The Boy Scout Motto

What's in your cupboard?

Mine's pretty empty right now. I prefer to do my grocery shopping when no one else is at the store (ie, at 4am or so), but I've been waking up too late each day this week. I'm barely making it to workout on time...so I either need to shop when there are crowds, or hold off until the weekend.
The question I have to ask myself is whether I can scrounge together enough meals from my meager kitchen remnants to stay alive until then.

Of course, asking this question made me think about what I consider the essentials of life. What are the grocery items that I always want to have available at home? What sorts of things appear in my shopping cart week after week?

I'm trying to eat healthier and lose weight, so salads and green smoothie ingredients should be on that list. But I can live a day or two (or one hundred) without a salad. Whether I could survive without chips and salsa, though, is another question entirely.

By the way, the photo above is from Homeland Security's disaster preparedness website (ready.gov.) They actually have a page to help you handle solar flares. Oddly, though, there's nothing there about being ready for full-scale Martian invasions, or even how to defend against ET abductions (and associated orifice probing.)

Their food list is pretty generic, and reasonably consistent with my own grocery list. Canned foods, peanut butter, crackers, and "comfort food" (which I assume includes Peppermint Patties and ice cream.) I also consistently try to have a good supply of nuts, energy bars, oatmeal, and some sort of biscuit mix. I guess I'm pretty much a model citizen, Homeland-Security-wise.

But I do need my chips and salsa, my Wint-o-green life savers, and my bag of chocolate chips. I also like to have some skim milk, various kinds of beans, and something red and chewy -- like Swedish Fish or Twizzlers. And of course, pepperoni.

I still have enough of those things to make it to the weekend, so I'll hold off going to the store. Heck, there's even a pack of Ramen noodles I can resort to if it comes to that. Since I'm planning to play tennis after work tonight, I'm hoping that the tortillas, applesauce, and cole slaw in my lunch sack will fuel me up for the workday AND my time on the court, with enough energy left over to shower and hit the hay without feeling the need to raid the fridge.

The good news is that I've had a reasonably healthy week so far. I'm on track for a good result at Monday's weigh-in. The only setbacks have been my monthly "Big Bopper" breakfast at Gunther Toody's, and the unexpected Klondike bar I was forced to eat yesterday when the power went out and a quick-thinking employee enlisted help to avoid a tragic meltdown in the company kitchen.

The bad news is that my neck is still honked up from the Cottonwood Pass debacle. I'm not sure if I'll be on the bike this weekend or not. I'll keep you posted, and I'll attempt to include a fun little celebrity trivia puzzle in the next post. For now, I'll simply urge you to eat healthy, and to follow your government's suggestions on how to prepare for Gozer, the Borg, or a zombie attack. Have a great day!

Hail

The skies opened, and celestial ice balls came pouring out.

Fortunately, I was already at home, and the car was in the carport. The trees weren't so lucky; leaves and branches were ripped away and strewn about the ground, completely covering the rock beds and sidewalks. You'd think a quick-thinking journalist like myself would run outside with a camera to document the carnage as it was happening, but...well, there must've been something good on TV.

I did peek out the window at one point. I'd guess the hailstones were about marble-sized (both regular and "shooter"). I found myself thinking that it's interesting that we don't really have a detailed continuum of reference sphere sizes to use for hailstone comparisons. There's a gap between marbles and golf balls, and a larger spread between golf and tennis balls. And from baseball to softball-size is a huge jump.

Regardless, the destructive force of a billion frozen marbles is still considerable. My personal possessions seem to have survived undamaged, but the leaf-blower dudes had plenty to do the next day.

As I mentioned, I was home when the storm rolled through. Fortunately, some of the more devoted employees were still at the office and noticed that the carpet was getting a tad damp.

Our office is at the bottom of a hill. Well, the storm drain in the upper parking lot is supposed to capture and divert excess water before it can flow down the hill and into the building...but the intensity of the hailstorm caused the drain grate to become covered with a mesh of hail, branches, leaves, and mud. The water had nowhere to go.

According to tales told by the folks who were working late, there were heroic efforts to unclog the drain, move equipment from flooded areas, and generally protect the premises from the sudden sea that threatened to engulf the building. They also called a disaster service, who brought in a boatload of blowers to dry everything up after the storm had passed.

This was the view in the hallway as recovery efforts proceeded. (My office door is just to the left of the frame.)



There were two more blowers inside my office, and countless others throughout the entire building.



The good news is that the carpets are now dry and the damage was limited. The bad news is that all the blowers and ripped-off molding will remain where they are until after the insurance adjuster has made a visit. Not sure when that'll be. No worries, though; I'm getting used to ducking under air tubes and stepping around floor fans.

