BLUEBONNET EXPRESS RIDE REPORT – PART SIX

As we continue with our story… I could really feel the asphalt taking its toll as I turned right off of Highway 6 onto FM 2988. (Not to mention the need for an even more padded saddle!) Thanks to some guy named Jacques or Ian or Eddy or something like that, I was talked into going for the full 100K instead of just my planned 25-mile course. Now, there I was, just a couple of miles from rest stop number three and it was nearly 10:30 in the evening…

Nah – I’m just kidding – don’t take me seriously. Although I know I do have a tendency to come across as a pretty serious individual! But, as you remember from our last installment, I had just thwarted that attempted burglary on Tompkins Road after losing control of my bicycle on that downhill, crashing through a chain link fence and leaving balloon-tire-sized tread marks up the back of the burglar as he was carting the television set toward the trunk of his car. I’m sure the sponsors of the ride will receive a letter from those folks thanking them for the heroism of one of their ride participants – and possibly enclose a bill for some chain link fence, approximately 35 feet of flower beds, seven ornamental yard flamingos, a storm door, and for some carpet cleaning due to some more of those balloon-tire-sized tread marks.

But, what the heck! – back to the ride…                                                 

I had managed to gather quite a following once other riders found out that I had been riding bikes since I was about five years old. In fact, I was leading a pack of roughly 750 riders south along Mitchell Road. Now, I know that 750 is kind of big for one pack and more than a couple of times I sprinted upwards of eight or nine miles per hour thinking maybe only about 300-or-so would make the break with me – but nooo! – the whole stinking group of 750 were right there with me – right on my tail. What else could I do but to lead them on to the finish line?

As I made the turn onto FM 1488, I could see the lead pack of the 62-mile route riders coming in on the road off to the left. Had I been riding alone, I would have stopped for a while and let them pass. But, with the gigantic mass of riders behind me, the force was too strong to stop. Fearing for my life, I continued on down FM 1488 knowing that the multitudes of riders swarming onto the road at six mph had forced most of those 62-mile riders into the ditch – more than likely resulting in a mangled pile of wheels and spokes and chains and twisted flesh. Fortunately that’s why the ride organizers made sure to have plenty of SAG wagons along the course.

Meanwhile, the pack behind me had grown to over a thousand – and I think that number was including a few dogs, armadillos and a varied assortment of farm animals. As we headed toward the last rest stop, we were pushing an average speed of around five miles per hour. The pack was devouring everything in sight. (After all – remember? – we are on the 25-mile route – we’re gonna get hungry!) We had become a black hole – nothing could escape our ever-growing force. Rest Stop Six stood tough for a while (gotta hand it to those Boy Scouts!) but soon even they gave in and ran for cover. The rest stop was history in a matter of moments. The U-Haul with fresh supplies previously en-route to the rest stop was overtaken by renegade 25-milers near the end of the pack – picked clean in a matter of seconds. We rolled on.

Just a mere four miles from the finish line, the pack had grown to nearly two thousand. I was in the lead simply because I knew I would be run over – I and my bike ground into asphalt much like the cyclists of the late 19^th Century were – but that’s a different story. I had never ridden this fast for so long. I feared for the devastation that would surely befall the finish line if this pack kept growing like this. Could nothing stop us?

Stay tuned for…

BLUEBONNET EXPRESS RIDE REPORT – PART SEVEN

(And pray that they haven’t run out of hot link wrap arounds at the finish line!)

Enjoy the ride!

BLUEBONNET EXPRESS RIDE REPORT – PART ONE

Let me take a few minutes of your time to tell you about my first organized bike ride several years ago – the “Bluebonnet Express” out around Hempstead, Texas. I’ve got to admit that it was a gorgeous ride – only slightly hilly – not near what I was used to back near Bodega Bay, California. You want hills? Go ride with the Bay City Cycling Babes in the San Francisco area. Now there are some hills!

