Dear Dr. Wally...

Dear Dr. Wally,

I see these signs along the road in the mountains north of Broken Elbow. They look like a truck driving down a wedge of cheese with a percentage added. What do they mean? They always appear near the top of Donut Pass, which seems to be a very popular name for these mountain passes. They're everywhere!

Puzzled in Poteau

You must be a natural blond, Puzzled. The state highway department puts those 'truck on cheese' signs in places where mobile pizzerias will be located in the future, right after federal stimulus money reinvigorates the cheese mining business. As you're no doubt aware, many of our nation's mozarella mines were forced to shut down due to cheap imported cheese from China. But, as our balance of payments have shifted, so too the mozarella business has changed. Soon, American workers will be back on the job producing the very finest cheeses from those deep mines under the Gruyere Mountains in northern Wisconsin.

Also, I'm glad you've noticed the Donut Pass signs, because quite frankly the state DOT misspelled them and didn't notice until hundreds had been painted. As a cost-cutting measure, they kept the misspelled signs because as we all know, spelling is highly over-rated anyway. Just like the pizzaria signs, these ones indicate a good spot for a donut shop, and they too are another attempt to stimulate our economy by investing in the production of high-speed donut boring tools for making those nice, round holes, and the automated donut lathes used to produce wonderfully rounded donuts from crudely finished industrial billets.

So do your part, Puzzled, and eat more to make America strong again!

Dr. Wally

Next month: Gluttony and bicycle touring

Book review: Dr. Wally's Field Guide to Cyclists

This is the January edition of my monthly column in the Red Dirt Pedalers "Wheel Issues."

Book review: Dr. Wally's Field Guide to Cyclists
First Edition. University of Northeastern Oklahoma, Broken Elbow Extension Campus. 2009

I'm not fond of doing book reviews. Inevitably, someone takes me to task when the review disagrees with their own assessment. However, when you consider the 'publish or perish' philosophy of most universities, you may understand the pressure many academics are under.

And that brings us to Dr. Walter Crankset's field guide. Profusely illustrated by the author, this field guide attempts to identify cyclists as belonging to particular sub-sets, none of them immune from satire. Crankset pokes fun at us, urging that we step outside our narrowly defined bicycling preoccupations and get a few laughs at our own expense.

Here are some excerpts:

Curbus Stucktus Often called the common gutter bunny, a curbus is rarely found more than a foot or two from the curb. In club meetings and on message boards, they complain incessantly about all the flat tires they've had. Wiser, more experienced cyclists will adopt the muskrat strategy and gnaw off a limb to escape from them.

Ineducatus Publicus One of the louder species, the ineducatus publicus appears at public meetings demanding 'something be done.' That something is always impossible, outrageous, or both. For example, an ineducatus will say, "I'll ride my bike when there's an entirely separate trail system from my front door to the grocery store, without having to cross a street at grade level!" This would require a re-invention of our existing road network. The ineducatus is just barely smart enough to breed, but they do so in great numbers.

Whine-a-saurus Mobilus “You can't get there from here because there aren't any bike lanes,” they chant in unison. Stress forces their voices to a shrill, nasal pitch, and if any additional stress were added, only dogs could hear them. This would be a good thing. On club rides, the whine-a-saurus is best kept at the back of the group where his screams will go unnoticed in the event of a dog attack. This gives new meaning to "devil take the hindmost."

Automobilus Addendus. The automobilus invariably begins with, "I'm a bicyclist too, but..." and then goes on to give 'advice' regarding how or where cyclists should ride. The automobilus hasn't been on a bike since grade school, of course, yet he doesn't hesitate to recommend things that are illegal, impractical, or plainly stupid. He means well, but like the ineducatus, he doesn't allow lack of knowledge or genuine facts get in the way.

Dr. Wally's Field Guide to Cyclists is available at better booksellers everywhere. Dr. Crankset will be available for a book signing at the Sinclair station outside the West Neanderthal Mall on January 5th, 2010.

(Susan, Wally said that if we run this, he'll cover our bar tab down at Larry's Cafe for the next month! Yee haw! Party time!)

Merry Post-Christmas!

The blizzard hit here Christmas Eve. At mid-day, the airports in Tulsa and Oklahoma City canceled all flights in and out. By late afternoon, some of the turnpikes were closed due to zero visibility.

Of course, my teenage son thought this would be a good time to go out and visit some friends. He was very put out when I told him to stay home.

That evening, one of the local ambulances got stuck in the driveway at the firehouse, effectively bottling the emergency services in the station until the ambulance was pulled out by a tow truck. Number One Son began to have an idea of how bad the roads were.

Christmas morning, I went out to begin shoveling the driveway before the rest of the family awoke. Since the blizzard started with sleet, there was a layer of frozen pellets firmly attached to the pavement. My puny snow shovel had no effect, so I was forced to leave that layer at the bottom of the driveway. The wind produced three drifts too, the deepest one about four feet. I shoveled a path so we could get in and out, and left the bulk of the work for later. The cars were buried, but we weren't going anywhere. I'd shoveled enough snow to make my back hurt, so I gratefully went inside to take a break.

Number One Son had other ideas. He desperately wanted to get his girlfriend to our house for Christmas dinner, so he went out to do some shoveling too. I went out to check on his progress only to discover that all the snow he'd removed from in front of his car was now piled in front of my car! He seemed genuinely puzzled when I objected, but removed all the snow with good grace. I should point out that he was out there shoveling snow while wearing shorts. Sometimes I wonder about that kid.

This morning I started chopping through the ice with a heavy scraper. I bought this tool to remove flooring and it does an equally effective job on thick ice. It's like a heavy spade handle with an 8 inch wide blade, and it's heavy enough to chop ice. I alternated between chopping and shoveling, taking breaks when my body ran out of oomph.

