Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 2)

-   Dolores   -

It was truly amazing how many people were outraged at the tragedy that befell J.P. Bugtussle. For someone who had basically lived a lifetime as a recluse – with just a smidgen of blossoming towards caring about his fellow man (and woman) in the last few months/days/moments of that life – his death really seemed to have left an impact in nearly every part of the world. Newspapers everywhere were emblazoned with front page headlines documenting the horrific incident. The assassin quickly rose to the Number One spot on the FBI's Most Wanted List - even though no one had a clue as to who this person was.  The flags at every bank and roller skating rink were flown at half-staff. The coffee shop where J.P. had been having breakfast the last few weeks of his life had a sign on their front door: CLOSED INDEFINITELY. Suffice it to say, the entire world was in a state of mourning.

J.P. Bugtussle’s body was tucked neatly away in the morgue while the authorities investigated the case. J.P.'s mother, Dolores Bugtussle, had been visited by two officers from the police department the morning after her son had been killed. They had offered to take her to the morgue so she could officially identify the body of her son. Dolores declined the ride and told them that she would drive up in a few minutes on her own. The officers asked her if she'd like them to stay awhile - make sure she was okay. She assured them that she would be fine. She just needed a little time to put it all together in her head. 

Dolores watched from the front screen door while the police car pulled away from the curb, then she turned and walked back toward the kitchen. She filled a watering can at the sink then made the rounds throughout the house, visiting all of the potted plants to make sure that they were all adequately nourished. She checked the food level in the parakeet cage hanging by the breakfast room window and determined that it was okay for the time being. She picked up the plate and coffee cup from the kitchen table and set them in the sink. She turned on the switch to the garbage disposal and watched trance-like as it swallowed the two strips of bacon, scrambled eggs and a half-eaten piece of toast that had  all gone cold while her morning had been interrupted by the police officers. She took the dish towel from the refrigerator door handle, wiped the trail of a tear that had begun flowing down her cheek, and then headed down the hall to her bedroom to change clothes.

A few minutes later, Dolores pulled her front door shut, checked to make sure it was locked, walked to the end of her porch, down the steps and got in her car. Sitting behind the wheel, she turned the key in the ignition, rolled down the driver's side window, lit a cigarette then backed out of her driveway. She swung much wider than she normally would have – just barely missing nearly taking out the neighbor’s mailbox – put her car in drive and headed south on Elm Street toward uptown.

When Dolores got to 15^th Street, she turned right. She made a mental note of the sale items advertised in the windows of the grocery store. She’ll need to stop by there on her way back home. About two-and-a-half miles later, she turned left on Knob Hill Drive followed by another left on 14^th Street. At the point where 14^th dead-ended into Lanark Drive, she pulled into the drive at the back of the hospital and parked next to the canopy by the doors. She opened the car door as she took one last drag on her cigarette. As she inhaled, the hot August air mixed with the smoke and nicotine and she felt her lungs ignite with fire. She thought to herself, “Wonder if I should switch to menthol?” Crushing the cigarette butt to the pavement, she walked through the rear entrance and pressed the button to the basement elevator.

Meanwhile, back at the police station, a couple of detectives were sorting through the items in J.P.’s possession when he was killed. His wallet was a basic kind of wallet that one could pick up at any department store – and not even real leather at that. It contained an ID card (no driver’s license), a Social Security card (NOT laminated as clearly instructed in fine type on the card), a photo of his mother, and $2,100.00 in hundred dollar bills – along with a ten and three ones. Tucked in one of the slots where one would normally put credit cards was a toothpick – used – one end used so much that it was pretty much useless any more as a toothpick. From his pants pocket they retrieved a ring with three keys on it, some change, and a small notepad – with nothing written on it. Someone had said he had been wearing some sun glasses, but they were nowhere to be found.

Then the detectives started going through J.P.’s bike bags…



(Back: Part 1  -  J.P.)

(Next: Part 3  -  Mel and the Young Man)

Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 1)

-   J.P.   -

People say, to do well in life, one must be in constant contact with other well-to-do people – to learn the stepping stones to success, so to speak. J.P. Bugtussle didn’t think so. He started life as a child – which a lot of us do. But he was a different kind of child – which most of us are. So what was it exactly that made J.P. Bugtussle so different?

