A Life in Pie

Just as a financial advisor periodically examines a client’s assets and liabilities to determine whether adjustments to an investment strategy are needed, it recently occurred to me that perhaps I should reevaluate my strategy of living. Looking back over the months of June and July, I came up with some crude estimates of how I allocated my time across a series of activities. The results, summarized in the figure below, surprised me, and so I’ve decided to modify my strategy.

I am spending more than a quarter of my time (29%) sleeping! As a result of this startling discovery, two things must change. First, and perhaps most obvious, I plan to buy a new mattress. My wife has been encouraging me for years to do so, and I have resisted, stubbornly. But now that the data are in, I can no longer argue for further postponement of this most unpleasant of activities. Walking into a mattress store may be worse than a root canal, closing on a house for the first time, and having a child’s birthday at Chuckee Cheese, combined. If I can overcome my fear of looking straight into the eyes of a mattress salesman, without breaking out in hives, I’m going to go for the memory foam. (If it helps me remember where in the house I have placed my reading glasses, of which I now have 3 pair (!), then no sacrifice is too great.)

Second, I need to change my attitude. I have always loathed the idea of sleeping. In my view, it’s an unwelcome obligation that precludes my accomplishing all the things on life’s “To Do” list. That I am not particularly skilled at sleeping has not helped. Being a light sleeper, I frequently wake up in the middle of the night or early morning, at which point my racing mind takes over. It’s usually hours before I fall back to sleep. In contrast, my wife, who completes her nightly voyage to the land of Morpheus before her head ever hits the pillow, considers sleeping a vocation. She has perfected her craft over the years, despite or perhaps in response to the challenges of motherhood. She would, if she could, dedicate far more of her time to this unavoidable endeavor. She even scribbles “Sleeping” into her daily “To Do” list. I must find a compromise between these two extreme positions, and get on with my life. Who knows, I may even start sleeping better as a result.

Work, at a 24% share of my time, comes in a close second to sleep. That means that I spend over half of my life in bed or my office. That’s a frightening thought! Considering both the large share of my waking hours committed to work, and the emerging recognition that I may never be able to retire following this economic downturn, I should probably try to make the work experience a more enjoyable one.

In this spirit, at the beginning of July I purchased and installed a Banker’s lamp on my desk. The soft light offsets the glare from the fluorescent lighting overhead, thereby offering a more satisfying and productive environment. I’ve been reading Michael Chabon’s Gentlemen of the Road over lunch, which I eat outside, next to an urban waterfall, in the company of pigeons. I’m planning to dedicate one hour a day to recycling many of the old documents that have accumulated on my bookshelves. I’m even thinking of putting plants on my window sill, although past efforts to go green have been disastrous. My sill is affectionately known around the office as “The Morgue.” A leisurely walk around the White House every once in awhile also might help.

In third place was the “Other” category. This encompasses a series of activities that individually registered less than 1% of my time, but taken together amounted to 12%. It includes such things as snacking, almost exclusively on hard pretzels; dog walking, although my job is limited to carrying the plastic bags; web surfing, which has increasingly included U-Tubing but not Facebooking; talking to my mother—who persists in calling me at the office on my cell phone just to “check in,” despite my protestations, appeals that she cease and desist, and threats to press harassment charges if she continues to fail to heed my warnings—and watching TV (limited to Seinfeld and Star Trek reruns, the Daily Show, and an occasional Dr Who episode) and Netflix videos.

I need to be far more efficient in how I use this miscellaneous time, however, as I have other ambitions. Golf, for instance, is a new adventure I wish to pursue this summer. My son bought me a nice set of left-handed clubs for my birthday last year, I’ve taken one lesson, and look forward to taking more before heading out to the driving range. I would like to continue with my writing as well. So, something needs to give to accommodate these additional activities. For starters, I was thinking that perhaps on a split-screen TV, I could watch a movie and check the latest scores while walking on the treadmill, with the dog leash and a pretzel in one hand, at the same time I talk to my mother or the cops on speaker in the other.

I spend about 10% of my time eating. This means that I spend 75% of my life sleeping, working, othering, and eating. I had no idea I was so jaw-dropping dull! I’ll just need to eat faster and complete other tasks while eating, because more excitement will require more time.