But back to the Bluebonnet Express. The ride started off great but I really hated it when we got out of range of that deejay. He was really playing some great music. They need to figure out how they can get him a more powerful amp so the riders can hear him on the entire course. And how about that guy driving the U-Haul truck? What’s the deal with him? I was riding along on my J.C. Higgins cruiser and had both of the side baskets full of those free hot link wrap-arounds that they were passing out before the ride.  I even grabbed a couple of containers of the pickles and onions – because I’m on the 25-mile course, right? I know I’m gonna get hungry. Well this guy keeps waiving me over wanting to know if I’ll give him one of my hot link wrap-arounds. I didn’t mind giving him some of my food but it was going to seriously cut into my cycling time if I stopped. After all, this was my first attempt at riding a 25-mile ride all in one day. But anyway, the ride organizers need to think about stocking this guy up with his own free food so he doesn’t bother the cyclists. Or maybe he didn’t have anything to do with the ride – I don’t know. I suppose there is more than one U-Haul truck driving around near the bike ride.

But back to my ride…  Now, I’m not a real fast rider and a lot of people tell me that I should upgrade my bike to something with gears – (By the way – I do have a new bike on layaway back at the bike shop. It’s a Schwinn Cruiser Six with, get this, six speeds! – and brakes on the handlebars. How cool is that! I’m going to be able to go much, much faster on my next big ride.) Oh yeah – as I was saying – Anyway, I’m not a real fast rider but at this one point in the ride, a pack of riders were coming up behind me – I think we were somewhere in downtown Hempstead. I’m already pretty pooped and one of the fast riders slowed down to chat with me. I think his name was Chet or Bret or Wilroy or Alex or something similar to that and I told him my name and he said, “Hey! I made some of those bike part wind chime thingies that you had put in the cycling newsletter a few months ago.” I replied, “Oh really? How do you like them?” and he said, “Well, they’re only a couple of months old and already they are rusted looking.” – then he sped off to catch up with his friends before I had a chance to tell him that I’m starting up this special service where I go to people’s houses and clean those wind chimes for only $25.00 a month. His loss, I suppose.

Sorry, I got off on a tangent again – back to the ride. I was almost to the first rest stop – and boy, was I needing it – not to mention it was about time to change the tape in my portable VCR (I had packed several movies to help pass the time during the ride). So anyway, there I was, nearly at the first rest stop when I had a blowout on the back tire. I pulled over to the side of the road and almost immediately this guy stopped to help me. I think his name was Bob or Rob or Mack or maybe Alex or something like that. I told him my name was Ashtabula – Bertha Ashtabula (you know, kinda like Bond, James Bond does in the movies?). Then he said, “Hmm. Ashtabula. Now that’s an interesting family name. Where does that come from?” And I replied, “Well, we’re sort of out of room in this article so I guess you’ll have to wait for the…

BLUEBONNET RIDE REPORT – PART TWO

Enjoy the Ride!

THE HISTORY OF NIGHT RIDING

As we once again near the time of year when we move our clocks back one hour (Daylight UNsavings Time), most of us bike riders will discover that if we’re not at work or school – IT’S DARK!

Yes, this is true. Because of this fact, it’s time to consider rigging the old bicycle up with some sort of lighting apparatus. Sure, you can go into your favorite local bike shop and purchase the latest, greatest, mega-halogen, mama-there’s-a-train-coming-straight-at-us lamp system for your bike – and this is fine. But, before you go out and enjoy you new system, take a moment to realize how good you’ve got it now-a-days.

Back in the old days – before electricity – no one gave much concern about bike riding after dark. The roads weren’t even paved and it was bad enough trying to miss all of the holes and ruts in the road during the daylight hours when you could see. Besides, there wasn’t anything moving faster than you on the roads anyway, so who really cared?

After the invention of the horseless carriage, it became more common to start seeing paved roads. The first paved roads were simply run over bicycles and cyclists which eventually smoothed out over time. As the number of cyclists dwindled (down to about a dozen nationwide – if I remember correctly), they realized that something needed to be done to bring a halt to the senseless slaughter of bikes and cyclists by the petrol and steam driven contraptions that were grinding them into 19^th Century pavement. Thus was born the League of American Wheelmen – an organization paying tribute to fellow cyclists who had been wheeled into the ground by bigger, more powerful wheels. The L.A.W.’s main focus of the time was to fight for roads to be paved with material like stones or pavers or some sort of petroleum based substance – and to hopefully protect the endangered few remaining cyclists that were left.

