Tuber Flats Bike Race Falls Flat

 

I was excited when they told me the Tuber Flats bike race was this past weekend. I got my stuff together the night before, a few snacks, then with the break of dawn headed out to the Flats. "USA, USA!" I was chanting in the car, even though as far as I knew none of the competitors would be here from other countries. Well, guess what. Instead of evincing nationalistic pride in me, the race epitomized what's wrong with us: we’re lazy, weak, with the slightest physical exertions made only with difficulty.

But I’ll tell you what I believe in: dedication, conditioning, a plan to win, drive, and sticktoittiveness. Each of those I’ve shown throughout my life. Then should others lack those qualities, some more than others, I’ve been able to charge ahead, generally winning, unless things have somehow been rigged against me. The key thing is I’m not just “out there” shooting for a participation ribbon or being a crybaby because the trophy was too heavy for me or whatever.

You could say, I expect a lot out of myself. This even true when I was a kid. My dad explained the mathematical concept of percentages to me, telling me that 100% is the highest you can go. You physically cannot do more than 100%, he said. But then when everyone else was gone, he confided something that I can’t believe I am now revealing: You can give any effort 150% or more. It blew my mind. You mean I can do more than is possible?! I never forgot that lesson. Mostly because I put in 200% effort to remember it.

One of my first efforts at applying the 150% standard was, I believe, in 4th grade. It was track and field. Kids pole vaulting, doing the 40 yard dash, throwing shot-put, etc. Well, the way it happened — and I’ll swear this on my late mother’s life — I really poured it on in a running race, and came in first but was cheated out of the trophy or ribbon. There was some confusion. This was before instant replay. The other kids said I won, but no amount of bitching about it with the crooked judges made any difference. It’s run through my mind ever since. They knew I had the inside track when they saw me giving 150%, and obviously they judged that an unfair advantage.

OK, today I went to a big bike race in the area, Tuber Flats, full of excitement. There I was, prepared to spend a great day at the track. The first race was coming right up. 11 laps. Very exciting stuff, I thought. The various combatants looked great in their skin tight sports colors, expensive tennis shoes, and on the coolest bikes. Whether they had goggles on, I can’t remember. I was right at the starting line for the first race. “Gentlemen, this is the first race of the day,” an old retired jock told them, “and you get to set the pace. We want a clean race, a fair race, but a hard-fought race.” And so forth. He marched up and down the line of riders and sharply cracked a whip for effect. Then they were off.

How exciting as they scooted around the track! 11 laps, remember. But by the time we were up to 5 laps — a mere 5 laps! — some of the guys were already losing it, drifting back from the pack. I thought, You gotta be kidding! These guys haven’t got the stamina, the conditioning, the drive, the sticktoittiveness to keep up with the pack for even half the race?! That blew it for me, totally violating every standard I have for giving your best, a decent effort.

So as it turned out, for me it was a huge disappointment. I immediately grabbed my cooler, pennants, program, noisemakers, confetti, megaphone, binoculars, video equipment, and flower wreaths (in case I saw some real favorites), and headed for the car. If that’s the standard they have, I’m thinking out loud, they can keep the damned thing! 5 measly laps?! You have to figure the guys they put out there first were among the best. Isn’t it common to put your best foot forward? You don’t send out stinkers the first thing, do you? Hmm, maybe you do. Then the better guys. Then last the champions.

Why waste your time? If you’re not in good enough condition to keep up, why bother? You think a big time guy like me wants to sit there and watch a half-baked effort? What’s the use? All the way home I ran it over in my mind, at times shouting out the window, making fun of those guys. “I’m just in this race because ... I can’t think of why I’m even here ... just to make a sickening display of myself, I guess!” Where’s the drive? Where’s the conditioning? Where’s the dedication to the effort? Is 50% the best you can do? Not even 100? Nothing approaching 150? Sheesh!

I got out of the car at home and flipped the bird in the general direction of Tuber Flats. Next time you have a bike race, count me and my flower wreaths and pennants out!

Washington and Lincoln Stand as One for Fired Coach

Usually we live in two separate camps:
The Washington Cherry Hatchets vs. The Lincoln Split Rails,

but not in these days of great trouble...

No more "Our Guy's #1 and Your Guy's 16!" Incredibly, Washington recently put aside the rancor and joined in common cause with Lincoln. They proclaimed, "Today both our guys are #1." Wow! This new sun arose just the other day, right in the bleakest part of the night, as the day first dawned, at the moment nature itself is at its darkest...