Housework, including bill paying and other chores at home, leisure reading, and commuting to and from work each day, each consume about 4% of my time. Despite the not insignificant amount of time spent on housework, the results have been less than satisfactory. We are in constant violation of the “No House Left Behind Act,” having never once passed the white glove test. I’m convinced, now that I look at the data, that it is time to outsource this activity, preferably to a service with a catchy name, such as “Minute Maids,” “The Maid Brigade,” “Maid to Please,” “The Merry Maids,” or “Helping Hands.” This will free up 4% of my time to work on my golf game, or better yet, to learn to play the drums, which have been sitting in my basement, unassembled, since 2006, the year my older son’s college baseball career and my travels to every conference game for four years came to an end.

As for the throw-away 4% I spend commuting to work every day, there are few options to reduce time spent on this onerous task. I’ve tried every conceivable “short cut” into D.C. that I know, but I keep running into all the other geniuses who think they are the only ones who ever thought of this route. I just need to devise more creative things to do while in the car. For instance, I am going to try to learn the actual words of all those songs that I love to sing at the top of my awful voice at home, mercifully in the shower. Although this limitation has never stopped me in the past, it’s time to restore intra-household harmony. I am planning to watch what other people do while commuting. Last week at a traffic light I watched a guy shaving. I’m going to take note of only very clever bumper stickers, and be on the lookout for advertising that is just too good to be true. My favorite, for the moment, is: “John C. Flood, meeting all your plumbing needs.” Listening to books on tape would increase my current 4% leisure reading allocation to something around 5% or 6%, which I would welcome.

Errands, cycling and watching MLB games each consumes about 3% of my time. Although there is not much room to reduce the total amount of time spent on errands, I plan to adjust the timing such that errands are reserved for Saturdays, leaving Sundays for total relaxation (which means, of course, that I’ll never buy a mattress on a Sunday!).

Cycling consumes just about the right amount of time for now, but I’ve decided to keep better track of how far I go. During the months of June and July, I pedaled 600 miles, according to my handlebar computer, which is about the distance from my house in Potomac, MD to Augusta, Maine or Chattanooga, Tennessee. Of course, if I were actually traveling to these places, I would head toward Chattanooga, because it’s downhill.

Watching baseball in person, on TV, or on the internet, is a seasonal activity. There is no other sport in any other season that consumes this much of my time. So, I’ll be shopping around for how to spend 3% of my time after the World Series in October. My initial idea is to travel with my wife to Massachusetts to visit our son and daughter-in-law in their new home, and to Austin, Texas to see our other son perform on the stage. Perhaps I should discuss this proposal with everyone implicated before making plans.

Finally, reading the daily paper, in this case the Washington Post, and tending to lawn and garden, consume 2% and 1% of my time, respectively. At a minimum, I’d like to diversify the sources of my information on current events. For instance, I am well into a one-year trial subscription to the Economist. The result has been disappointing, however, as the weeklies continue to pile up on the throne room floor. Tending to lawn and garden is also a seasonal endeavor, but unlike baseball, the Fall brings the leaves that must be raked, the Winter the snow to be shoveled, and the Spring the mulch to spread in the beds and around the trees.

In summary, my portfolio for living large looks as follows. For the 75% of time that I spend on just four activities, I plan to improve the quality of my existing time commitment on two (sleeping and working) and hope to free up some time from othering and eating to embrace some new investments (golf, drumming, and other activities still to be determined). For the remaining 25% of my time, I foresee several needed actions: outsourcing (housework), reallocating time within existing categories (leisure reading), improving quality at the current time commitment (commuting and errands), leaving well enough alone (cycling and tending to lawn and garden), pursuing new activities in other seasons (post-baseball), and diversifying within existing allocations (current events reading).

I better write all this down while I’m thinking about it. Now if I could just put my hands on one pair of those darn reading glasses.

Get-Up and Go

There are many reasons why I enjoy cycling. Three stand out: the apparel, the sights, and the interesting people I meet. A quick round up follows.

Dress like a dork and get away with it

Bicycle helmets on humans? A safety must, but a fashion bust, with significant reputational risk. For instance, the professional cyclists who wear the very expensive ones bear a striking resemblance to the Storm Troopers in The Return of the Jedi. As we all know, there’s only one group of villains that America hates more: the NY Yankees. The casual riders who wear the cheaper helmets look like Pee Wee Herman. The only things they are missing are the little bell and wicker basket. The amateur riders usually choose from a range of medium-priced helmets. Unfortunately, from a fashion standpoint, these aren’t a big improvement over the others. At the end of the day, we all end up looking like mushroom heads.