One of the first things that the new group did was to hit on the fact that most of the fatal “paving” of bikes and cyclists occurred during the dark, and maybe, just maybe, if the bicycles could be seen at night, then the “paving” wouldn’t be happening. (Editor’s note – “Paving” is just Bertha’s nice way of saying, “Ran down like a dog and ground into asphalt.”) Herbert Ulysses Bendix, or “Hub” as he was commonly referred to, was the first cyclist to attempt lighted night riding. Hub devised a plan to put a thin coat of kerosene on his bicycle rims and then set them on fire as he rode at night. His plan definitely made him quite visible to other vehicles and at first seemed like it might be a success. Unfortunately, the wheels on his bicycle were made of wood. Hub didn’t take too many long trips while riding at night.

A few years later my great-grandfather, Huey Ashtabula, invented the candelabrum handlebar. The handlebar had twenty ornamental candle holders welded across the top. He then inserted twenty candles and, after they were lit, the resulting light could be seen for several hundred feet. Great-Grandpa Huey only made one trip with his candle-handlebar bicycle. Ever since then he has been on display at the Wax Museum of American in Dodge City, Kansas.

Later, electricity was discovered and the possibilities seemed endless. As more and more bicycles were fitted with electric lights on their handlebars and front fenders, less and less met with an untimely “paving” incident. Of course, the number of cyclists strangled by the extension cords rose drastically. This prompted the League of American Wheelmen to lobby for someone to invent the battery.

Sometime during the 1940’s or 50’s, someone invented the bicycle generator. This was a little gizmo that you could mount on your fork or seat stay which would grind against your tire and, as long as you were pedaling, you’d get a little faint light shining out a couple of feet in front of you. I’m not sure, but I think this was invented by one of the major tire manufacturers so that your tires would wear out faster.

Well, here we are now in the age of computers and LEDs and more technology than we know what to do with. Now, for a mere four or five hundred dollars you can get a few thousand watts of stadium power lighting mounted right to your front fender. Gosh, wouldn’t Hub and Grandpa Huey be proud of what they started!

(What? You don’t have a front fender?)

Enjoy the ride!

CYCLING THE SWISS ALPS

Several years ago, I always used to look forward to watching a television show entitled MacGuyver. I remember being fascinated by the unusual ways that the star of that show managed to get out of tough situations – always being able to make the most intricate contraptions out of ordinary junk that he would find along the wayside. I remember also thinking that the show, although quite entertaining, was just a bunch of hooey! Well, thanks to that ridiculous television show, 241 people on board a Boeing 747 flying over the Swiss Alps are counting their lucky starts that they are still alive.

I, along with 75 other passengers and 165 crew members, boarded the plane at Hooks Airport in Houston on the 16^th of last August. We were headed to Los Angeles, California. The flight departed from Hooks without too many problems to speak of. Maybe we could have guessed that we were at the mercy of an inexperienced pilot when, after already taxiing for what seem like an eternity, we taxied right up a ramp onto Interstate 45. A few minutes later, we were airborne. (You may have noticed several overpasses are missing now on I-45 just south of FM2920.) Of course, as you have probably already guessed, the other indicator that our pilot was a moron was the fact that we ended up flying over the Swiss Alps during a Texas-to-California flight. But – there we were – several hours out of Houston and flying around over Europe.

After a bit, the captain got on the intercom with the announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, if you look out your windows to the right, you will see a magnificent view of the Swiss Alps. As a special treat, here shortly you will be able to get an even better view because we are about to run out of fuel and will probably be crashing into the magnificent Swiss Alps!”