On a different topic, I thought I'd ask what you guys do with certificates you receive. Is there any reason for me to keep my Horsetooth 2.4-mile lake swim completion certificate? Probably not. Scan it and toss it.

But what if I somehow become famous and one of my grandkids could get it appraised on the Antiques Roadshow in 50 years or so? Wouldn't that make it worth hanging onto?

Hmm, it's not actually signed by anyone, and could be reprinted as needed. OK, it's going in the trash.

I'll hang onto my All-American certificate; that document represents a larger accomplishment. And I suppose my diploma and college degrees have some value in their paper form. Otherwise, let's not clog the file cabinets. But seriously; what do you keep?

OK. One last thought before I hit the button and head off to work. As everyone knows, Leonard da Vinci went to extreme lengths to conceal the fact that Jesus had a grandson who worked with Shoeless Joe Jackson to build the pyramids, invent the formula for Coca Cola, and assassinate JFK. But as far as I know, no one has yet pieced together the connections between the Illuminati and the Los Angeles Dodgers.

I don't have the answers, myself. But I do know that Dodger pitcher Don Drysdale once appeared on Leave it to Beaver. His probable relative, Milburn Drysdale, was the banker for millionaire hillbilly J.D. Clampett, whose nephew was a known double-naught spy. But the missing piece of the puzzle is how the Dodgers became connected with Clampett.

I offer the following evidence, and you may draw your own conclusions. On numerous occasions, the lesser Clampetts have demonstrated the ability to shoot flies off the wall at greater than 200 paces -- and Jed is acknowledged to be the best shot of the bunch. And yet, during the famed "Texas Tea" event, he is seen clearly missing an immobile jackrabbit from no more than 15 yards away. We are supposed to believe that this highly improbable lapse in marksmanship led to the "accidental" discovery of resources that would lead Clampett to an influential position in Hollywood...but it smells of high conspiracy to me. I'm betting that further investigation would lead directly to George Bush, Dick Chaney, and L. Ron Hubbard -- probably through connections with suspicious characters such as the so-called "Dash" Riprock.

Let me know what you think. In the meantime, I'm hoping you have successfully navigated the recent summer storms, and will continue to do so as autumn approaches. Have a great day!

Horsetooth Lake Swim 2013

There's no doubt in my mind: Swimming is the best sport in the world.

The water supports you, caresses you, and keeps you cool. You don't have to worry about avoiding trucks and RVs, and the course is marked with gigantic fluorescent buoys rather than faint chalk. And best of all -- in swimming, you don't have to climb any stupid hills!

I love the Horsetooth Lake Swim. It's in a beautiful location, and is a well-run event. The 10K is probably a better distance for me, but this year I entered the wimpy 2.4-mile race, just to avoid having to find a kayaker and spend the night in Ft. Collins. Besides, I wasn't sure how tired I'd be after Saturday's bike ride.

I was lucky enough to bum a ride with the Spaeth family. I met them at 4am. Jim wasn't swimming, so he drove while Lisa, Ellesse, and I relaxed. We wanted to make sure we were there well before the start, and we ended up arriving more than an hour before we needed to. With no time pressure, and with my bike-ride burnout as a built-in excuse for going slow in the water, I was very relaxed, and just enjoying a lovely morning sunrise over the water.



The Foothills Masters Swim Team was well represented. In addition to myself, Lisa, and Ellesse, we had Leif, John, Reynold, Kim, and Lydia at this end of the lake, and Karen at the other end (participating in the 10K.) I know I say this over and over, but I am always proud to be associated with this outstanding group of athletes. They're wonderful and inspirational people, and I'm proud to call them friends.

I also had a chance to chat with other masters swimming friends, and a few of the folks who came to watch the race and lend support. These included Jim (of course), Leif's wife, Margaret (shown here with her hubby), and Kim's wife, Karen -- who was kind enough to let me use her photos for this blog. (Yes, these are all her pictures.)

Surprisingly, I felt pretty good. My arms and neck were a little stiff, and my plan was still to do the swim as an enjoyable workout rather than a race -- but I was much more energetic than I was expecting after my Salida collapse.

It was not surprising, though, that my brain was still not working very well. As you can see in this photo, I'm the only swimmer walking down to the start line without the official green cap. Jim was kind enough to run back up the hill to grab it and bring it down to me before the starting horn.



We had to file into the water across the timing mats. There wasn't really a designated "starting line", so people just kinda wandered into the lake far enough to make room for the others who needed to pass the mat.



I snuck around behind the crescent orange tube that marked the beach area and tried to make my way to where I could find the guys I hoped to draft. But they fired the starting horn before I was in position. I ducked under the tube and started swimming.