And why on earth would anyone in his or her right mind wear one of these things longer than is absolutely necessary, and in public? The other day while I was in the grocery store, some guy walked by wearing his helmet, with the straps hanging down on either side of his face. I immediately looked to the ceiling to see if this part of the store was under construction. Then I realized I was just in the Super Doofus-Mike Dukakis aisle.

The helmets may be disasters, but sunglasses on cyclists always look cool.

I initially thought that the cycling jerseys were a bit pretentious and showy, particularly on the recreational riders. I soon discovered that with those handy pouches in the back they were eminently practical. They can even be transformative. Whenever I pull my green, white and red Scattante Bicicletta jersey over my head, I suddenly find myself cruising down Main in Breaking Away, that 1979 little gem of a film about a townie from Bloomington, Indiana who initially wants to be a champion cyclist, and even tries to convince an attractive co-ed that he is an Italian exchange student with a passion for the sport.

In that spirit, sometimes I wonder (there’s plenty of time for daydreaming when cycling long distances) what I would say if someday I were to pass Isabella Rossellini on the street, somewhere along my route. Just in case, I’ve been practicing “Buon Giorno, Bella” as I ride through the streets of Potomac, Maryland and beyond. I think that would be just about right. Not too flashy, not too gushy. Plus, despite my ancestry, they are the only words I know. Perhaps you need to see the movie to fully understand why such fantasies come into my mind when I wear that jersey.

Whenever I’m wearing my UNC jersey, a Father’s Day present this year, I’m back again in Carmichael Auditorium, after hours and without permission, shooting buzzer beaters. Or, it’s 1982 all over again and I’m celebrating the Jordan-Worthy-Perkins National Championship with every Tarheel that has ever been on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. A few more miles to go, and I’ll be at Breadman’s, where my wife is waiting for me and her order of blueberry crumb cake.

The cycling pants? Speedos on steroids

The gloves? A perpetual tribute to the King of Pop

Apparently, it’s acceptable within the community of cyclists to wear dark socks or at least non-white socks with cycling shoes. When I was a kid, if I had worn anything but white with any kind of sports shoe (Chuck Taylor Cons were de rigeur in suburban Philadelphia), I would have been stoned to death. At best, I would have found myself on the wrong end of a wedgie.

And those silver, new age-looking things I wear on my feet, complete with two Velcro straps and a click-in fastener? Well, they give the impression that I’m on my way to the alley to bowl a few frames with George Jetson.

Oh, the places you will go and the things you will see

I’m not much of an outdoorsman. I don’t like fishing or hunting or hiking in the woods. I go to REI only when my wife needs to purchase mosquito repellant for a trip to Central America or Africa, where she may be exposed to dengue fever or malaria. In the dentist’s office I’ll reach for the latest issue of Vogue or People before Trout and Stream or National Geographic.

No, my outdoor activities are usually limited to walking down my driveway every morning to collect the Washington Post, cutting the lawn every two weeks, gardening on weekends, and accompanying my wife as she walks our dog Samantha around the neighborhood. I do like reading about other people’s adventures, particularly Bill Bryson’s, from his explorations of Australia’s barrier reef to his extended walks on the Appalachian trail or through quaint British towns. Quite unexpectedly, cycling has brought me into far more contact with the natural world than I ever anticipated or bargained for.

During a Century Ride two years ago on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, it was a thrill to see wild ponies, from afar, in Assateague Island State Park, which was one of the rest stops. I don’t need to travel far from my neighborhood, however, to get a rich sampling of wild creatures or contract Lyme disease.

There have been many occasions over the last 4 years when deer have run alongside me for a short distance before darting off deeper into someone’s yard or into the woods. Sometimes a group of them will just stand and stare at me—lawn ornament-like—as I whiz by. I’m always afraid that the fawns will think I’m their mother, despite my funny-looking head gear, and will dart out in front of me.

I watched an enormous deer jump a tall fence the other day with the grace of an Olympic high jumper. He or she hung in mid-air at the peak of the jump. Vintage Michael Jordan, I thought, and I wasn’t even wearing my Tarheel jersey. Unfortunately, there are too many deer and too many cars roaming about, and some drivers just don’t like to share the road, with deer or cyclists. The unmistakable smell of a decaying carcass—a horrifying odor that announces itself about a mile in advance—is an increasingly frequent and distressing phenomenon on my rides.