Well, let me tell you, there was just a little more than a major amount of mass chaos on board that aircraft. Passengers were running up and down the aisles screaming to the tops of their lungs – most seemed to primarily be mad that they hadn’t even packed for a skiing trip. Flight attendants were running around everywhere you looked. Half of them were demonstrating how to avoid being strangled by the oxygen masks when they came popping out of the ceiling – the other half were trying to detach the floatation devices from under the seats. I’ve often wondered why airlines felt the need to outfit the seats with floatation devices. I can only figure that the reason is one of comfort more than anything else. I, on the other hand, would much prefer sitting on the lumpiness of a good reliable parachute rather than a soft, pansy-wansy floatation device. It was while I was pondering the lumpy parachute thing that I finally snapped back into reality and remembered why I was on this plane in the first place. I was on my way to L.A. with several of my friends to participate in an international gathering of the Senior Ladies Olympic Bridge Playing and Tandeming Grannies Association (or, as we call ourselves, SLOBPATGA. Yes, we know it doesn’t roll off the tongue too easily, but all tandem clubs are required by a law set forth by Leonardo da Vinci, in association with Wilbur and Orville Wright, to form corny acronyms out of their names).

All at once, as fear was running amok from one end of the plane to another, my mind started channel surfing through a series of MacGuyver reruns. It was coming to me – formulating in my brain as I felt the plane starting to lose power at an altitude only slightly higher than that of the mountain tops. Down in the cargo hold, there were thirty-one tandem bicycles. I was certain that these bikes held the necessary key to safely deliver us from the pending disaster. I wasn’t quite sure just how at the moment but one thing I did know for sure was that I had to get down to that cargo compartment. Taking charge in the midst of all of the commotion, I instructed the attendants to gather up about fifty blankets, a coat hanger, and all of the floatation devices that they could find. Oh yeah, and a paper clip. Quickly, I tied the ends of the blankets together and fashioned a rope. I tied one end of the makeshift rope to the seat framework – the other end around my waist. About that time the captain of the plane came running down the aisle, flapping his arms and screaming hysterically. I tackled him, picked him up and slapped him across the face a few times, then used his head to bust out one of the windows. As the cabin began losing pressure, I shoved the captain to one side, grabbed up all of the floatation devices and maneuvered myself into a position to get sucked out of the window.

Once outside, with the floatation devices dangling from my belt, I worked my way back up the rope until I was able to get a grip on the front edge of one of the wings. Just as I pulled myself up on the wing, we flew through a gigantic flock of winged creatures – ooh! – déjà vu from an earlier article.  Moving on, in an effort to slow the plane’s plummet to earth, I began attaching the floatation devices along the length of the wings. (Need I even mention that I would never be caught dead without a couple of rolls of duct tape and a handful of zip-ties in my fanny pack?) All the time I was doing this, I was telling myself that I was sure parachutes would work much better in a situation like this but who am I to question the Department of Aviation? With all of the floatation devices attached to the wings, I swung myself back toward the plane’s fuselage. Clinging to the rivets with my fingernails, I worked my way to the cargo door. I knocked – no answer. This was going to be tougher than I thought. Holding on with one hand, I fished the coat hanger out of my back pocket. Using my teeth, I straightened the coat hanger and then formed one end into a tight hook. I began fishing it through the weather-stripping around the door and started searching for the lock. It took a couple of tries but finally I heard it click – “CLICK!” The door came swinging open and I was able to climb inside. My hair was a mess.

As I climbed into the cargo hold and out of the wind, I was surprised to see that the other women of the SLOBPATGA had already figured out what I was up to. They had taken the elevator down and were already unpacking the tandems. I took a moment to think to myself: “Damn! There’s an elevator?”  I glanced around until I found what I was looking for – canoe paddles. (FAA rule 334.226.2a: Supply each passenger with a floatation device instead of a parachute. FAA rule 334.226.2b: Back up each aircraft with twenty or so canoe paddles instead of a reserve fuel tank.) Swiftly, I clutched the paddles and got another roll of duct tape and half a dozen more coat hangers then headed back out onto the wing. Working at breakneck speed, I attached four paddles to the front of each engine, fashioning the crudest of propellers. Myrna Steeplebottom, my tandem partner, was apparently reading my mind because she came up behind me with a handful of tandem chains and chainrings. I was sure glad that I never leave home without my handy-dandy pocket chain tool. Together, we fastened the propellers to the chainrings and fed the chain around them and then back through the door into the cargo hold. Back inside, the gals had the tandems all set on trainers and had routed all of the chains so that they were working in unison. They were ready – just waiting for Myrna and me to bring in the main drive chain. We hooked up the final chain and jumped on our bikes. Then, the sixty-two ladies of the SLOBPATGA started pedaling. It was a slow start but eventually we picked up speed – the propellers slowly but surely turning faster and faster. We were beginning to really get into it. Simultaneously, we all shifted into the big chainring. With a burst of energy, we felt the plane lift. We pedaled faster. The plane picked up speed. We heard the cheers of joy from the passengers and the crew members above as we cleared the tops of the mountains. We were pumped! We controlled the power of the plane. I called for the captain and, after apologizing for using his head to break out the window, instructed him to see if there was anyone on the plane that knew the shortest way to Los Angeles.  As I pedaled, I reached into my back pocket, pulled out the paper clip and straightened one end of it. I picked a couple of small bird feathers out of my teeth.