I had no desire to sprint, no desire to grapple in the scrum, and no idea where my rivals were. So I just moved over to the side and tried to find a good pace I could settle into.



I'm guessing I was about at the triangular yellow buoy when the following photo was taken; somewhere in the middle of the pack. From that point on, no one passed me that I know of. Once around the buoy, I started to look for good drafting prospects.



Since this was not a triathlon, I was expecting the swimmers to be more experienced and savvy. Indeed, the kids from the Air Force Academy swim team had already disappeared in front, and the folks in my neighborhood were pushing a pretty solid pace. My challenge was to find someone who could navigate well and was too fast to pass, but slow enough to draft. That's the formula for a fast open water swim.

Unfortunately, it seemed that every swimmer I chose as a potential pace-setter was either a squirrely zig-zagger, or a "pop your head up and stop dead" sighter. I actually rammed my head into the back of a couple of different people when they inexplicably halted to tread water. What's up with that?

So, I became a serial leech. I'd follow someone's feet for a few hundred yards, then swap to a different leader when they lost momentum. Many of these draft-swapping maneuvers required a brief sprint to catch up to a group that was further ahead, but each sprint would move me up a little bit in the pack.

Still reluctant to really hammer (out of fear that I'd fizzle before the finish), I was content to hold a bit in reserve throughout the first lap, and into the second. At each buoy, I'd pass another 3 or 4 people -- for some reason, most of them were swimming really wide around the buoys, and then stopping for a sighting. Um, dudes...it's out and back! No need to look, just make a 180 and put your head down!

On the final northward leg, I sped up to catch a woman who was setting a good pace and seemed to be going straight. She was gaining on the next pack in front, so I tucked in behind and enjoyed the slipstream for a bit. But a few hundred yards before the final yellow buoy, she did the annoying "stop and look" thing, so I pulled out to go around.

This is what I love about open water swimming. As I tried to pass, she and I were eye to eye, a foot apart, each thinking about whether it was better to push to the lead, or drop back to get pulled. As I was pondering the question, it occurred to me that this gal looked a lot like Ellesse. Well, if it was her, that would settle the question, wouldn't it?

OK, then...pedal to the metal. There was only about a half mile to go, and if she had the juice to stay with me, then I'd tip my cap and acknowledge her toughness. But once I cut it close around the buoy on the final leg to the finish, the water to each side appeared to be vacant. There were a couple of folks a dozen meters in front, so I forgot about Ellesse as they became the next target.

They were swimming roughly the same speed, about 3 meters apart. The one on the left appeared to be a woman, and the one on the right was a large guy. I chose the guy, figuring that a big body meant a better draft. But about the time I had attached myself, he started swimming breaststroke!

Sheesh. I zagged to the left and put on a burst to catch up with the gal. She didn't seem to be going very straight, and the breaststroker dude seemed to be going the same speed--really cranking his breaststroke. Long story short; I swapped back and forth between them two or three more times until the guy took off to where I could no longer keep up. That's when a different woman tried to pass me.

At this point, I could see the orange tube around the swim beach, and therefore knew where to find the finish. Sprint time, baby. I even started kicking, and was pleased to find that my legs were actually able to contribute.

My right shoulder was rubbing the orange tube, which meant that my competitor was forced to the outside around the curve. That appeared to be enough to make the difference. When it was too shallow to swim, I stood up and ran to the timing mat, finishing a mere 3 seconds ahead of her. Ellesse was another 15 seconds back, confirming that it was indeed her who had given me the incentive to speed up.

Lisa, Reynold, and Kim finished shortly after that.





It was a good day for Foothills Masters. Leif, John, and Ellesse each won second place in their respective divisions. And I was very pleased with my 4th place in the USMS male non-wetsuit division.



After the event, those of us with no other plans stopped at Johnson's Corner to try their "World Famous" cinnamon rolls. I had the cinnamon roll French toast, which I have to admit, tasted pretty darn good. I wish I had a picture of that little piece of heavenly decadence...but since I forgot to capture it, I guess I'll have to go back for that. Anybody up for some road-trip breakfast this weekend?

In summary, my weekend can be described as follows: Tough and disappointing ride followed by a delightful swim day, in turn followed by sugar overload, an afternoon nap, and some serious couch potato time. Overall, I'd have to say that I'll mark it down as a grand weekend. I'm already looking forward to whatever comes next.

Thanks for dropping by, and thanks again to Karen for providing the pictures. Have a great day!

Vuelta a Salida

I was looking forward to this ride. 100 miles through a beautiful part of Colorado, spending the day on my bicycle in the company of other cycling enthusiasts, seeing wildlife and spectacular vistas -- what could be better?