I’ve always been curious about why the fox figures so prominently in the names of housing developments I pass along my route. There’s Fox Hills, Fox Run and Fox Chase, just to name a few. Now I know. I’ve seen quite a few of these bushy-tailed, small-headed creatures, usually at dusk. Although they usually disappear from sight as soon as they hear me coming, once I watched one weave back and forth on the road ahead for probably a quarter of a mile before disappearing into the brush. I kept a safe distance, as drunken fox can be just as dangerous as the humans who foolishly drive their machines while inebriated.

Hedgehogs are ubiquitous, although I’ve never caught a glimpse of their faces as they usually turn their backs to the traffic. When the raccoons aren’t trying to poach from the gold fish pond in our backyard, I often see them peeking out over a log or from behind a tree with that larcenous look of theirs. I’ve seen opossum and beaver. Horses and cows are regulars on my route. Even a crazy black squirrel ran into my foot once while trying to cross the street in front of me. He must have been at the same party as the fox.

If anyone is wondering how the state of Maryland should be spending some of its federal stimulus money, one trip around the neighborhood on a bike will quickly provide the answer. Most streets in my county are in terrible shape, something I never notice much while driving. This is a big problem. What if Isabella turns her ankle? “Buon Giorno, Bella” is all I got, and that certainly isn’t going to cut it.

People who need people

Cycling on weekends keeps me in touch with long-time friends, who I don’t otherwise see as much as I would like. Organized rides are a great way to make new friends or to enjoy some new-found camaraderie.

For instance, at the afore-mentioned Century Ride, 6,000 riders showed up. One hundred miles is a long way to pedal, and there are plenty of opportunities to get to know folks, simply by riding alongside them or chatting them up at rest stops. Thank goodness I don’t twitter. On this particular ride, participants who arrive at the 80-mile rest stop early enough in the day may just be lucky enough to share blueberry pie. That was enough to get my wife thinking about giving up her role as unofficial photographer and signing up for the next ride.

The cycling community also has its share of characters. For example, two months ago, on a fine Saturday afternoon ride with a dear friend, I suffered a punctured tire. I was talking to her instead of paying attention to the road, and ran over a large rock. We were in a very rural area, in a county not our own, and our cars were parked about 18 miles away. Worse yet, my tire repair kit was sitting at home, and my friend’s extra tube did not fit my tire. Fortunately for us, there was an auto repair shop about a half mile back. Just in case, my friend called her husband and asked him to meet us at the station.

As we arrived at the auto garage, we were astonished to find a bicycle shop adjacent. The car mechanic owned both. He told us that the shop was quite new—it had only been open for 6 months—and that he decided to branch out into cycling after years of working on the NASCAR circuit. Of course, we showed up quite unexpectedly and he was busy working on a car in the bay. Nonetheless, he dropped everything and agreed to fix the tire while we waited. Amazingly, the small matter of my not having any money on my person to pay for the repair didn’t seem to bother him. He said he we could always take care of that later.

Although only the tube needed replacing, he recommended strongly a new, top-of-the-line tire to replace the original, which he discovered, upon close inspection, was full of small tears and lesions. He counted them aloud, one by one. This was my first clue that I was in deeper trouble than I thought.

In his not-so-humble opinion, he warned me that this tire might “blow any day.” In fact, he said the other tire didn’t look much better. Well, safety has to come first, I agreed.

“And what’s with these brakes?” he asked. “If they were on my car, I wouldn’t drive it,” he declared, rather dismissively.

“Even I can see that you need new brakes,” joked my friend. Ouch!

I was beginning to get this sinking feeling in my stomach. Had I really been so negligent about maintaining my bike? Could I have prevented the flat? Should I have changed the brakes a long time ago? I clean the chain and oil it once a week and wipe the frame down as regularly as I can. I check the tire pressure daily and add air as needed. Am I a bad person?

The mechanic called me over.

“Look at this chain,” he demanded. I complied. All I could see was what appeared to be a perfectly normal chain, perhaps a little dirtier than it should be. “Look how it’s all stretched out. You have to replace this.”

My shoulders were starting to slump forward. I could sense an acute weakness in my knees. The walls of the bike shop were beginning to close in around me.

“When was the last time you had this bike tuned?” he probed. We had now entered into a full-scale, CIA-like interrogation.

“About 9 months ago,” I whispered, as I felt the temperature in the room begin to rise and the perspiration run down my face.

“Well, a bunch of kids must have worked on this,” he mumbled, disapprovingly, all the while shaking his head.