I’m sure my ordeal will probably never make it to the television screen. Its realism is not as far-fetched as one of those old MacGuyver episodes. Still, I’m proud to say that I and my sister SLOBPATGAians managed to get the 747 back safely to Los Angeles. The captain even managed to land the plane at LAX without incident. As soon as I disembarked, I was awarded a medal of honor and the key to the city by the mayor – of course, that was after the plane finally taxied to a stop on Interstate 5 just north of San Diego!

Enjoy the ride!

A STORY OF HOUSTON CYCLING - OF THE THIRD KIND

It is with great apprehension that I begin this article – let alone consider it for publication in a huge (or whatever) cycling periodical. As most of my loyal readers are aware, I am seen at various cycling events around town, zipping along on my faithful Schwinn Cruiser Six – Sixty pounds of black beauty, chrome fenders, black and silver streamer mimicking the jet stream of my journeys…

I digress. Late on a Tuesday night last May, and being as eager as always to savor new cycling experiences, I climbed the fence at the Alkek Velodrome in west Houston and hoisted my cruiser over behind me.  I would have visited during regular hours when the track was open, but I was a little shy and nervous at this being my first attempt at track riding. I started slowly around the track on the level surface of the inner line. As I grew daring, I began to edge up onto the steep embankments of the track. I increased my speed. I went a little higher up on the sloped ends of the track. I started to get the feel of the place – feeling the spirit of a track racer entering my being. Yeah – I think I could really get into this!

I was just about to let my body slip completely into this cycling fantasy world when I was abruptly snapped into reality by a harsh, scraping sound. My Cruiser Six, not really appropriate for track racing, has a bottom bracket just a bit too low for the steep slopes of a velodrome surface. My pedal began gouging into the concrete – sparks flying with each revolution of the chainring as my bike encountered the steepest portions of the track. I continued to circle with my pedal scraping – transmitting an erratic Morris Code-type of noise and sparks into the blackness of the night. With no neighboring houses too close by, I really didn’t think that the sound would be creating too much of a nuisance to anyone but myself.

All at once, the sky lit up with a thousand lights – way more than the adequate lights that normally light this track at night. I tried to stop bike but no matter how hard I applied the brakes my bicycle continued to whirl me around the track. I was obviously out of control. Then the lights started descending further, closer and closer to the surface of the velodrome. I could see multicolored lights, spiraling lights, laser-type lights, flashing lights… Then I felt the heat of a gigantic spotlight searing its intensity right through to my soul. I felt my bicycle kick into another gear and increase its speed. The track was a blur beneath me. The spotlight was tracking my every move. As the speedometer on my bicycle was reading 120, I thought to myself, “Is this some kind of dream? A nightmare?” Then I felt my tires lift from the surface of the track. Rising above the track, I continued circling; I continued to pedal; I continued to feel the heat of the light; I started to wonder if Bill really wrote all those love letters to Monica. (Obviously, nothing was making much sense at that moment!)

Several hundred feet above the Alkek Velodrome, my bicycle was spinning me in a circle with a diameter of approximately six feet. Focusing on my speedometer, it appeared to be showing the number 375. I wasn’t sure if that was my speed or my cadence. I really could have cared less at that point in time. Finally my bike started slowing down and then came to a stop. I looked toward the light and saw a form. A human form. A human form with a huge head (or maybe it was a helmet). I passed out.

