Riding with Grave Diggers

Young John Waldenthrottle rode his J.C. Higgins ten-speed bicycle down Louetta Road, headed toward his house after having just left the roadside submarine sandwich wagon at Ella Boulevard. About half a mile into his homeward journey, two other gentlemen, dressed all in black and riding bicycles, exited from a side street and ended up riding abreast in front of him. Each of the two riders had shovels and pickaxes on the racks on the back of their bikes. Young John was quick to catch up with them and strike up a conversation.

“Hello,” he began, “My name is John Waldenthrottle. Most people refer to me as Young John. Not that I’m really all that young any more – but I used to be.”

The two gentlemen turned in unison, glanced back at Young John Waldenthrottle, nodded their heads, and likewise in unison said, “Good afternoon Young John - pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Then they turned back around to pay attention to the road before them.

Young John continued, “So what kind of uniforms are those that you are wearing? I’ve never seen uniforms like that.”

Without turning to look back at Young John, the man on the left replied, “Well Young John, these really aren’t uniforms. We just choose to wear matching black slacks and matching black long-sleeved shirts with black neckties. We think it makes us look kind of cool – in an almost creepy sort of way.”

Then the one on the right chimed in, “My name is James. That’s my brother Albert. We’re grave diggers. And Albert's right, we think we look cool dressed like this – in an almost creepy sort of way.”

“Wow,” replied Young John. “I’ve never ridden with grave diggers before. It’s sort of cool…”

Then, as if on cue, all three of them said, “In an almost creepy sort of way.” Then they all laughed together and pedaled on down the road.

Enjoy the Ride!

-----------ooo-----------

Meanwhile, out on the west side of town, Carl was enjoying the early-afternoon sunshine of his day off. Carl had been among the first group of employees to be hired by Subs-R-Us, a mobile submarine sandwich wagon company formed back in the late 90’s. He had started out kneading the dough for the bread at the downtown kitchen and then gradually worked his way up through the ranks to his current position – North Houston / Spring / Woodlands District Manager. Occasionally, once a month at the most, one of the normal wagon workers under his charge would need an emergency day off or something and Carl would typically take their place running their wagon in their absence.  

But this particular day happened to not be one of those days. In fact, it happened to be one of those weekdays that Carl didn’t have to even go to work at all because he had decided to take a personal day off. And he had taken a personal day off for two reasons. Reason Number One: He had his annual checkup scheduled for that morning – which he had gone to – and in which he was declared as being in exceptional health for a man of his age although he was told that he could stand to lose a few pounds. (But don’t they almost always give that advice?)  Reason Number Two: He wanted to visit his parents’ grave-site out at Resthaven Cemetery in the afternoon.

Carl drove to the cemetery in his classic 1956 Ford Country Squire station wagon. (Or as he liked to call it: his inheritance. He called it that because that’s all his parents left him when they died during a fast food establishment robbery gone wrong back in 1991. No, they weren’t the ones robbing the place. They were just the ones unfortunate enough to be the actual customers next in line behind the would-be robber who was holding his gun against the forehead of the clerk standing at the cash register when the bumbling, near-sighted cook came bursting through the double-swing kitchen doors firing his automatic rifle in a fit of anxiety or heightened adrenaline levels or something, and mowed all four of them down in a matter of seconds. It was in the news for weeks - cook kills robber along with co-worker and two innocent bystanders - the most exciting thing to happen in Marietta, Oklahoma in decades.) Carl parked alongside the road at the end of the row where his parents were buried and then walked the short distance to their graves. Standing in front of their headstones, he knelt down and replaced the weeks-old, withered flowers with the fresh ones that he had brought. He paused there a few minutes – not saying a word – just being an only-child visiting his parents and silently recollecting the good times of years long past.

After a few minutes, Carl stood up and headed back toward his car. He was about twenty feet from the Country Squire when he heard a strange noise coming from the woods off to his right. He stopped, turned his gaze to the tree line approximately a hundred yards away, and then began walking that direction to check it out.  As Carl drew nearer, the noise became a combination of demonic laughter, high-pitched shrieking, guttural growling and indecipherable babbling. Becoming more than a little too eerie for Carl, he stopped. He was about to turn around and head back to his car when all of the sudden he sensed movement from behind the trees. Before Carl could even think another thought, three women emerged from the woods. Three hideous women with horrid fangs, skin of scales and grotesque, venomous snakes instead of hair. It was the Gorgon sisters – Stheno, Euryale and Medusa.