He was on a roll now and picking up speed as he coasted down hill.

“And these cables?” he asked, directing his question to no one in particular. “Are you kidding me? The much newer material is much better than this crap.”

At this point, I was starting to feel like the patient who had parked his car in the “20-minute only” space so he could run in to see his doctor about his hangnail, only to return to the lot 2 hours later with his arm in a sling, his wallet 2 pounds lighter, and his car nowhere to be seen.

I was even starting to wonder whether that rock had been strategically placed.

I thanked Dr. Gloom & Doom for helping me out of this jam, for his thorough diagnosis, and for trusting me to come back to take care of my bill. He said that all he cared about was that I bring the bike back early next week so that he could complete all the repairs. Naturally, he asked me to write my name and phone number on a repair slip.

With that, we were on our way. I was still rubbing my bruised psyche, while my friend was sending her husband a “never mind” message.

Two days later, the mechanic left his own message on my voicemail. He wanted to know when I would be coming in. The next day, I drove my now disgraced bike to his shop—a good 45-minute ride from my house. Twenty-four hours later, before work, I drove back to retrieve my new and improved cycle. The collateral damage: $350.

Finally, cyclists and even random folks tend to stick together.

Two weeks ago, I had another flat, about 18 miles from my house. Although this time I was carrying the material I needed to properly replace the tube, I was hoping I could avoid doing so. Sitting by the side of the road as traffic sped by, I placed the first of many calls and text messages to my son. No response. After about 15 minutes, a couple rode by. They immediately swung around to see if they could help. After a pleasant chat, during which I explained my strategy, which was beginning to look more and more flawed with each passing minute, they departed but promised to return in their car in an hour’s time or so to make sure I wasn’t still there. Nice!

With the bike slung over my shoulder, I walked down the road a piece to find a spot away from the traffic where I might set about changing the tube. Soon, a small pickup pulled up beside me. In the front seat was a father, his daughter, and his son. He asked me if I wanted to throw my bike in the back and ride with them. Another thoughtful gesture and from a perfect stranger! Unfortunately, the open cab of the truck was piled high with all kinds of furniture and there was no place to put the bike or room for me to sit. It’s the thought that counts, I reminded myself, as I thanked him for his generous offer and bid him and his family farewell.

Having reached my destination, I set about my task, albeit with the mechanic’s final, fateful words echoing in my head: “These tires are great and will last you a long time. They can be a real pain to change when you get a flat, however, because the fit to the rim is so tight.”

After about 10 minutes of a titanic struggle that proved his instincts to be finely tuned,
a second couple went whizzing by on their bikes. The guy seemed to recognize the strained look on my face. He hit the brakes and turned his bike around.

“Do you need any help?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I do,” I replied.

To my great fortune, for the second time in a couple of months, Lady Luck had come my way. Ms. Rossellini she was not, but I welcomed her with open arms nonetheless. It turns out that the gentleman used to co-manage the shop where I bought my bike. He had the tire changed in about 5 minutes. Better yet, he showed me some quick-change tricks I could employ the next time I found myself in this predicament.

As I was getting ready to hit the road again, my phone rang. It was my son.

“Sorry, Dad. I was in the shower,” he said.

I told him what had happened and that no harm had been done. I asked him to keep his cell phone close by as I was out of spare tubes yet still had a long way to travel, a wild kingdom to traverse, and lots of new people to meet.

Things Fall Apart (Central American Remix)

A week ago today my wife traveled to Guatemala on a two-week business trip. As expected, first thing Monday morning Señor Jaleo—affectionately known around our house as “Mr. Chaos”—showed up on my doorstep. Supporting documentation follows.

Exhibit A

Tired of cleaning up the bird droppings on our garden patio, I innocently moved the bird feeder to the branch of another tree. Next thing I knew I was starring in a Hitchcock retrospective. Five birds perched deftly atop the garden fence started the rumpus with a surprisingly well-harmonized round of boos. There was even a sprinkling of derisive whistles from a few who undoubtedly spent some part of the winter in Spain or Italy watching European football.

The crow, of course, started the heckling. This was not at all surprising considering his reputation as chief backyard trouble-maker. He’s always chasing the little birds from the feeder and intimidating any other that dares to approach. I’m convinced that even those unwelcome squirrels and chipmunks are afraid of him.

“Throw the bum out”, he squawked. “Haven’t you learned anything from that charming wife of yours, you fool?” he delicately inquired.