I was chopping the last, thickest section of ice when Number One Son appeared. "I could use some help," I said, so he went back inside for a pair of gloves and a hoodie. He shoveled for about 10 minutes, then rested with his forearms on the shovel handle, not exactly panting, but breathing a little harder than usual. "Who would imagine that shoveling snow could be so hard?" I asked. He gave me a withering look. I'd been out there working off and on for over 4 hours. In another 10 minutes, we were done.

Now, with all that shoveling snow and ice, I missed out on post-Christmas shopping. Imagine my disappointment. And that makes for a truly merry Christmas!

The Best of 2009

We get these lists of the 'best whatever' between Christmas and New Year's, and I'm not immune from doing one of them just to have an easy post. But I blundered across this bit of genuine wisdom from the late Charles Schultz, creator of the "Peanuts" comic strip, and I just had to share it.

Take a moment and read the whole thing. Don't get overly concerned about answering the questions at the top.

LINK

What others think is important often turns out to be little more than a illusion. The "Top Stories of 2009", including the Tiger Woods saga or Lance Armstrong's return to the pro peloton, are minor, and ultimately forgettable events compared to those that have a genuine impact on our lives. But I won't elaborate on this any further. Just go read Mr. Schultz.

Don't drink and drive

We've all had this drilled into us since we were teenagers. Don't drink and drive. Call a cab. Friends don't let friends drive drunk. Designated drivers. The lot.

But I'm not writing about alcohol. No, I'm writing about the horror resulting from drinking large quantities of coffee, tea, or even water while taking medication for high blood pressure. The meds I'm taking contain a mild diuretic, so staying hydrated is essential. If I don't 'top off the tank' I get dizzy, and all that hydration means my bladder is always full. Driving is a short-range activity, at best.

I told Number One Son that the family curse revolves around beautiful women throwing themselves at us with reckless abandon. I lied. The real family curse is that the simple act of riding in a car leads to uncomfortably full bladders in a matter of minutes. And that was before I started these meds! No matter how short the drive, when we park the car, we have to find a men's room.

Absent that men's room, there's always the possibility of taking a nature break along what seems to be a deserted road. I say 'seems to be deserted' because on too many occasions when I've sought al fresco relief, a car load of church ladies goes by, their eyes carefully averted. Worse are those guys who drive by realizing what's going on - probably because they've been in the same situation - and they insist on honking and waving.

Trust me - if you do that while I'm intently studying the roadside vegetation, I will not turn around and wave back.

Wally's weight loss system

I'm in a heap of trouble and I haven't even done anything. Wally just left. My house is in turmoil. And She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed is somewhat frosty. It'll be a cold night in Broken Elbow.

Wally breezed in about half an hour ago. He still hasn't replaced his bike because we haven't made a shopping trip to the various bike shops yet. I think he's working on disguises because he's well known at some of them. It's a long story for another time. He's been reduced to getting around on foot.

Like I said, he just walked in the door and announced the latest in a series of hare-brained schemes. As usual, he wanted my help, but this time I simply can't do it. Oh, I'd like to because the research would be fascinating, but it could lead to an early demise.

Put simply, Wally wants to open a weight loss clinic. Seriously, a weight loss clinic. He got the idea from a television commercial. I suppose we should be grateful that he doesn't watch late night infomercials like that Sham-Wow bilge, though to be honest, 'sham' does turn up in many of his schemes. No, this time he saw one of those lap band devices that encircles the stomach and causes the wearer to feel full sooner.

Wally's fertile imagination, however, made an intuitive leap. His idea is legal in most states, and since he's not a medical doctor, it's one that wouldn't require any medical experience, a license, or a shred of ethics. Wally wants to promote a lap dance weight loss system.

I know, I know, it's kind of creepy. He explained that it would involve "highly trained lap dance specialists" who would increase a client's respiration and heart rates, thereby promoting weight loss. I felt a chill run down my back. He wanted me to go with him to interview several prospective "clinicians" this evening. Suddenly, there were two chills on my back, both of them emanating from the laser-like focus of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. I didn't have to turn around to know that She stood in the hall doorway, her eyes boring icy holes in my back. I didn't dare to move for fear She would pounce and slice me to shreds.

I stammered some apologies to Wally. He left. She retreated down the hallway, but left a few of her familiars behind, cleverly disguised as domesticated cats. The furry little tattletales would report my every move. I settled back into my chair with a book, but my thoughts revolved around Wally's 'research.' I'll have to stay very close to home for the next week or two.

...but is it funny?

OK, maybe this is a guy thing. I'll let you decide.

Last night, one of my co-workers set himself on fire when some solvent flashed in our paint booth. Right up front - he's going to be OK, though he has burns on his arms and face. He says it looks like sunburn, so it's likely a first degree burn. Painful, but no lasting damage. He may have lost part of his beard and his eyebrows.

We use solvent - formerly naptha - to degrease and clean parts. It's mixed with high pressure air in a spray nozzle. I said our solvent was formerly naptha because the company recently changed to another chemical, one with a lower flash point. You can see where this is going.

We think a static discharge ignited the stuff. In an instant, Rxxxxx was surrounded by flames. Fortunately, he was wearing some protective gear: a face shield, an apron, and elbow-length gloves. His arms were burned above the gloves but below his sleeves, and his face received some burns too. He did breathe in some hot gases, but after a visit to the hospital ER, he was sent home.

Now, given that we're a cold-hearted bunch, it's well-established that whenever someone gets hurt, we make fun of them. Like I said, it's a guy thing. My contribution, besides some wise cracks about making barbecue, was the following.

"When you get back to work, could you give us a little more warning before setting yourself on fire again? We'd like to make smores."