so little balance, and yet, to witness the Italian soccer team arbitrarily hit the deck makes one hope that the bar stools in Italy have seat belts. Perhaps there is a mighty wind that blows selectively and only hits Italian players. Perhaps the Italians' heads are made of iron and World Cup fields are located directly over magnetic forces like in the hatch from "Lost." I don't know. All I know is that even my toddler can keep his feet better than an Italian soccer player. 0 out of 11, and they don't even wear Speedos.
--mark Review of My Trip to MexicoI, a novelist, went to Puerto Vallarta with some friends and all our kids.
What I LikedLet's face it, no one wants to hear what I liked about my trip to Mexico. You want to hear about the problems, the conflicts, the in-fighting ... which reminds me of an experiment I tried a few years ago, back when we were doing the Friday Story exchange. I attempted to write a short story without any conflict whatsoever. I wrote about a happy man in a healthy relationship with a healthy wife and happy children. He had a fulfilling, high-paying job and he was actively involved in the community and various charities. There is very nearly a moment of conflict, a fleeting sense of ennui, but the main character returns home and has passionate sex with his wife, altering positions at the appropriate times. I did not receive one single compliment for the story.
But if you'll permit me a moment of truthfulness, the Mexico trip was fantastic -- lively chats with friends and cab drivers, two-year-old sons laughing uncontrollably while getting hit by waves, Minette spraying vomit all over other scuba divers. But on to the stuff that's more fun to write about...
What I Didn't LikeOur resort hotel. We stayed in a beautiful hotel right next to the ocean. The problem was that it was in a place called Nuevo Vallarta, which is a resort village about a $25 cab ride away from Puerto Vallarta. On those occasions when we did pile into sweaty cabs to go into town, we ate at upscale restaurants. Only in rare moments did I feel like I was actually in Mexico.
My wardrobe. The thought "Will this make me look like a total gringo?" never crossed my mind when I bought my shirt at Eddie Bauer's or my socks at Costco or my sandals at Nordstrom. But you put it all together, and maybe throw some Pepto Bismol tablets in the shirt pocket, and suddenly you're dressed up as a middle-aged tourist frowning at exchange rates.
The beach novel. I was an English major, so for years I limited myself to canon-approved literature. A couple of friends convinced me to read novels for entertainment's sake rather than aesthetical appeal, so I took their advice and was pleasantly surprised. No one is going to compare Carl Hiasson to Nathaniel Hawthorne, but only one of those authors can make me laugh out loud. I had been careful about the romp literature I decided to read, sticking to authors like Martin Cruz Smith, Thomas Harris, and Dan Brown. For this trip, I decided to let go and pick a random book from an airport bestsellers' rack. I picked Velocity by Dean Koontz, thinking if it's on the New York Times bestsellers' list, how bad can it be? Answer: Powerful bad. Talk about your hackneyed prose. I came away from that sadistic book worried about Mr. Koontz's mental health.
Watching soccer in Mexico. Based on my experiences in Peru during the 1982 World Cup, I thought watching Mexico play a World Cup game would be another rare opportunity to witness fabled soccer passion. Robert and I took a cab to a nearby village to watch the game with the enthusiastic locals. Nada. We sat in a sports bar with a few scattered Mexicans who were reading the paper or staring at computers. Um, arriba. From now on, I am rooting against Mexico in all soccer games, even if they play the dreaded Socceroos from Australia. That's right, mis amigos aburridos. You bored the wrong gringo.
Nudibranchs. Minette loves nudibranchs, or sea slugs. She made arrangements for her and me to dive with a group of Mexican scientists who study marine life. In fact, one of the dive masters co-authored a book that Minette had been using for years. Minette told her new scientist friends, Pedro and Alicia, that I too was interested in nudibranchs, which simply is not true. For one thing, I'm not much of a biologist. While biologists like to identify every variation among species, I prefer simpler categories, like Regular Fish, Pretty Fish, and Things Stuck On The Bottom. For another thing, nudibranchs are very small, and I have bad vision and no contact lenses. When I'm underwater, everything is a blur.
Here's what a nudibranch looks like in Minette's book:
 Here's what a nudibranch looks like to me:
 During the first dive, Pedro continued to point out what appeared to be sea phlegm. I was hoping to focus on the eels and an octopus and a sea snake and trumpet fish that I saw in the distance, but we were on a different mission. If Minette had remained close to Pedro, I could have just ignored them and looked at my own critters. But Minette was struggling with her buoyancy. She spent most of the dive hovering ten feet above Pedro and me, flailing her arms, and flashing the universal scuba sign for I'm Okay But I Might Die Soon. With Minette orbiting above us, this meant that when Pedro pointed out some mucus thing, I had to acknowledge it. Yes, Pedro, that does indeed appear to be white stuff on a little brown thing.
(You can read my more extended version on scuba diving in Puerto Vallarta. Minette also has a more accurate version of our adventures here.)
Final ratingsSubjective rating: ***
Objective rating: *** -Bob |
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