Carl took one look at the three sisters... and turned into solid stone before he hit the ground.

So much for a clean bill of health from the doctor.  

So much for losing weight.



(Next Chapter)

(Previous Chapter)

My First MS-150 on a Tandem - by Bertha Ashtabula

This time of year – Houston to Austin MS-150 time – I am always reminded of back in the mid-90’s when I decided that I was going to do the ride on a tandem. I had ridden it on my single bike the two years prior and I didn’t fare too well. But then again, not too bad considering I rode it on my Schwinn 6-speed Cruiser Deluxe. I referred to those years as my MS-60 years – because that’s about how many miles I rode each year – total for both days!

Anyway, I was determined that I was going to actually complete the entire ride that year. I was positively certain that it was my bike that was the culprit for my prior failures. I definitely needed something with more gears.  Six just wasn’t cutting it. By my reckoning, six gears were getting me about a third of the way through the journey, so in order to complete the entire 175 miles, I was going to need at least 18 gears. And with that mathematical philosophy in mind, I set out for my local bike shop to find a replacement for my trusty Cruiser Deluxe.

I walked down the aisle of the bike shop – looking at the road bikes, the mountain bikes, the hybrids – all with a healthy amount of gears to pick from that could easily satisfy my need. I had pretty much decided that I was going to purchase one of the comfy looking hybrids when all at once my gaze was drawn to the corner of the shop – and there it was – hanging by its rear wheel from a hook in the ceiling – beckoning me to come closer. The bright red Schwinn DuoSport tandem bicycle – complete with 18 awesome looking gears!  Once again doing some quick math in my head – if 18 gears will get me through the additional 66.667% of the course, two drive trains should get me through it twice as fast. Basic math – right? I bought the bike right then and there.

Next obstacle: Find someone willing to ride it with me.

I won’t mention how many people I asked who not only turned me down on the offer, but were able to turn me down while A) laughing hysterically; B) trying desperately to control their laughter while at the same time trying to think up some nice story to tell me as to why they couldn't; C) shooting coffee out of their nostrils and D) dodging me for days on end because they had already heard that I was wandering around looking for a tandem partner for the MS-150. Those reactions pretty much applied to everyone except Danny Downtube.  Danny had just returned to the office from being on a two-week trip to Southeast Asia and was still suffering a little from jet-lag when I caught him at the coffee bar during our morning break. I remember being shocked when I asked him if he wanted to be the stoker on my tandem bicycle for the MS-150 trek to Austin and he immediately replied that he thought it would be a great idea. (Although he did confess to me a few days later that he swore I had asked him if he wanted to play some poker and make a random mess with ice cream on the 1:50 train to Boston – which made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever but then you gotta remember that the guy was still a little jet-lagged – not to mention sort of a dufus. But hey, he said yes – and he was honorable enough not to change his mind once he actually understood what it was that I had asked him to do.) 

Finally, the big day arrived and Danny and I showed up at Tully Stadium ready for our tandem journey to Austin – and I with high hopes of finally making it all the way there without riding in a SAG wagon. I had done the math. I had increased the gears. I had doubled the horsepower. Danny and I had trained on the tandem and we were like a well-oiled, smooth-running, fine-tuned cycling mechanical marvel. Okay, well maybe we forgot about that part. I mean, I’m sure we could’ve been a well-oiled, smooth-running, etc, etc, if we would have remembered to do the “training on the tandem” part. But you know, he was not available when I wanted to ride and I was busy doing other stuff when he had time to ride not to mention we each had our own favorite TV shows that we had to watch – and I mean, really... what’s the big deal about riding a tandem? It’s just a bicycle – right?

So anyway, as it turns out – Day One of the MS-150 and Danny and I have absolutely zero training miles on the tandem together. Danny thinks that he is going to be the captain and that I’m going to ride in the back as the stoker. I set him straight on that right away. His only argument being that he is the man and “the man is the Captain!” I quickly informed him that it was my tandem and that he agreed to be the stoker regardless of what he thought I had originally said. Plus, at the time, I outweighed him by about 75 pounds (yes, I was quite a bit heftier back in those days) and I convinced him that the International Tandem Rule Book dictated that the heavier person, whether they be male or female, needed to ride in the front and be “The Captain.” (And he bought it. Enough said.)