Then the cardinal weighed in. This I did not expect. The red bird usually keeps to himself, busily gathering the seed that has fallen to the ground throughout the day. “You better watch your back and your head, Dude.”

As my blood pressure rose, pine needles rained down upon me, the work of dozens of agitated birds who were furiously flapping their wings and jumping up and down on the branches of three large trees. It takes lots of little feet to shake those needles loose, but this aggrieved, well-organized faction was resolute and had mounted a formidable protest.

I’d had enough. I picked up the garden hose sprayer, set the dial on shower, gave them all a good soaking, and snickered as they took flight.

“That was cold,” the frog croaked from a rock on the side of the fish pond.

“Don’t you start with me, you bulging-eyed, slimy excuse for an amphibian,” I hissed, indignantly, as I made my way back into the house.

As I closed the door behind me, I was grateful for our tall fences and the good neighbors they make.



Exhibit B

Having regained my composure, I set about getting ready for work. All systems were proceeding smoothly—as they must on these nails-against-the-blackboard daily commutes into D.C. from my Maryland residence—until the Quaker Oats mêlée in the microwaveable bowl. (And all these years I thought they were opposed to war and other acts of violence! Apparently this group of agitators never received the memo.)

The oats were so thick against the glass window of the microwave I could not even assess the number of casualties within. With great hesitation I opened the door. I soon discovered that one contingent had oozed up and over the top of the bowl, down the sides, and had mushroomed out and over the borders of the rotating plate. Others had taken flight, affixing themselves to every surface like flies on flypaper. Some had managed to swim through the water and infiltrate the heating element. In the short space of three minutes, these unexpected ground, aerial, and naval hostilities had wiped out what I thought was going to be a simple, healthy breakfast.

My embarrassing performance earlier in the garden still fresh in my mind, I decided to ignore this minor setback. I contented myself with a lovely bowl of fruit with a wallop of a dollop of genuine maple syrup, all topped off with one half teaspoon of cooked oatmeal, the only survivors from the morning’s fracas.


Exhibit C

Following an unusually stress-free commute to the office, I rolled up to my computer and logged on. As I waited for the machine to boot up, my cell phone rang. It was my son, who is home from college for the summer. He said he was not feeling well. When he and his older brother (now married and living in New England) were young, any time my wife or I would travel overseas, one of the boys would come down with some illness before boarding passes were handed out. After reviewing a series of stomach-friendly menu options, we began our search for a cause.

Not enough sleep? That was certainly a possibility, considering my son’s predilection for late-night, dry land electronic surfing and tubing. After a long pause, he casually wondered aloud whether the bacon cheeseburger with the large order of cheese fries he consumed at the diner at midnight might offer some clues.

“Yes, your Honor, I rest my case with this single brief, which I would like to submit to the court at this time without further debate.”

After wishing him a speedy recovery and a good day, I couldn’t help but wonder whether those wacky birds, hell-bent on revenge and perhaps even a wee bit jealous that our empty nest was temporarily inhabited for the summer, might have been up to another one of their dirty avian tricks.

Exhibit D

Three strikes before noon, and I began to wonder whether I was already out on this first day without adult supervision. Not necessarily! I could still reach first base this afternoon on a third strike passed ball and then make it home safely, where the perfect bike ride awaited me. When I shut down my computer for the day, the temperature was in the high 70s, the humidity was low, there was an unseasonably pleasant wind, the sky was Carolina Blue, and the sun had no intention of pulling down the shade until 8:30 p.m.

Two consecutive ankle surgeries several years back eventually forced me to give up both competitive adult basketball and recreational running in favor of cycling, which is now the centerpiece of my aerobic routine. I’ve never been much of a pool swimmer. Perhaps I’ve never completely shaken those haunting childhood memories of swim lessons, when I spent endless weeks as a “Minnow”, while my friends were rapidly becoming “Guppies” and “Gold fish” and even “Sharks”. Or, perhaps it’s those attractive goggles, which always fill with fog no matter how I adjust them. They also always leave at least one dark circle around the eye, reminiscent of Petey, the dog from the Our Gang comedy series of the 20s and 30s. The bike is now the only thing standing between me and learning how to play golf, that "Good Walk Spoiled" as the author John Feinstein refers to it.