Well...I guess being in shape would help. And having a functioning brain would also provide tangible benefits. But neither of those advantages belonged to me on Saturday. What was expected to be a delightful and joyous day in the mountains turned into what is probably my worst athletic performance, ever.

Most of my mistakes would seem small and forgivable, and I still refuse to believe that the Vuelta a Salida race course was simply beyond my capability. But at the end of the day, the official results don't lie: they show my first ever DNF. My bike and I traveled the last 20 miles of the course stuffed into the back of a Chaffee County Search and Rescue vehicle.

Ugh.

It's humiliating and embarrassing, but I least I wasn't the only guy they swept up. There was one other fellow behind me, and they grabbed him, too. But more about that later.

The event organizers seemed like nice folks, but they were not overly communicative. Other than this GPS map on their website, there were no instructions. By asking around in town the night before, I was able to locate the start line (though the markings on the pavement turned out to indicate the wrong starting direction), and arrived there about an hour early.

As I unloaded my stuff from the car, I made a couple of disappointing discoveries. One was that I had forgotten the little strap I use to keep my glasses from slipping onto my nose when I get sweaty. That's not a big deal; I can push the glasses back up. But the mounting arm for my bike's mirror was broken, and that caused me some concern.

A quick exam revealed that I would need tools to remove it, or I could probably rig a temporary repair with some duct tape. But of course, there were no bike shops open, no repair techs at the start line, and the race officials had no tape or rubber bands.

Seriously? No duct tape? How could you expect to put on an event without duct tape?

Oh well. It was a beautiful morning, and I was at the starting line with plenty of time to spare.



The small crowd (less than 100 riders) started down the streets at about 8:05am. I figured I'd easily make it back before 4pm, allowing me to get back to Denver in plenty of time to rest up for the Horsetooth swim on Sunday. My worst case calculations had me taking 5 hours to the summit, then 3 more hours on the downhill glide back into Salida. These calculations were based on the fact that this ride was 20 miles shorter than the Triple Bypass, contained only 1 summit (as opposed to 3), and would have smaller aid stations--which would decrease my urges to spend time resting. Plus, I had no friends in the race, so socializing could be replaced with hammering. 8 hours, 9 tops. No problem.

If I could get finished in 7 hours, even better. I figured that the longer I could draft within the starting pack, the faster my overall pace would be. Perhaps the first 25 miles of (relatively) flat highway up to Byoona Vista would be relaxed and fast "peloton" miles.

Or...perhaps I could expend my entire day's worth of energy reserves trying to keep up with those maniacs in the first couple of miles and be toast for the remainder of the day. Oh yeah, that sounds like the right approach!

I tried to keep up, but within a half hour, I was all alone.



But it was a nice day, the Collegiate Peaks were magnificent, and I assumed that I'd eventually catch back up with some of them. I wasn't worried. My renegade mirror flopped around and made it impossible to know what traffic was approaching, but there were enough cars and trucks on the road that it was a safe assumption that somebody was always coming. I stayed over as far on the shoulder as I could.

The first aid station was in downtown Buena Vista (~30 miles), and consisted of a card table staffed by a couple of teenage girls. There were candy bars, water bottles, and store brand cola and diet cola. The porta potties were around behind the building, necessitating a long walk in cleats...but I figured I'd better take advantage. Nobody here had duct tape or rubber bands, either, but one of the girls generously parted with a pony-tail band, which I then struggled to wrap around my mirror stem. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it kept the mirror from clanging around against the handlebars, and allowed me to actually use it if I placed my palm against it at just the right angle. Good enough.

I inquired about the next part of the course, and was told to go "down the road a ways and then turn when you see the chalk mark on the street." Indeed, this group's idea of a "well-marked" course was to put one (or perhaps two) yellow chalk-marked arrows at each turn. Not in advance of the turn, mind you -- AT the turn. And since the turns were something like 20 miles from each other, I guess I considered the marking to be somewhat less than adequate. Perhaps it's just me, but I think I would prefer multiple LARGE signs leading up to a course change -- AND reflective-vest course marshals waving their arms and yelling and pointing. Despite my anxiety, though, I don't believe I actually missed any of the turns.

My next mistake might have been the definitive one. I think I left the aid station adequately fueled -- I had eaten a bag of Honey Stingers and a couple of PowerBars at the aid station, and washed them down with a generic cola and a bottle of water. But I somehow got it in my head that I could make it to the next aid station (at the summit of Cottonwood Pass) before I'd need to eat again. In retrospect, this viewpoint may have indicated that I was already in trouble...since it's clear evidence that my brain wasn't functioning. I was at 8000 feet of elevation with 20 miles and 4000 feet of climbing to do. What I had consumed would not even begin to get the job done.