When Janiculum Peropavlovsk Bugtussle (See why everyone called him J.P.?) was eight years old, he began his career. He practiced hard at the art of conceit, deceit, and stinginess – majoring in egotism. His teacher was so proud of him that at one point he burned one of J.P.’s eyes out in order to give him a “gimmick” later in life. By the time J.P. was thirty-five, he was well on his way to millions. His tall, skinny body served as a standard by which he stacked all of his cash – right down to his quarter, dimes, nickels, and yes, even his pennies. Although he didn’t believe in banks, he had bought a total of 132 of them by the time he was thirty-six. But oddly enough, he kept all of his money hidden at home – with a good healthy amount of it stacked in the panniers of a bicycle that he had never ridden. In addition to his bank purchases, he had made several other real estate acquisitions – including a roller skate and ball bearing manufacturing plant in Coward, South Carolina. He was a bit eccentric – to say the very least.

By the time J.P. was thirty-seven, he had met only a total of three people – his mother, his teacher and a famous folk singer who was the son of some other famous folk singer. Due to this little fact, it was obvious that J.P. had never married – he figured it would only lead to financial problems. But, in fact, it only led to worse problems. Since he didn’t go out into public, he didn’t have a wife to pick out and buy clothes for him. He didn’t have a wife to be his companion when nobody else would have anything to do with him on a personal level. Obviously, he was lonely.

One day, out of the clear blue, he jumped on his touring bicycle and went out into the world to make friends. Right away he was nice and kind and friendly to everyone he met. He started giving huge amounts of money to charity. He was like a new man and he loved the new life that he had found. One morning, as J.P. Bugtussle was riding his bicycle to his favorite coffee shop for breakfast, someone shot and killed him. 



(Table of Contents)

(Next:  Part 2  -  Dolores)

The Question for April

So tell me, how far would YOU ride YOUR bicycle for a Bombstik?

Well, that's just about far enough.

Enjoy the ride!

ASK BERTHA - CHAMOIS TALES

It’s time once again to dip in the old mail bag and find out what kind of cycling-related dilemmas our loyal readers are currently dealing with.  So let’s end this opening paragraph right now and dive directly into the pending query.

Dear Bertha,

I have always had a problem with the chamois edges on my cycling shorts. Pardon my bluntness, but the edges really cut into me.  I have tried different brands of shorts with all different sorts of chamois and padding, as well as all kinds of lotions and ointments and such – but the results always turn out the same. I was wondering if you could suggest anything that could possibly help with the chaffing that I suffer after several hours and/or miles on the saddle.

Pain in the Butt, Sandy Bottom, NC

Dear Pain in Sandy Bottom, 

Even though I may have forsaken cycling for my newfound love of running until my legs bleed (yeah, right!), I don't mind at all sharing what I found to work best for me during my many cross-state cycling journeys.

First, I completely soaked my shorts in Wesson Canola Oil (you'll need about a gallon in a big pot because you'll want your shorts to really soak up the oil). It is rich in Omega 3 so your heart will also benefit from wearing these specially treated shorts. Prior to putting your shorts on, you need to pour 1/2 cup of Bertolli's Extra Virgin Olive Oil all over the padding. I'm sure there's some sort of joke to be made here about the "virgin" thing but this is a serious matter so I'm going to just keep it factual and not be sucked into some sort of childish, 6th grade humor.

Now, just before you pull your shorts completely up, use some Trader Joe's Canola Oil Spray all over your rear end and naughty bits. Be careful during this process because the Canola Oil Spray is highly flammable - you don't want to be smoking a cigarette (or anything else) at this point. Go ahead now and pull your shorts completely up and walk around in them for a few minutes before starting your ride. It will be a little strange and somewhat slushy feeling at first but you will get used to it.

When you're ready to start the ride, use a healthy portion of the Hain Safflower Oil directly on your bicycle saddle. You can just rub this in by hand for about two or three minutes to get the best results. This has a lot of Vitamin E in it so it is really best suited for real leather saddles - plus, it has enhanced fresheners in it so you will be really glad you used this at about mile 80 - as will anyone else riding within twenty feet of you.

I’m sure once you follow this simple procedure, you will be more than able to…

Enjoy the Ride – mile after mile after sloshy mile!

(Note: All products mentioned in this article are just regular items that you should be able to find in your friendly neighborhood grocery store or truly “alternative” bicycle shop. More On Cycling does not receive any monetary compensation for mentioning these items nor does it receive any percentage of the profits once these products fly off the shelves at lightning speed after thousands upon thousands of cyclists start using these products on the padding in their cycling shorts. Darn!)