In contrast to those swim lessons, I fondly recall cycling as an adolescent. My first real bike was a 700-pound gorilla of a Schwin. It was an arresting beauty, red and white, and loaded with two gears: go and stop. It had massive tires, silver mud shields, and a thick central bar, perfect for transporting friends. It was a classic American-made bike, with red, white and blue tassels that dangled from the hand grips. I explored the boundaries of my world on that beast of a machine, starting with my own paper route.


I delivered a county newspaper, which was printed every Thursday. My Dad fastened a wire basket to my handlebars. That basket and the banded papers that filled it added another 50 pounds to my ride. Every two weeks I collected $.96 from each of my customers. There sure were plenty of thrifty Dads on my route. I can still vividly remember each one standing before me with one hand firmly griping a crisp dollar bill, while the other hand, opened and fully extended towards me, eagerly awaited the $0.04 in change. Only the sight of four shiny Lincolns could loosen those vise-like grips. Interestingly, Moms always let me keep the change. Some even gave me a dollar and a quarter. Although the male-to-male transaction put a serious dent into my tip earnings, there was a big upside.

To carry around all that coin, I had to have a heavy metal change maker, which I fastened to my belt. It was the kind that all those perspiring, ambulatory ice cream vendors on the Jersey shore used to carry along with their hulking ice boxes, which weighed almost as much as my bike. At least I didn’t have to drive through the sand. Once filled with quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies, the machine weighed another 200 pounds, which now had me tipping the scales at 950. Add another 130 pounds of body weight, and we’re looking at a one-ton operation. The thrill of clicking those metal triggers and watching those coins drop into my hand, however, made lugging all that weight tolerable.

Bikes were also great get-away vehicles when trouble loomed, which was frequent in my suburban Philadelphia neighborhood, and which came in different forms. There was the grouch who threatened to call the cops every time we started a crabapple fight in his yard with the crabapples from his tree. There was the victimized neighbor who wanted to talk to the owner of the baseball that had crashed through his new dining room window, which he just had installed. Finally, there was the enraged driver who fell for the imaginary rope trick, in which two of us on one side of the road and two on the other pretended to be engaged in a heated tug of war, at dusk. I could always count on my bike for safe passage.

In any case, just five minutes into my highly anticipated ride on this glorious summer day in July 2009, a deflating hiss followed on the heels of a jarring “pop”. This couldn’t be! This was a brand new, top-of-the-line tire touted as the most durable on the market. Be that as it may, not even 48 hours earlier I had a similar blowout on the exact same tire at the end of an evening ride. My wife and son came to my rescue in response to my cell phone-generated SOS, and the local bike shop technicians replaced the tube the very next day.

Before today’s calamity, I never had occasion to change a bicycle tire on my own. I wasn’t too worried. After all, I spent one entire summer during college changing automobile tires at a full-service tire center. I had 2 spare tubes and my tire changing tools at home, which was only 5 minutes away. Unlike the Schwin of my childhood, which only today’s governor of California could lift, even I could carry my featherweight TREK to my garage, which I did. How hard could this be? Answer: like asking an equine veterinarian to switch her practice overnight to small animal dentistry.

Automobile tires are life-size, tire centers employ large machines, and technicians use large tools that make lots of noise. All this equipment is probably made in Texas. In contrast, bicycle tires, parts, and repair tools are made in Oz, with the exception of the seat, of course, which is made in Hell. Although not a betting man by nature, I am willing to wager that Hell’s residents don’t mind so much the eternal flames—eventually everybody becomes accustomed to them, I suppose. What must be the most annoying part of living there is having to eat meals, watch TV, and play cards sitting on all those bicycle seats. Eternity lasts a long time.

Once in my driveway, removing the tire and the tube from around the rim proved easy enough. I inserted the new tube in the tire, threaded the needle through the hole in the rim, carefully positioned the tube and tire within the rim, and proceeded to add air pressure. Before I could pat myself on the back for a job well done, however, my son-turned assistant, now fully recovered from his earlier malaise, asked me about the ugly bulge of rubber extending beyond the rim at one point on the tire. I believe his exact words were: “Is that the way the tire is supposed to look?” Before I could answer or release some air, the tire exploded, along with my hopes of that perfect ride.

In the Japanese maple directly above this bungled effort hovered that scoundrel of a crow. When our eyes met, he flew off into the stunning Carolina Blue sky, leaving an audible trail of cackling behind. I paid no attention to his hooting, because at that moment all that I could hear was that humiliating poolside command of my childhood: “Back into the pool, Minnow, until you learn to float.”