I realized this somewhere around 10,000 feet. But of course, at that point there was nowhere flat to stop. I was in full granny gear and barely moving, so any attempt to coast would result in an immediate crash. And I did NOT want to have to start up and re-clip on such a steep slope. Even though I knew I was becoming depleted, I kept going out of sheer stupidity and stubbornness.

Until I couldn't. At about 11,000 feet, I had to admit to myself that I'd never make it to the aid station without more calories. I found a less-steep section and was somehow able to dismount without tumbling into the ditch. It was kinda scary, since there was still a constant flow of RV traffic (many of them pulling boats), but I was far enough off the road to remain safe. I had another PowerBar, a gel, and another pack of Stingers, and then waited until my breathing had calmed down a bit. Somehow, I was able to re-mount, re-clip, and continue the climb.



It doesn't look at that steep in the picture, but the photo shows about 600 to 800 feet of ascent. The surprising thing was that I actually passed a couple of guys in this section, and there were 4 or 5 other folks at the aid station at the top.



Here's a totally unrelated question for you -- Why have they started putting Ferrigno-strength springs on porta potty doors? At 12,000 feet, after a grueling climb, the last thing I needed was to be crushed by an unremorseful outhouse door. I got myself inside, but just barely.

My business inside told me that I wasn't hydrating adequately, either. Since most riders had long since passed this aid station, there many choices remaining. There had been liquid Gatorade earlier, but the jug was now empty. The guy offered me some Gatorade powder, though, so I filled one of my water bottles with it. I ate what I could (including potato chips, which actually tasted pretty darned good), and then posed for a picture.



One of my other mistakes was in overfilling my backpack. (Or perhaps it was "not training with a full backpack.") My arms and my entire back were really fatigued from early on in the day. I was carrying long pants, a jacket, light & heavy gloves, arm and leg compression sleeves, and a bunch of extra food. The only thing I used was the jacket...but I was glad I had it. The Cottonwood Pass descent would've chilled me to the bone without it. I haven't looked at the GPS yet, but I was probably faster going down that hill than I was in the Rusty Wallace drive.

So, after reversing course at the summit, there was a good 20-mile stretch that I thoroughly enjoyed. But it was over in a flash, and I found myself back in Buena Vista during the heat of the afternoon, desperately needing to take the jacket off. I stopped right beside a cemetery (completely missing the ominous literary portent of the action) to doff the coat and slam down another bag of Stingers. While I was standing there, the Search and Rescue vehicle pulled up and asked if I was OK. "Sure!" I said. "Just getting a snack. Thanks for asking." They asked if I had enough water and food, and seemed quite concerned. At that point, it didn't occur to me that their interest was based on the fact that there was only one guy behind me...and most everyone else was already back in Salida. I thought they were probably just bored -- but what they really wanted was to get the stragglers off the course so they could go home. But I convinced them to drive on, and I got back in the saddle.

But the next few miles seemed to take forever. The road appeared relatively flat and the wind seemed fairly calm, but I was back in full granny gear and creeping along at a snail's pace. My back hurt, my arms were spent, and my bike seemed to weigh a ton. My legs didn't feel that bad, but they just weren't spinning at the rate I expected. I decided that another brief rest stop was in order.



I had looked at the elevation plot the week before, and had it in my head that once I reached the summit, it was smooth sailing all the way home. But obviously, I was mentally flattening the curves on the graph. I had pulled over at about 75 miles, and was beginning to understand that my thoughts of coasting back to my car were naïve; there was still plenty of pedaling to do. I probably had a pretty discouraged look on my face when the Chaffee Country Search and Rescue group pulled back up beside me. This time, my attempts at cheerful assurances were met with even more skepticism. They parked the truck, pulled out a lawn chair, and told me I should sit and drink one of their electrolyte replacement beverages. That's what I did.

One of the crew (Tracy) stayed with me while the others drove off to find the one guy who was behind me. It felt good to sit, but after a couple of minutes I told her I was going to ride on toward the aid station (another couple of miles, which included the steep downhill leading up to the 80-mile mark.) They passed me on the way there, and were waiting when I arrived. And at that point, my cycling day was over. They loaded my bike into the back of the truck while we waited for the other straggler, who was only a couple of minutes behind. His bike went into the Sheriff's vehicle, but we left while he was still slamming down the last of the aid station's food.

Looking at the elevation chart and comparing it to what I saw on the drive back to Salida, I think I'd have been fine up to the 94-mile mark. But that last huge climb would've kept me on the course until after sunset, and I would've had to drive home to Denver in the dark. As it was, the Search and Rescue folks dropped me off at the finish line so the officials could record my DNF. I was feeling ashamed and angry at myself, but was actually grateful to the SR team for their concern and kindness. (I was interested to note that they all thought the race was poorly run, too, and were especially critical of the inadequate course marking and marshaling.)