Both teams awoke to the same terrible news: "LINCOLN'S BASKETBALL COACH FIRED!" Who took his team to 17-5 last year, including a hard fought victory over those Washington bastards. It was the talk of the town. Gatorade flowed freely in public troughs.

But now everything changed, when, inexplicably, the new Athletic Director at Lincoln, Witt DeMann, instead of a relatively cheap testosterone injection, along with a shadowy cabal of gutless underling principals, including the head principal taking an underling role because his son was grievously overlooked for a letter man's jacket and the ceremonial kiss of the prettiest girl in town -- who is actually homeschooled and thereby assumed to be without the normal diseases -- sacked Coach Mikelson. The whole thing gets complicated, but that's the basic story. They fired him, for no actual stated reason, and said, "Case closed. Move along. Nothing here to see. There's no story."

Until an influential newspaper man, showing the power of the full court press, rallied parents, townspeople, the students of Washington, Lincoln, and this one pretty homeschooler, against the idiotic cabal and their flubber-chinned henchmen on the school board. Not exactly empty suits, if you catch my drift. But were you the head man of a tribe of cannibals, and having them for Thanksgiving, you might want to double check the overall ratio of fat to lean. And if you were from a brain-sucking tribe, lest you end up on the menu yourself, in revenge, you'd want at least to tap into the cranial cavity of one and extrapolate from there. Planning makes perfect.

Anyway, the newspaperman caught the Lincoln AD at his self-congratulatory best, lounging in leisure, who issued chiseled-in-granite comments like, "Under no circumstances whatsoever -- come hell, high water, or Washington victories the next one hundred seasons will I ever accept Lew Mikelson back as our coach." He further put off the newspaper man with a repeated, "There's no story here. Go on, little man, peddle your papers elsewhere!"

It was at this point the Washington team joined forces with their bitterest rival, Lincoln -- and their proud parents, especially those whose children are on the honor roll. The others, who can't be bothered with whether their sons excel -- I'm trying not to diss my own parents too much -- sat out the fray.

Well, it happened that the school board was going to meet that very afternoon. And they were sure surprised when the students, the parents, and a half dozen extras with pitchforks and torches, came into the room. Each stood and in a dignified way offered their considered support for Coach Mikelson. They shook hands congenially with board members. But nothing seemed to sway the board till -- What's this?! -- Till the door opened again, and there stood one scowling woman in a miniskirt, nice-looking, with her homeschooled daughter, yes, the same one. Mom marched with confidence and determination to the blackboard, and said, "I'd like to address this meeting of the---" We'll just cut to the chase...

It turned out she knew all the dirt on each of these dirtbags. Including Bobby Taylor, sitting there, who'd seven times asked her for a date! Mrs. Taylor's mouth dropped open, smelling of ice. The students, each with hidden romantic entanglements of their own, sensed a distinct shift, the tide turning. The school board, the feckless principals, and even AD DeMann, were jiggling their chins and huffing such retorts as, "Well, I never!" and "Be silent, curséd hag!" before immediately voting (without a second) on the motion that they rehire Coach Mikelson, give him double pay for the past week and his inconvenience, and censure their previous handiwork with malice aforethought and the strongest prejudice.

The students erupted in cheers. This meant now, of course, unless they physically catch Mikelson with the entire cheerleading squad and the homeschooled girl, and the homeschooling mother agrees, they can never, not ever, fire him again. He has them -- and especially AD DeMann -- firmly by the nuts today, tomorrow, and henceforth forever. "Squirm, you worm, DeMann! Now, let's talk about that raise." And, "It's been 10 minutes, DeMann, I feel another serious ass-kissing coming on."

The newspaper recounted the joyous event, the historic day when Washington, Lincoln, and the homeschool mother all came together and socked it to the whole bunch of 'em. But they were generous enough to leave out of it the scofflaws' names. An appearance of graciousness that probably has more to do with future access than anything else. "We were just channeling public sentiment, not burning our own bridges, harumph..."

As for the Washington and Lincoln students, it's back to Total All-Out War! No one owes anyone anything! Come Fall, you filthy bastards, it's back on! "Your boat's going down, Washington!" and "Lincoln, how'd you like that play?"