(More On Notes: More On Cycling takes no responsibility for anyone who takes this article seriously and who possibly unknowingly rides their bicycle past a family of cannibals and is mistaken for a meal ready to throw into the frying pan.)


Now... go Enjoy the Ride!

CYCLING WITHOUT A BICYCLE

It seems almost logical… you start out riding that indestructible bicycle that your parents bought you. Indestructible basically being interpreted as “heavy as all get out” – say 50 or 60 pounds. Then, as you get older and want to go further and faster, the next step is to get a lighter, more responsive bike. The next thing you know, you’ve joined the local bike club and you convince yourself that if you could just shave a few more pounds off that bike, you could keep up with the Big Dogs. It’s like there’s no end in sight – lighter equals faster.

So now, back to the “it seems almost logical” part. What if… just what if… you were to completely remove the bicycle? I mean, you can’t get much lighter than that can you?

Okay, so your first argument may be that by removing the bicycle completely, one wouldn’t have the benefit of a gearing system that tends to make the wheels spin at a higher rpm than the rpm that your feet are spinning. But that argument is too logical. We only like to deal with “almost logical” items in this column. So, for the sake of “almost logical,” we’re going to completely remove the bicycle from the bike ride and… go for a run.

Ewww! This sounds horrible already.

It all started when I went to Fort Worth (Foat Wuth) to watch my daughters run in the Cowtown Marathon in February of 2011. I must admit, there was a lot of excitement in the air as we watched the runners take off at the start of the marathon and half-marathon. There was even more excitement as well as several good doses of emotion (and agony and relief and laughter and “Oh my God I’ve finally made it!”) from the runners, my daughters included, as they crossed the finish line. I must also admit, there was something else in the air that just made you want to be a part of all that – maybe as a participant instead of just a spectator. And whatever that was that was in the air made it all too easy to say to my daughters, “Yeah! I think I can do this with you next year.”

At least that what they told me I said.

But, nevertheless, I proceeded with that statement in mind as the end of 2011 rolled around. Sometime around early-August, I made the next commitment – I registered for the 5K race. That seemed like the logical first step to take. (Darn. There I go being logical again.) Actually, there was nothing logical about it all. As far as I knew at that moment in early August, I was pretty certain that I basically hated running. But there I was, investing $25 in doing something I hated. But that was nothing compared to the dough I shelled out the first part of September for running shoes and shorts and shirts and socks. Yeah Baby! We’re going to force ourselves to enjoy this one way or another.

After deciding that over three months was long enough to procrastinate, the running shoes and shorts and shirt and socks made their pavement debut on January 2nd as I set out around the three-mile course that I had mapped out around my subdivision. The first few times, there was a hint of running involved. Mostly it was just a brisk walk. But that’s okay – I’m old – and I hate running! But I still had about eight weeks to start liking it enough. Anything is possible.

My little three-mile course became a 3 to 4 times a week routine. Slowly but surely more and more segments of “brisk walk” turned into “jogging with a smidgen of running.” Slowly but surely “hatred” turned into “mild dislike.” Never once did a thought anything like, “I’m going to go to Fort Worth and blow the doors off the competition in the 5K run,” ever enter my head – as I zeroed in on the 12-minute mile during my training. I can’t even tell you what possessed me to return to the running store and buy yet another pair of shorts and another running shirt – other than I didn’t like doing laundry every other day. But still, I kept running my course – my 12-minute mile pretty much a 50/50 combination of “very brisk walk” and “fairly good jog/running/thingy.” I could do this. Piece of cake.

Race Day – February 25^th – downtown Fort Worth. There was the same excitement in the air at the start line as there was last year. Unfortunately the air was about 20 degrees cooler that it was last year. My daughter reassured me, as she was searching for a spot with sunshine to stand in, that when we start running we won’t be cold.

I asked her, “Why are we standing near the sign that says: 7 TO 8 MINUTE MILE?

She replies, “The sun is shining here. There are lots of people here. It’s warm.”

I’m thinking to myself, “I’m going to get ran over as soon as the gun goes off.” Maybe I said that out loud – as I turned to look at the 5000 people in the mass behind me.

Finally, the race started. I actually start running. Not my usual “brisk walk” start – but an actual running start. This seems good. That is, it seemed good until I immediately start running into the back of people who merely started “walking” when the race started. What is wrong with these people? Don’t they know that they are up here with the 7 to 8 MINUTE MILE people? Can’t they read the signs?  Good grief!