I suppose I could've gone over to the park to see if any of the other riders were still celebrating, but I just wanted to go home and rest up for the next morning's lake swim. I rode the bike back to my car, loaded up, and headed toward Denver.

After bonking so badly and feeling so knotted up in the arms and shoulders, I seriously thought about bailing out of the Horsetooth swim. But several of my good friends were swimming it, and I wanted to share the experience with them, even if I was too tired to swim well. I shall share that story tomorrow. Have a great day!

Ebony and Ivory

I wonder if Vincent Price was a creepy kid?

When his kindergarten teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, did he answer "Gee, Miss Randall, I guess I want to be known as the Master of the Macabre...assuming I ever learn what "macabre" means." Or did he begin his life with dreams of chartered accountancy, or perhaps something really noble, like swim coaching?

How old do you think he was when someone first said "Vinnie, baby... when they finally get around to inventing big production zombie-dancing music videos, you should definitely do the voice-over!"?

Regardless, Mr. Price leveraged his precise elocution and evil charm to win the role of Egghead (2nd panel), and then went on to team with Michael Jackson on "Thriller." His much more important work, though, was in such cinematic triumphs as "The Abominable Dr. Phibes", which paired him with Virginia North as Vulnavia, his beautiful but quiet hench-babe. She's the one in the photo above, and in the fuzzy white hat in the extra-credit puzzle panel 2.







To the right of Mr. Price (or should I channel the ghost of Bob Barker and say "Price's right"? Ar ar.) is Frank Gorshin, in the garish green garb of the Riddler. On Star Trek, he played a half-black, half-white bounty hunter who was obsessed with tracking down the guy in the second panel of the "easy" puzzle. Mr. Gorshin began his career as a standup comic who did some pretty decent impressions, and that's probably what got him hired to do the voice of Yosemite Sam after Mel Blanc died.

I didn't realize the irony until after I assembled the pictures, but there's something appropriate about putting the half-white/half-black guy next to Michael Jackson. I suppose I could've also done that with Vanilla Ice, or President Obama. Hmm.

Anyway, the sidewinder in the cowboy hat is Cliff Robertson, appearing as special guest villain "Shame." He was also Spiderman's Uncle Ben, who would never have been shot if Peter had actually gone to the library instead of rassling Bonesaw. Great responsibility does not necessarily give birth to great judgment, I guess.

Much earlier in his career, though, Mr. Robertson won an Oscar for "Charly", where he played a mentally deficient fellow who takes a drug that makes him really really smart. For a while. That story was based on "Flowers for Algernon," which I was forced to read in high school English class. All I remember from that is that "Algernon" was the name of the rat, who is shown in panel 1 of the extra credit puzzle. (He got really smart, too...for a while. Whether he was friends with any radioactive spiders, though, I do not know.)

Finally, we have the Penguin, who was killed by Mr. T in "Rocky III." But long before he was a fight manager, Burgess Meredith had an iconic role in the original Twilight Zone series. He played a myopic bookworm who never had enough time to read. He becomes ecstatic to learn that everyone else on Earth has died, figuring that he can spend the rest of his days at the library, absorbing the wisdom and entertainment value of all the world's printed literature.

I won't spoil Serling's twist, but you can view it here, if you're interested. Oh, and by the way, Julie Newmar named her Star Trek baby Leonard James Akaar. And when Spock learns of his shipmates' delight in the name, he tells them he thinks "you're both going to be insufferably pleased with yourselves for at least a month."

Classic.

On a completely different topic, my bike is tuned up and outfitted with new tires...so I'm ready for a long bike ride this weekend. There's also the Horsetooth 2.4-mile swim, so though I won't post anything for the next couple of days, I am pretty sure I'll have interesting tales to tell come Monday. Have a great weekend!

Holy Kevin Bacon, Batman!

There must be a corollary to Murphy's Law about how a person's office workload inevitably doubles during the week he's trying to relax and taper for athletic competition.

Stupid Murphy.

We have VIP visitors tomorrow, and tons of proposal work to do. It's good, I suppose, in that these activities keep the company afloat, which allows me to continue getting paychecks, but c'mon...I'd really like to spend a day or two staring out the window instead of gathering statistics and editing presentations.

Oh well. I guess the only real impact is that I get home later, get less sleep, and therefore have less time to spend blogging. And that's probably a blessing for the folks who actually stop by this site. There's less time for me to rant about people who don't use their turn signals or folks who take video of Bigfoot with really crappy cameras. One megapixel movies just don't cut it, people--get with modern times, OK?