MS-150 Day One (quick summary):

• 11 times The Stoker wasn’t ready at all when starting from a stop and took a sharp slash in the shin or the calf from the rear pedal as The Captain swung the front pedals around to start.
• 5 times The Stoker nearly got catapulted off the back of the bike because The Captain forgot to call out railroad tracks.
• 9 times The Captain and The Stoker clipped out of the pedals with opposite feet and fell over at stop lights. (Yeah – We’re cool!)
• 24 times either The Captain or The Stoker tried to coast without calling it out and 24 times one of them nearly got their ankles twisted off in the process.
• One time The Stoker thought The Captain was coming to a stop and decided, for some reason, to grab hold of a NO PARKING sign post – and quickly exited off the back of the bike.
• 2 times at rest stops The Captain kicked the crud out of The Stoker because The Captain swung her leg around to get off the bike and The Stoker was still sitting on the saddle.
• One time, at about mile 52, The Captain and The Stoker and the tandem called it a day and got in the SAG wagon to La Grange.

Day Two

After a good night’s rest and a fabulous pancake breakfast, Day Two was off to a good start. Danny was getting more comfortable and accustomed to his role as The Stoker on the back of the tandem. As The Captain, I was realizing what I needed to call out in order to communicate to The Stoker, who can’t see most of what is coming up because I, The Captain, am blocking his vision. We both are learning to communicate little things we take for granted when we are riding our single bikes – like coasting, raising up out of the saddle to stretch, and even changing gears. We were getting there. Still a little rough at times but a major improvement was noticeable within just a few miles from the Day Two start.

Things continued to improve until we found ourselves coming up to – The Smithville Hill. We’re not talking about an uphill here – we’re talking one heck of an exhilarating downhill. I had done the awesome downhill of the Smithville Hill on my Cruiser before and it was a blast. I couldn’t wait to see what kind of speed we could reach going down that thing on a tandem. As we approached, I picked up the pace. Danny, strictly from sensing my increased effort, started pouring on the power. By the time we were starting the steep decent, we already had the tandem at about thirty miles per hour. Then we really started accelerating!

I had already shifted into the highest gear and I was not letting up on the pedals.  I kept them spinning faster and faster to keep up with the increasing speed. Danny, behind me, still giving it everything he had – but obviously oblivious to what was still to come. In fact, it was probably about the time that we were just hitting 80 miles per hour that Danny must have peered around my shoulder and caught a glimpse of the expanse of downhill still in front of us – because that’s about the time I heard him scream, “BERTHA! Slow this blankity-blank bicycle down RIGHT NOW!”

But hey. I am The Captain!

And as The Captain, I kept the power to pedals. The computer on the handlebars flashing the numbers: 81, 82, 83, 84, 85 as quickly as counting off seconds. 86, 87, 88, 89, 90. Ninety! We were doing ninety miles per hour down Smithville Hill on the tandem! We were flying past every other cyclist on the course. I could feel that Danny was fighting the pedals as he was screaming his fool head off – but I wasn’t about to let up. It took a couple of seconds but we hit 91 then 92. After a few more seconds, 93. Then finally, 94 showed on the computer readout.

It was precisely at 94 miles per hour that Danny discovered the brake cable running along the top tube of the tandem that operated the rear brakes. Without letting up on his insane shrieking, he reached down with both hands and pulled as hard as he could on the cable. The rear brake pads immediately engaged against the rim and started slowing the bike. There was nothing I could do about it – he had seized control of the rear brake. I started fighting the handlebar to control the bike. Danny was like a madman on the back – pulling harder and harder on the brake cable. The brake pads were squealing almost as loudly as Danny. Smoke started streaming from the rear wheel. Within a matter of seconds, the squealing rubber started to sound more like the scraping of rocks against metal. The heat from the pressure on the brakes had morphed the rubber brake pads into sold rock. Sparks were now flying around the rear brake calipers. The bicycle had slowed to approximately 40 mph when the rear tire caught fire – which, in turn, caused the bag on the rear rack to catch on fire – which, in turn, set Danny’s jersey on fire. As we slowed to about 30, the rear tire blew out. At that same moment, Danny unclipped and went flying off the back of the bike, doing 30 mile per hour cartwheels and somersaults in the ditch alongside the road until he finally collapsed to a stop in a mud puddle that was just wet enough to cause his fire to fizzle out. Meanwhile, I was still battling the tandem and trying to regain control while at the same time I had a burning glob of rubber with rocks for brake pads on the back wheel fighting against me – not to mention two big tubes of Chamois Butt’r and a container of sun block fueling the fire inside the burning rear bag. 