When I awoke, I was strapped to a table. My head was positioned in a remote-controlled device that forced me to look at a wall of videos across the room. In one of the screens I saw my bicycle. It was being dissected by a team of aliens. Another monitor showed aliens beaming into garages all over the United States and letting the air out of bicycle tires at night. Another showed aliens stealing shoes, ripping the soles off of them and actually dropping them into the batter at major energy bar factories. On one monitor I could see aliens carrying out morbid experiments with cyclists and animals - things like swapping the heads of dogs with those of the cyclists. Yet another monitor showed endless back-to-back episodes of All My Children. The bizarreness of the whole ordeal just went on and on.

There it was – right before my very eyes – all of life’s mysteries being explained to me one by one. Bicycles cables don’t stretch by themselves like we were all told they did. Yes, you really did remember to pack your cycling shoes. And there, right in front of me on one of the monitors – just as I had always expected… You know how sometimes you could swear that your pedaling has slowed – like maybe your brake shoes were rubbing or your tires were going flat or something, but when you check it out, they’re not? Well, there it was, an alien, invisible to human eyes, riding along and pressing the brake shoes together and then letting loose just before the rider glances down. That’s just not funny!

And there I was – in their master control room – hovering somewhere over the Alkek Velodrome. But why me? Why was I allowed to see all of this? Learn all of their secrets? Witness all of those things and still be apparently unharmed? As I pondered these things, I felt a presence enter the room. I tried to turn my eyes to see who or what had joined me, but the restraints held my head firmly. I listened. My senses tingled with anticipation. Then – the flash of light.

When I regained consciousness, I was back on my Cruiser Six – still circling the track, albeit it a little slower. I looked toward the sky – nothing but stars. The night was still, calm, peaceful. My bike continued to circle but was slowing to a stop. My instincts told me to keep pedaling but my senses weren’t relaying to my brain that my feet were even on the pedals. I glanced down. I screamed. I screamed again. There, dangling down on either side of the big, wide, cushy saddle of my cruiser – two little tiny, furry legs (looking like they once might have belonged to that fox terrier that chases me from time to time in my neighborhood) with paws hanging about twelve inches above the pedals. My very next thought: “Dang! Where is that fox terrier? I bet it can probably catch me now!”

Enjoy the Ride?

MORE ON CYCLING TIPS

Since I have been an avid cyclist for too many years to count, I find myself, from time to time, in a position to pass along bits of information which can be beneficial to people who are new to the cycling environment. I am by no means a cycling “expert” but I am told by many that my advice is very informative and, in some instances, when recited in court, has proven to have helped people avoid being convicted of criminal charges by reason of insanity. My “Don’t Ride Your Bike While Hooked to an IV Bottle” defense, to date, has been used a total of 27 times by pedestrians who were tripped or strangled while walking down the street.

But space will not allow me to carry on about all of my courtroom victories. There are new issues to cover, and none more serious that the one I’m going to be discussing in this article: Bike Riding While Carrying Sharp, Pointy Objects.

When riding your bike in a double pace line and carrying a pair of scissors in your hand, DO NOT USE THE NORMAL HAND POSITIONS WHEN SIGNALING FOR TURNS! Doing this could prove quite harmful to the rider next to you (depending, of course, on which way you are turning and on which side the rider is – but why take the chance that your brain is going to figure all of that out in mere split seconds?) This rule also applies even if you are carrying that little kiddy-type, rounded end, plastic scissors. If you are accustomed to riding while carrying scissors but do not know what a double pace line looks like, then see to it that you ride completely by yourself until you have gained a little more cycling experience in group riding. In fact, once other cyclists see that you are riding while carrying a pair of scissors in your hand, you should expect to hear helpful, instructional comments such as, “Get the heck away from our group you total idiot!” The same consideration should be given if you find that you frequently ride your bike and carry such things as a fork, a garden spade, a letter opener, a metal spatula (most cyclists will be somewhat forgiving if you are carrying the easily bendable, plastic spatula), a fire place poker, a knife, a rope, a candle holder, a revolver, a lead pipe, or an ax. (What am I saying? Who would be stupid enough to carry an ax while they are riding a bike?”)