Anyway, let's talk about Batman villains, and their connections to other cinematic luminaries. As I suspected, yesterday's puzzle was easier than usual; most people easily got "Holes" and "Barnaby Jones." But while folks did recognize Eric Von Zipper, the actual connection I had in mind seems to have been a bit elusive.



As you know, Eartha Kitt (Catwoman #2 in our puzzle) also played Madame Zeroni in the Shia LeBeouf movie "Holes." I really liked that movie, and would recommend it as more than just a children's story.

A couple of people made the connection with Julie Newmar and Star Trek...but that wasn't quite the answer I was looking for. Julie (Catwoman #1) did indeed appear in Star Trek, but it was in The Original Series, not NextGen; so Picard isn't the right guy. He belongs to Halle Berry (Catwoman #4), since he played Prof. Xavier in the X-Men. Ms. Berry was Storm, the mutant chick who ruled the weather.

[Extra credit question: Can you tell me what Julie Newmar's Star Trek character named the baby she had in the episode? I'll give you a hint; Kirk saved her tribe, and McCoy saved her life. Double extra credit if you can quote the caustic remark Spock makes when he hears the name.]

Lee Meriwether was also in Star Trek TOS, as the taciturn computer-generated babe who could be configured for cellular disruption based on DNA. But her appearance in this puzzle is related to the time she spent as Barnaby Jones' version of Della Street. (It's a pity that Jed didn't also hire Jethro Bodine as his version of Paul Drake.)

Which brings us back to Ms. Newmar. Before she donned the cat ears to befuddle Batman, she played a lifelike robot in the TV series "My Living Doll." Her co-star (and Mindy to her Mork) was Bob Cummings, who later played the beach blanket scientist known as "The Finger", shown in our puzzle using his Vulcan nerve techniques to incapacitate the fearsome bike gang leader, Eric Von Zipper.

So that's it for Catwomen. Next, we will discuss some connections associated with the male malcontents who plagued the good citizens of Gotham City. These guys:



Today's puzzle is a two-fer. Both of the graphics below denote relationships with the same evildoers shown above. The first one is relatively easy, but the second puzzle shows connections that require a slightly more in-depth knowledge of the actor's career.

(And keep in mind that the second puzzle is about the Batman villains, not the guys directly above them. In other words, I know that Michael Jackson had a thing for rats, and that Mr. T learned acting from Yosemite Sam, but those are just bonus coincidences. The puzzles below are simply two sets of answers that apply to the same 4 guys above, OK? Good. And as always, you can click to embiggen.)

Have fun, and have a great day!

More About Cats

When I was a kid, I actually enjoyed watching "Top Cat", which was one of the Hanna Barbera crap-toons that helped take our minds off the combined stresses of Communism, racial tension, and Twiggy.

I didn't realize until later that TC was a rip-off of Sgt. Bilko, and that the Flintstones were just copying The Honeymooners. Yogi Bear promoted criminal behavior, Quickdraw McGraw perpetuated inappropriate racial stereotypes, and the entire H-B programming line gave viewers an astounding amount of misinformation regarding animal anatomy and behaviors among non-humans. I'll have to check Wikipedia to verify this, but I'm pretty sure it was a backlash against Hanna Barbera cartoons that prompted the founding of PETA.

The Batman TV show, on the other hand, always remained firmly rooted in reality. Every villain's particular obsession was plausible, and the traps laid for the Dynamic Duo were purrfectly consistent with the guest criminal's flair for the dramatic. But let's face it, Catwoman is the best feline character on any program, ever. Period.

So that's where we find today's quiz. Can you correctly identify how each of our featured Catwomen are connected to the guys in the next strip?





That might be the easiest quiz I've ever posted. The next one will also feature Batman villains and their connections, but might be a tad less obvious. We'll have some fun with that one, I'm sure. In the meantime, let me know which television or movie cats are your favorites, and have a great day!

Taper Week Begins

As I'm sure you've seen on Google, today is Erwin Schrodinger's birthday. My quantum physics question is this: What did the dude have against cats?

In my opinion, he should've stuck a mouse...or better yet, a dadgum mosquito in his little box.

I know it's not considered a very macho thing to say, but I like cats. Heck, if it weren't for the fact that I live in a tiny little condo and am already dangerously close to fitting the stereotype of the anti-social, demented, muttering-to-himself-about-the-revenooers hermit geezer weirdo, I would seriously consider getting one. But for now, alas, I shall remain catless.

I was planning to share my weekend experiences with you, but have run out of time. Short version: I tried to cram a lot of physical activities in there so that I could feel like I had a base from which to taper...but I'm now thinking it was too little, too late. I'll have to face next weekend's athletic challenges without the benefit of fitness. Oh well. Perhaps some expensive energy foods can provide the boost I'll need to get me through it. (I wonder; does PowerBar make ice cream?)