I’m almost 99% positive that the SAG wagon driver at the bottom of the hill who had stopped to help a rider with a flat tire never knew what hit him.

And that, dear readers, is the exciting tale of my first MS-75 - on a tandem.

Enjoy the Ride!

Riding with Office Supplies

Young John Waldenthrottle rode his J.C. Higgins ten-speed bicycle down Louetta Road, headed for the mobile submarine sandwich cart that was usually parked down near Ella Boulevard on weekdays between eleven and about five o’clock.  As he approached the mobile eating establishment, he noticed that there was a Manticore just walking up to the cart to place his order.

Young John stopped a few feet from the cart, dismounted his cycle and lowered the kickstand to stabilize the bike adjacent to the curb. He took a quick sip from his water bottle and then, after returning the bottle to its cage on the bike, walked the few steps toward the cart just as the Manticore began placing his order.

“I’d like one of your twelve inch cold cut combos on wheat,” said the Manticore, “complete with lettuce, tomatoes, black olives and banana peppers.  Oh, and a good healthy amount of yellow mustard.”

Agnes, the lady who normally works the sandwich stand, except on those days when her sister, a professional masseuse who usually works out of her own house, has to go to a client’s house instead, in which case Agnes, who lives with her sister, has to stay home to take care of her three-year old niece and in turn has to make arrangements with the central submarine sandwich office just north of downtown Houston to get a substitute to run the Ella/Louetta wagon – that usually ends up being Carl – but this happened to not be one of those days, so it is actually Agnes on this particular day who reached into the little oven under the counter and pulled out a twelve inch wheat bun and sliced it down the middle to start the preparation of the Manticore’s sandwich.

The Manticore, as well as Young John Waldenthrottle, watched intently as Agnes arranged the assortment of meat on one half of the open bun, paused then asked, “What kind of cheese?”

“Ya got pepper jack?” inquired the Manticore.

“Sure do,” replied Agnes as she threw about four slabs of it on top of the meat, then followed up with lettuce, tomatoes, black olives and banana peppers. She then reached over and grabbed the bottle of spicy brown mustard and laid a thick layer all along the top of the sandwich innards then folded over the bun.”

The Manticore, with a shocked expression commanded, “WHOA, WHOA, WHOA there young lady. I distinctly asked for yellow mustard – not spicy brown mustard. You gotta start that sandwich all over.”

“I’m sorry but we are all out of yellow mustard,” replied Agnes. “Besides, most all of our customers absolutely rave about how good the cold cut combo tastes with spicy brown mustard. In fact, our yellow mustard kept going bad because everyone was always choosing the spicy brown.”

“Well I don’t give two hoots about what everybody else likes or raves about – there is no way I’m gonna pay for a sandwich with that awful spicy brown mustard on it, let alone eat one of the disgusting things!" With that said, the Manticore turned around and stormed off down the road.

Agnes and Young John both stared down the street as they watched the Manticore stomp away in a huff. After a moment Young John turned, walked up to the cart and said, “If it’s alright with you ma'am, I’ll go ahead and buy that sandwich you just fixed for that horrible beast.”

“I’ll tell you what,” offered Agnes, “not only will I give you this fine sandwich; I’m going to give you this fine sandwich for free.”

A big, wide grin stretched across Young John’s face as Agnes continued, “And what’s more, I’ve got something else I’m going to give you for free.” Then she bent over slightly, reached under the counter and came back up with a brown paper grocery sack in her hands.

“OH MY GOSH! What is that?” exclaimed Young John.

“This is a bag of leftover goodies that I was passing out to the little Trick-or-Treaters last Halloween,” answered Agnes as she reached into the bag and started pulling out staplers and tape dispensers and a two-hole punch and a three-hole punch, assorted pens and pencils and rulers and a big box of stick pins and paper clips and a whole packet of different sizes of yellow sticky note pads. And some correction tape.

Young John Waldenthrottle was miles beyond excited as he put all of the goodies back in the brown paper sack and then strapped it down on the rear rack of his J.C. Higgins ten-speed. He walked back over to the sandwich cart and got his twelve inch cold cut combo with spicy brown mustard on wheat, thanked Agnes about half-a-dozen more times, then jumped on his bike and went riding back down the road toward his house with his sandwich and his office supplies.

