Deep Thoughts

If trees could scream, would we be so cavalier about cutting them down? We might, if they screamed all the time, for no good reason.

If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is, "God is crying." And if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is "probably because of something you did."

If you saw two guys named Hambone and Flippy, which one do you think liked dolphins the most? I'd say Flippy, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong though. It's Hambone.

all by Jack Handey.

DeepThoughtsByJackHandey.com

Waffeling Around

Tuesday summer evenings in Mt. Pleasant usually mean a trip to the farmers market is in order. This is a great place to get cheap produce, a bite to eat, and just hang out and watch the locals. You get to know some of the vendors, try new foods each week, and look for reasons to come back. This year, as part of the city's plan to remodel Coleman Boulevard (which didn't really need any re-doing...but smoke 'em if you got 'em), the town built a hardened open air structure to host the Tuesday night affair. Seeing this, I was more than pleased in their decision to support an already great event.

The result? This year there are even more vendors, slightly less green-space, and more foodies! Yes, I love food. It's one of the reasons I ride my bike; so I can try new foods and lots of them. So I was extremely delighted when my two interests made an appearance at this year's farmers market in the form of a Waffel stand (no, this is really how you spell it). You're thinking, "Okay, waffels are food, but what does this have to do with cycling?" Waffels are synonymous with Belgium. Belgium is synonymous with cycling (and beer). The greatest cyclists and cycling fans in the world are Belgian. Names like Eddy Merckxx, Tom Boonen, Johan Museeuw. Races like Paris-Roubaix, Liege-Bastogne-Liege, and La Fleche Wallone. As I ate my waffel (or waffels as it turned out), I pictured myself along the cobbled roads of Europe. Gritty cyclists racing by throngs of drunken fans. I was in foodie/roadie heaven. I was in disbelief.

Five bucks for two waffels! The guy at the waffel stand was killing it too. I talked to him a bit and asked how he started his 'business'. His 'business' consisted of him slinging batter into a waffel iron and charging $2.50 a pop for the delicious morsels. He said he'd spent some time abroad in college and remembers eating street waffels all of the time in the Netherlands. I guess this is how ideas are started and fortunes made. After all, my five dollars had just covered this guy's entire overhead. Not hinting at all towards his recipe, my brain cranked into the 53x11 gear (that's the big gear for all of you non-crank addicts) and I plotted my assault on Waffelville. It became my whole goal to replicate them. So much so, that after doing some research and as soon as my family was in bed, I snuck out to the store to purchase the necessary items. What follows is what I came up with; my version of the Liege Waffel.

Liege Waffel

Set aside some time for this one, this is a true waffel love affair requiring a few intermediary steps. It first requires making a sponge. Allow one package yeast and a spoonful of sugar (it makes the medicine go down) and flour to proof in one and a third cups of warm milk. Add this brew to an egg and mix until smooth with about one and three-quarters cup of flour. Allow to rise until mighty big and fluffy.

Next make a paste out of 2 spoonfuls of sugar, a dash of salt and baking powder, a quarter cup of flour, a stick of butter and three-quarter cup of Turbinado sugar (or any large crystal sugar). The goal here is to have some sugar undissolved so as to caramelize and in the waffel iron, which you should probably have on at this point. Combine with sponge and allow to rest before forming into equal rounds. This should resemble more of a dough at this point. Cook in waffel iron until done or until you cannot stand it any longer.

Don a cycling cap and indulge, but be careful. These are dangerous and far from low-Cal. Best share them or hoard them all to yourself. I am on to you Waffel man.

Pilgrimage

Destination of the month: Dayton, Ohio. Birthplace of aviation (sorry North Carolina, you're nothing more than a surrogate mother to this one) and me. Yep, I'm an Ohioan, a Daytonian, and darn proud of it. Ohio was a welcome refreshment. The foliage was greener, air was fresher, drivers were not idiots. Dayton in particular has a heritage with the bicycle and the airplane, so I spent some time doing some riding around the beautiful countryside. Cornfields and soybeans as far as you can see and the occasional fly-by from a WWII plane or fighter jet showing off for people in town for the International Air Show.

My wife and I have made this trip part of our annual plan for the past three years. Load up the household, escape the blast furnace that is South Carolina, and enjoy some controlled chaotic relaxation with our families. Part of the plan was for me to drive around the city and snap some photos of my favorite landmarks and visit some of the city's history (like the Wright Brothers Cycle shop). None of this came to fruition as we were both very busy and most of these landmarks now reside in the ghetto. What hath happened to my fair city?

Driving down two of the town's major arteries, Main St. (go figure) and Salem Ave., one is confronted with graffitied, abandoned buildings, vacant and overgrown lots, and people on street corners. The sprawl has even reached some of the countryside. Industrial parks and new buildings springing up next to empty ones. "It must be cheaper to build new than to renovate," I blurt out. "Why not just use existing buildings and shouldn't that be a requirement?" retorts my wife. Yup. If you're not going to reuse it, blow it up and make green space. This seems to have been the trend for some time now, but perhaps today's economy has been particularly cruel. Things appear to have taken a step-change for the worse.

Never one to look at the positives (though I'm trying to get better at this), I did find some solace during my travels (by bike and otherwise). I was encouraged by the quaint surrounding towns still untouched by Sprawlville; by the blue skies, green grass, and smell of Ohio sweet corn that permeates the air; by the culture of the people (some of whom still give a crap about their city). Whatever happens, I will always have a special place for my hometown. My love for family and Ohio will always bring me back.