While on the subject of sharp objects, let me also say: be extremely careful when riding your bike in your bedroom if you are holding a sharp object (such as the pair of scissors mentioned above) – especially if you are riding your bike on the bed and jumping up and down at the same time. (Many track cyclists practice this, I’m told.) This can be very dangerous! If you were to lose your balance or accidentally come unclipped from your pedal, you most probably would POKE BOTH OF YOUR EYES OUT!

To quote my idol, Dave Barry, “I’m not making this up!” – Last year in Duluth, Minnesota, two teenage boys were riding their mountain bikes while jumping up and down on a trampoline. When dinner was ready, instead of calling them into the house, their mother brought their dinner out to them while they were still riding their bikes on the trampoline. Usually this would have been no problem for the boys to ride, jump, and eat all at the same time. Unfortunately, this time their mother had fixed steak fingers, carrot sticks, and asparagus spears for dinner and, after a couple of attempts of trying to eat this dangerous food, sure enough, you guessed it – THEY BOTH POKED OUT THEIR EYES!

Well, okay – maybe I did make part of that up. Actually they had sloppy Joes, mashed potatoes, and boiled okra and they just ended up making a big mess. But still – food got all in their chains and derailleurs; all over the brake calipers – it was a horrible sight. They both wished that they would have had their eyes poked out instead!

Enjoy the ride!

(Note: If you have any cycling questions or an issue that you would like to discuss with Bertha Ashtabula, you can email her at BAshtabula@gmail.com. Please be prepared to take any or all of her responses with a grain – or two – of salt. More On Cycling would also like to take this opportunity to stress SAFE cycling and does not recommend any sport which involves riding a bicycle while carrying a pair of scissors, regardless of whether they are the sharp, pointy kind or not.)

TIPS FOR BEGINNING BICYCLISTS – PART 2

I’ve noticed a multitude of new cyclists on the roads lately. And since I’m still receiving hundreds of letters and emails each week from people who found my Tips for Beginning Bicyclists so useful, what choice do I have but to submit a sequel? Don’t bother to answer that question out loud.

Tips for Beginning Bicyclists – Part 2

1)      Don’t try to save money by wrapping your handlebars with electrical tape. Yes, you can walk into any home improvement store and buy half a dozen rolls of this stuff in just as many colors for a fraction of the cost that a bike shop charges for real handlebar tape. So, “Why not?” you may ask. Well just let me relay this little story to you:

Back before I liked to spend half of my pay checks at the local bike shops, I tried this ingenious cost-savings idea. It was a mid-August afternoon and I had just finished wrapping my handlebars with your basic black electrical tape. It looked pretty groovy! I took off down the highway for a leisurely ride. As you probably guessed by now, the heat of that August sun caused the tape to get soft and ooze goop out from around the edges. Yep, that’s right! The first time I went to reach for my brakes – sure enough – my hands were glued tightly to the bars near the stem. Traffic had gotten thick and I was coming up fast on a slow-moving 40-foot semi. Using my exceptional thinking and quick reflexes, I decided my only course of action was to try and swerve under the semi and ride under the trailer. Hopefully the draft might slow me down or possibly just riding in the shade under the trailer could cool down my handlebar and allow me to free my hands. So, with lightening quick action, I turned to pull along side of the trailer then swerved underneath. This brings me to tip number…

2)      When attempting to ride under a moving semi trailer, check first to make sure that it’s not about to come to an abrupt stop. This was a bit of a painful experience for me. Fortunately I was wearing the proper clothing which included an old fashioned leather cycling helmet so that the ambulance drivers didn’t have to go looking far for the pieces of my brain. Cycling gloves – which have the finger tips cut off of them. But once you pull a stunt like this and completely grind all of your fingers down to the second knuckle, you’ll find that these short-fingered gloves are all your really need now for the rest of your life. Also, I was wearing cycling shorts – which brings us to tip number…

3)      Never wear metallic silver Lycra cycling shorts. Unless you want to hear ambulance drivers say things like, “Gee, what a geek!” I don’t know if we oughta even put this clown in our ambulance!”

Enjoy the ride!