Enjoy the Ride!


(Next Chapter)

(Previous Chapter)

Spring Cyclist

The birds seem to glide

Past me as I ride

My bicycle down the road.

Soft clouds gently hide

The sun as I ride

My bicycle down the road.

Tree after tree waves to me;

Flowers turn to smile at me;

And the cool breezes

Help me get home.

The sweet gentle showers

With mystical powers

Give the Spring

A taste of joy

Never known.

All worries aside

For me as I ride

My bicycle down the road.

Enjoy the Ride!

4-17-73

Did They Have Bicycles When You Were a Boy, Grandpa?

What was that time we waited for

That first fourth of our lives –

And then forgot by the second fourth?

How many wait until laters

Did we partake of?

And wait until later never came.

That bright green bedspread

That looked so good

With the carpet, thick and rich,

Has faded and the ends have frayed

And battles with the vacuum cleaner

Each Saturday.

Forty-two years

And a dozen clocks later,

A closet full of clothes hang,

Still hoping maybe to drape their selves

Over a body like they used to.

But bodies aren’t like they used to be

And the Goodwill box is never handy.

    

Never made that million, Hon’,

After fifty years of toil

Working for that time clock.

Now I wear this gold watch

Just to watch

All this time that I’ve got

Go by.
    
    

  

Remember when we used to walk

And point out old people –

Wrinkled, grayed and wobbly.

You would say,

“Will you still love me when I get old

And look like that?”

Or

“I’ll bet you’ll look like him

When you get old.”
Or

“Do you think that you’ll grow bald?”

Where’d we put that old photograph album?

I guess I’ll wait and look for it

Tomorrow.

It can wait one more day.
    

What was it that Melanie’s son said yesterday?

“Did they have bicycles when you were a boy

Grandpa?”
    

That old photograph album

Has got to be here somewhere.

Ah, darn it!

It’ll wait until later.

Heh! Heh!

Did they have bicycles when you were a boy

Grandpa?

Heh! Heh! Heh!

Enjoy the Ride! 

10-5-74 

Riding with Fried Chicken

Young John Waldenthrottle rode his J.C. Higgins ten-speed bicycle over to the service station one evening, pulled up to the window and asked the middle-aged woman behind the counter for a can of transmission fluid.

The clerk, Vera Simons, leaned out of her window a little bit in order to see over the counter,  glanced down at young John Waldenthrottle’s mode of transportation and thought it would be absolutely hilarious to say, “So, your bike runnin’ a little low is it?” Then she just started laughing her head off.

Young John stood there for a few seconds, watching her, and then said, “I don’t get it."

Vera began to regain her composure then she replied, “You’re on a bicycle. You asked for transmission fluid. I was making a joke."

As Young John Waldenthrottle was giving Vera a somewhat perplexed look, a seven foot tall Cyclops with a duck on his shoulder walked up to the window, shoved young John and his bicycle aside and said, “Excuse me ma’am, I’m in desperate need of a can of transmission fluid. Hurry please.”

Vera leaned forward again, then peered up towards the Cyclops with the duck on his shoulder and once more thought it would be absolutely hilarious to say, “So, your duck running a little low is it?”

The Cyclops just stared at Vera for a few seconds and then said, “I don’t get it."

“You’ve got a duck on your shoulder. I was making a joke,” she replied and then started in again with the cackling - only this time, it was accompanied with slapping the palm of her hand on her thigh several times.

The Cyclops was giving Vera a somewhat perplexed look when young John tapped him on the elbow, looked up at him and said, “I’m sorry sir but I believe I was here before you.”

“Well make it quick then. I’m in a hurry and it looked like to me you were just standing there with a perplexed look on your face,” replied the Cyclops. Then he stepped back to allow young John to once again approach the window.”

As Vera was still chuckling to herself about her witty comebacks, she placed a can of transmission fluid on the counter and scooted it toward Young John Waldenthrottle and announced, “That’ll be eight dollars and fifty-five cents.”

Young John handed her a ten. After she finished counting out his change she looked up at the Cyclops and added, “That also just happens to be my last can of transmission fluid.”

The Cyclops stood there with his mouth hanging open and that same old perplexed look on his face. The duck on his shoulder was looking pretty pitiful also.