We had probably ran… oh… maybe ONE city block when we turned the corner and encountered…A HILL! What the heck is this? A HILL? A HILL on the 5K course? And it’s an UP hill nonetheless. I’m telling myself, “I’ve got to keep running. I’ve got to keep running. Just get me to the top of the hill….” – and then I tell my daughter I’ve got to shift into “brisk walk” mode or I’m not going to get to the top of the hill. She adjusts her jogging to accommodate me. She’s a good daughter. She would probably already be finished with the 5K if she wasn’t jogging little baby steps beside me while I finished brisk walking up this hill!

At one point, just before the Mile 2 marker, I had slowed to do the “brisk walk” and she kept going. I thought, “Good. She’s going to just go ahead and finish at her pace.” A few minutes later I saw her standing on the sidewalk, waiting for me. I asked, “Why didn’t you keep going?”

“I was following someone else who was also wearing a blue shirt and I was so proud that they kept running and weren’t slowing to walk – then I realized it wasn’t you!”

But the best words of encouragement my daughter gave to me were as we were approaching the Mile 3 marker: “Start running – that 90-yearold guy just passed you!”

I had hoped that the thrill of just being there amongst all those runners would help nudge me over my 12-minute mile mark but no such luck. We crossed the finish line 37 minutes after we started. For now, I’m blaming it on the hills. There aren’t any hills on my neighborhood training course. But I finished 2531 out of 5101. That’s in the top half. I’m cool with that! It’s even cooler that one of my daughters was by my side as I finished my first race.

But you know what was really cool? When I was able to get back on my bike to…

Enjoy the ride!

Who IS Bertha Ashtabula?

This is NOT the real
Bertha Ashtabula.

And... THIS isn't the real
Bertha Ashtabula either!

ENJOY THE RIDE – BUT NOT TOO FAST!

On Saturday afternoon, February 4^th, we found ourselves traveling north on Interstate 45 on our way to Fort Worth. We had the bikes and cycling gear loaded in anticipation of taking part in the massive Super Bowl Sunday bike ride. The ride in which groups of cyclists from all over the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex set out from their respective areas to converge on the West End of downtown Dallas – feast till they’re full – and then ride back to their respective starting points – hopefully having enough time to rest up before partaking in the strenuous activity of watching the Super Bowl and the pre- and post-festivities. Sounds fun, huh?

Not the REAL
Bertha Ashtabula.

Yes, and we were quite excited to be heading up there to be a part of that. Excited to be leaving the rain-drenching that had been going on in Houston the last few days and which was being predicted to carry on throughout the weekend. The rain forecast for the Dallas-Fort Worth area for the Super Sunday: zero.

What avid cyclist wouldn’t be eager to get somewhere dry to ride their bikes?

Not the REAL Bertha
Ashtabula either!

What avid cyclist wouldn’t be happy to finally see clear and sunny skies after making it north of Centerville?

What avid cyclist wouldn’t be thrilled to get free of the Interstate parking lot just north of Corsicana where the freeway expands to three lanes by jumping into that additional left lane and zipping on past all those other motorists who are content with driving right at the posted speed limit or just a hair under?

What Rice, Texas Sheriff wouldn’t be eager and happy and thrilled to see that particular avid cyclist come ripping into his little spot on the face of the earth – at about 11 to 15 miles per hour over the posted speed limit?

It’s really cool how they give you tickets now-a-days. They just walk up to your driver-side window; ask for your license and proof of insurance; ask if everything is correct as well as for your phone number and punch all that information in on their little hand held machine. Then you just scribble your signature on the little machine and he goes back to his car where his little printer has already spit out the 32” long ticket that he shows back up with when he returns to your driver-side window. “Have a good day. Take it easy out there.” No smile. No change of expression. No small talk.

It wasn’t until after a couple of days later, when I decided to take the ticket out of my glove box and look at it, I noticed that our down-to-business sheriff possibly had a sense of humor after all. During the whole ticket-issuing process, he had never asked about my place of employment.  I just imagine that upon noticing the shirts we were wearing, he took it upon himself to make a rather amusing, somewhat double-meaning, assumption.

Touché!

So, how about that Super Bowl Sunday ride? Well, as promised, it didn’t rain. If it had though, it would surely have been ice cubes!

Enjoy the Ride! – Just not too fast (if you’re anywhere near Rice, Texas)