Dayton Renaissance

Fresh off of two decent performances, I decided to tackle my third race in a week at the Team Dayton Renaissance Criterium. Held at the Renaissance Festival near Dayton, this race seemed more like a mini road race than a crit. No city steets here. An open field, some hay bales, and plywood medeval castles. You could actually see the entire course from the start line.

Knowing this was a smaller race, I spent all week riding and building myself up. I could win this one. I wouldn't do any work during the race. Just sit there, smile, and wait for just the right moment to dole out some pain. I was brimming with confidence. Did I mention that I was also brimming with about six beers, a bunch of chips and brownies, and a host of other food that I had gorged myself with the day before? Umph. I felt like crap. Add a stiff headwind on the back section and a big digger of a hill in turn four leading to the finishing straight and it was time to switch to plan B: just sit there, grimace, and have a nice big cup of suffer.

Neither plan really worked. The field was pretty small (about 20) and was mostly comprised of Team Dayton riders (it was afterall their race). It came as no surprise then, that their strategy was to control the front and keep sending guys on solo breaks to break the spirit of the field. With this in mind, I stayed near the front and fought off every urge to chase the next guy as Team Dayton kept blocking on the front. After a few laps, yesterday's food had begun migrating to my esophagus and the herky-jerky race pace was killing me. The field was strung out at 30 mph on the backstretch, down to 17 mph into the headwind, and jumping out of the saddle on the finishing hill. I was fighting my bike and the urge to puke the whole way.

A prime lap raised the pace and for some stupid reason I thought, "Yeah, a prime!" "Just what I wanted, a new water bottle valued at just over 2 dollars!" I had no idea what the prime might be, but it was probably something along those lines; probably something worth blowing completely up over. Throw the plans out the window kids, papa needs a brand new water bottle. Okay, so I didn't win it. Instead, I decided to assert my dominance over the field by taking a flyer on the front, much to the glee of my family. While I lead the field by all of 20 yards, I could hear the race announcer, "...and there goes a serious attack from the rider from South Cackalacky!?" That felt pretty cool, although I knew my attack was short lived and far from serious. A few seconds later, two kids (half of my age) blow my doors off and I struggle to latch on. Now this was a serious break. If I could only hang on and work with them, we may have a shot. Too bad that at this point I was gassed.

They quickly dropped me like a bad habit and now the field was coming. I had to figure out how to recover and hang on. First to worst in one lap and struggling to stay on the wheel in front of me, who was struggling to stay on the wheel in front of him! Time to make a move. Out of the saddle and sprinting to latch on, my day was about to hit a new low; I get passed by some old dude with a beer gut the size of Vesuvius. Field splintered, I become a straggler just riding it out. There were 3 or 4 of us spread out and then reintegrated as we all recovered from our beatdown.

I flash my wife the "slit-throat" sign to inform her that I'm done and for her to inform my family members to stop cheering for me; as it will only make me feel worse. The remnant pack regrouped and starting working together for the final five laps. I gather my senses and quickly assess that I'm the strongest (and youngest) of this motley crew. Now it is a game. I decide to pretend that I'm in a long breakaway, like in the Tour de France, working to stay away from the chasing peleton. I worked with my enemies until one-to-go and then I turned on them like the female Praying Mantis.

Feeling worse than bad about my performance, I try to make myself puke only to fail at that too (but I did nearly rupture all of the blood vessels in my face from dry heaving). C'est la vie.

Apples

"Hey, Thom, Johan, do you like apples?" (LA)

"Yeah, we like apples" (JB)

"How do you like them f*&#@%in' apples?" (LA)

Lance Armstrong to Director Sportif and sponsor

Johan Bruyneel and Thomas Weisel during his ascent

to Sestriere in the 1999 TdF

My two-cents.

Third place in the Tour de France, the greatest bicycle race in the history of the world (and possibly the greatest sporting event as well), could only be disappointing to a 7-time winner. Do I think he could have won? No. Whether he chose not to follow the accelerations of his teammate or he couldn't, he is still the greatest TdF champion ever. Do I think he could have finished second? Yes. If not for the selfish antics of Alberto Contador, perhaps Astana could have swept the entire podium. Can he win next year? Not sure. But whatever his motivation for his comeback, he needs no more ammunition.

Kung Fu Dreams

If you know me or if you're a regular to this site, then by now you've figured out that I'm just not quite right. This won't do any to alleviate that feeling. I'll do my best to explain this one, although I'm not sure that I've figured it out for myself.

I had Kung Fu Dreams as a kid. They would shake me to my foundation, leave me questioning what the hell just happened, and occasionally, I still have them. What are Kung Fu dreams you ask? Allow me to provide you with some background.

First, when Fox hit the airwaves in the mid '80s in Dayton as WRGT, their programming was very limited. One show that quickly became a staple in my house was Kung Fu Theater. Two episodes, taped every Sunday from 2-6 am. Awesome graphic violence. Second, I had a lot of ear infections as a kid. These suck. When I slept, I could hear my pulse pounding in my ear as it was smashed against my head. Pow-pow, pow-pow, pow-pow. I often confused this sound with a gorilla, pounding it's chest, hunting me down (I know, don't ask). Lastly, our family had this huge, orange, old, four hundred pound chair in our living room. Though not the least bit comfortable, it was great for sleeping in; feet straight up, head smashed into the seat cushion.

Okay. Spend late Sunday morning watching Kung Fu Theater. Get tired from too much TV and the onset of an ear infection. Pass out in orange chair. In and out of rem-sleep with visions of Kung Fu ninjas chasing me with cymbals (the gorilla) and Punji sticks. Wake up. Punji sticks still in my ears (as the ear infection) and cymbals still banging in my head (as my pulse). Absolutely terrifying. I cannot recreate it and certainly cannot make this stuff up.