Young John Waldenthrottle got back on his J.C. Higgins ten-speed special, made a complete loop around the gas pump island and then, as he passed back by the window, he tossed the can of transmission fluid over to the Cyclops. He rode across the street and down the block to the Chicken Shack, picked up an order for some crispy fried chicken at the drive up window and then headed home.

Enjoy the Ride!


(Next Chapter)

The Groundhog Pentalogy - The REAL Epilogue

“SON OF A GUN my whole body aches!” Maria blurted out loudly as she finally regained consciousness. She rapidly batted her eyelids but she could not see a thing. Wherever she was, it was pitch black.

Then a muted voice, as if from a substantial distance away said, “Hello? Is someone there?”

Maria, still rubbing her eyes in an attempt to adjust her vision responded, “Who’s there? Where are we?”

“My name is Phil,” replied the voice.

“So where are you Phil? Where are we?”

“I’ve been here for several days I think – maybe weeks. I’m not really sure where we are. I haven’t been able to see a darn thing the entire time.”

“Well wherever we are, it sure as heck stinks! So where are you?”

“I’m working my way towards the sound of your voice. Keep talking. Hold out your hand.”

As Maria reached out her arm, she couldn’t help but to comment, “You know, I think that’s the first time in my life that anyone ever told me to keep talking- OH MY GOD! WHAT WAS THAT?”

Maria abruptly recoiled and pulled her arm back tightly against her body. “What the heck was that? What just touched my hand?”

“That was my hand,” replied Phil. “I’m a groundhog. I have tiny little weird hands.”

“Well, it certainly scared me to death,” replied Maria. “Wait a minute – you said your name is Phil?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re a groundhog?”

“Right again.”

By this time, Phil had managed to crawl up beside Maria as she sat in the darkness of their unidentifiable confinement. Maria felt Phil brush up against the side of her outstretched leg and she reached over with her hand and felt the furriness of the back of his head. She continued, “You know, last week I read about a funeral in the newspaper. It was a funeral for a groundhog – a groundhog named Phil. A friend or acquaintance of yours perhaps?”

“No. That’s kind of hard to believe. I’m the only groundhog named Phil that’s even around right now.”

“Well all I know is, they definitely had a funeral out at the Resthaven cemetery a week or so ago and buried what they said was a groundhog by the name of Phil.”

“Bummer – I guess they all think I’m dead!” moaned Phil.

------------------------------------------------

The receptionist pushed the button to answer the incoming call and then spoke into the headset, “State of Texas National Guard. How may I direct your call?”

Half out of breath and with a hurried importance, the voice on the other end of the line announced, “This is Dan Wagner, Chief Director at the Sam Houston Wild Life Preserve Laboratory. Connect me with whoever is in charge there. And hurry!”

“Hold please.”

After twelve agonizingly long seconds – “Hello, this is Commander Alfred Kir–“

“Commander,” Dan interrupted, “this is Dan Wagner out at the wildlife preserve. We’ve got an emergency situation that needs immediate attention.”

“What kind of a situation are we talking about here?” queried the commander.

“Two of our adult velociraptors have escaped from their cages in the lab and are now running loose in the preserve.”

“Velociraptors? As in, like the movies? Sorta like… Jurassic Park velociraptors?”

“Exactly like Jurassic Park velociraptors.”

------------------------------------------------

It was a sunny afternoon out at the lagoon in the Sam Houston Wild Life Preserve. The five resident alligators were stretched out comfortably on the cool, muddy banks of the lagoon under the shade of an umbrella of oak trees that lined the dirt road just to the south. With half-opened eyes, four of the alligators gazed across the lagoon to the rocky banks near the base of the cliff hoping to beat the big alligator to the jump in case food flew over the edge of the cliff like it did the day before. The big alligator, Ernest, as dubbed by the Preserve Rangers, was almost always the first to get any food – often swallowing it whole before the others even got a chance at it. But at the moment, Ernest was sound asleep in the mud. The other four, although fighting the urge to go to sleep themselves, were not about to let Ernest get the better of them should some food happen to wander by or even once again fall right out of the sky.

And so they waited – and they watched – and they waited – and they waited. After about fifteen minutes had gone by, all of them had succumbed, just as Ernest had, to the beckoning of an afternoon nap.

The five of alligators all slept soundly for a good two hours – until about the time that the snapping sound of a fallen tree branch caused Ernest to open one eye and focus in the general direction most likely to have generated the sleep-interrupting  noise. Slowly he opened the other eye and watched for movement in the brush beyond the lagoon. The other four alligators, completely oblivious to any possible danger, continued with their peaceful state of unconsciousness.

Ernest began to slowly make a visual search of the undergrowth from his position across the lagoon, moving only his eyes so as not to alert any possible predators that he was wise to their approach. Then suddenly – another snapping twig; a shadow along the side of a tree trunk; leaves rustling near the ground. Ernest opened both eyes wide and raised up on all fours, ready to make a fierce dash into battle should the enemy present itself. Then, just as Ernest saw the head of a velociraptor appear from the dense brush and as he push off with his legs to dive into the water and cross the lagoon for the confrontation, he felt the crushing blow to his tail that stopped him dead in his tracks. He spontaneously flipped his body to see that another velociraptor had jumped onto his tail and had it pinned to the ground. Ernest lashed out with his front claws and his jaws but before he could muster much of a defense, the first velociraptor had dashed across the lagoon and joined in on a two-against-one fight. The velociraptors began ripping Ernest to shreds. In all of the commotion, the other four alligators woke up and attempted to enter the battle. The one velociraptor loosened its grip on Ernest’s tail long enough to let out a deafening shriek and lunge at the other alligators who immediately gave up the notion of attack and went scurrying off into the woods. It then returned to its task of turning alligator tail into a shredded, reptile sushi mess.

Ernest feverishly swung his claws – often into blank air but occasionally into the hide of one or the other of the velociraptors. But even as big as Ernest was, he was fighting a losing battle against the two feisty velociraptors. He held his own for quite a while and managed to do some serious damage to both of them – if it just hadn’t have happened that one of the velociraptors decided to grab Ernest’s head, twist it around, and then rip it completely off of his body.

Holding the alligator head in its hands, the velociraptor raised it above its own head and began jumping around in some sort of primitive victory dance. Both velociraptors, egotistically proud of their tactical skills, started prancing around the banks of the lagoon seemingly to lay claim to their newly conquered territory. They carried on like that for several minutes – right up until the time that an Air Force F-16 Fighting Falcon jet fired four direct-hit missiles that blew both velociraptors to smithereens and their souls, if they had possessed any, straight back to the prehistoric ages.

------------------------------------------------

As the evening skies started to dim, the Sam Houston Wild Life Preserve was crawling with National Guard troops, official Preserve vehicles and personnel, local and national governmental agencies, and of course, an army of reporters and photographers. The lagoon and the entire surrounding area had been roped off as crews of scientists investigated the scattered remains of the “up-until-then-considered-extinct” velociraptors. Four Preserve Rangers parked their van on the dirt road and headed over to pick up the remains of Ernest’s body. Then, just as they were about to reach down to pick up the huge alligator torso, it suddenly made a spastic twitch to the side. All four rangers jumped back about three feet then stopped. Ernest’s body jumped again – and again. His back started to bulge up and down. The rangers had never seen anything like that at all. The reporters and photographers rushed over to see what was happening. Everyone stood around in awe and gasped as Ernest’s headless, near-tailless body thrashed around on the muddy banks of the lagoon.

After a minute or two of this, the body once again stopped moving. Then, as everyone’s eyes were fixed upon the lifeless alligator's body, a human hand appeared from the opening left by Ernest’s severed head – and then, a second hand. The hands grabbed hold of each side of the opening and pulled and pushed until…  Maria popped her head out of the alligator’s neck opening and eventually worked herself free. Immediately afterwards, Phil the groundhog appeared and also exited the dead alligator’s carcass. For a few seconds, there was utter silence – until all at once, the reporters and photographers charged then surrounded Maria and Phil and started bombarding them with questions.

“How long have you been in there?” – “How did you get inside the alligator?” – “How could you two survive in there?” – “Was there enough air in there for you to breathe?” – “Is there anyone else inside?” – “Did either of you find a sponge in there?”

Maria looked at the reporters. She looked down at Phil. She looked back at the reporters then said, “I don’t really have anything to say except – has anyone seen my bicycle?”

And Maria and Phil lived happily ever after -

The Groundhog Pentalogy

   Riding with Phil

   Happy Valentine’s Day

   Happy Valentine’s Day Again

   Franklin, George and Lawrence Go for a Ride

   Cycling with Hector and Maria

      Epilogue

      Or Maybe the Epilogue Went Like This...

      The REAL Epilogue

(But who's that buried out at Resthaven Cemetery?)