Anyway, I do have a couple of things to tell you about the weekend, but they'll have to wait. For now, I'll just ask you one question that's been bugging me for some reason:

Other than Ms. Kitt, have you ever known of anyone else named "Eartha"? And if not, why not?

Hmm, perhaps what I'm really thinking is that it's time for some Batman villain trivia. Stayed tuned for that, and have a great day!

Where No Man Has Gone Before...

I wonder if the crew of the Enterprise would consider themselves "astronauts"?

The way I look at it, if you have your own apartment, fully capable food replicators, and, well, gravity...your job isn't that much different from any crew in the regular Navy. Sure, you're in space; so the "astronaut" designation would technically apply--but I doubt you'd use the term to describe yourself.

Two hundred years ago, a white guy crossing the mountains was considered a brave and hearty pioneer. Today, the same guy is merely a part of the traffic problem. Even if he stayed off the highways and carried nothing but some supplies and a Bowie knife, he's just a "hiker". No big deal.

So at some point, even though there will be plenty of people in spaceships, nobody will be called astronauts. I surely do hope I live to see that day.

Anyway, I probably could've included the gal at the top of this post in yesterday's quiz. But her qualification was for her voice only, so I didn't. Majel Barrett (aka Mrs. Gene Roddenberry) was not only "Number One" in the pilot (as shown above), but was also Nurse Christine Chapel in TOS, and Lwaxana Troi in TNG. In addition, she provided computer voices for almost every incarnation of Star Trek there has been.

The folks in the graphic, though, are the 6 actors who played the same (onscreen) character in three different Star Trek TV series.





The first fellow, sadly, just passed away on July 31st. His name was Michael Ansara, and he probably appeared on just about ever show there was in the 60s and 70s. In the puzzle, he's shown in his role as Cochise in the late 1950s. In his various Star Trek appearances, though, he played the formidable Klingon Kang.

The second guy is Armin Shimerman, shown in the puzzle as a guest on Seinfeld. In the Trek universe, he was the slimy Ferengi Quark.

Everybody recognized Jonathan Frakes, aka Commander Riker. Next to him, Marina Sirtis (aka Counselor Deanna Troi) wasn't quite so easy to identify.

The next guy is the charismatic John de Lancie, who played the charming omnipotent jerkwad known simply as "Q". And in the final panel, we have Richard Poe, who played the perennially grumpy Cardassian, Gul Evek.

Other than Kang and Q, these characters were not among my favorites. The folks I'd have liked to see reappear would include Gary Seven and Roberta Lincoln, Trelane as a grownup, Bela Oxmyx*, a completely rehabilitated Lord Garth, and of course, Julie Newmar. It might also have been fun to see what baby Hortas looked like.

And not that this has anything to do with anything, but I've always wondered -- after the original series ended and Leonard Nimoy joined the cast of "Mission Impossible", was he thinking "Thank goodness, I finally made it into a show that will be remembered!"? That would have been an entirely logical assumption at the time.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that little bit of trivia. I'll get into some deeper philosophical topics in the upcoming days. As always, thanks for dropping by. Have a great day!

* More trivia: In the script, and on a poster featured in the episode "A Piece of the Action", the mob boss's name was actually spelled "Okmyx". But since it was consistently pronounced as Oxmyx by the actors, that name has become the accepted character designation. Wow. I guess we all learn something new every day, don't we?

Astronauts

I'm back in proposal mode at the office, which means that I'll be working late...which in turn means that creativity and bloggery might be in short supply. Irritable crabbiness and zombie-like shuffling might dominate my public behaviors over the next several days. On the plus side, I'm usually pretty crabby and zombie-like, so perhaps no one will notice. In any case, I apologize for not being more fun.

The only thing I'll share today is a brief explanation of why I mentioned Karen Nyberg the other day. I'm sure that all my college friends got the joke, but some others are probably scratching their heads as to why I included a link to an astronaut's biography. Don't get me wrong, I think astronauts are the bee's knees, and wouldn't mind being one myself. I wish there were a whole lot more funding for manned spaceflight programs, and I truly believe that figuring out how to send humans to other planets should be one of mankind's primary goals. But my connection with Astronaut Nyberg is simply a happy coincidence. You see, my very first girlfriend was also named Karen Nyberg.

That was back in my ultra-nerd days. She was the sister of Glenn Nyberg, who was a pretty good swimmer and a talented actor. He's the one in the lab coat narrating the film (that's me with the bricks, by the way) in this clip:



Anyway, I dated Nyberg's sister until my idiot friends convinced me I should break up with her. My ignorance of the world and how it works remains significant to this day, but back then, my cluelessness was truly staggering. Long story short: after we split, I had a long period of datelessness, and she probably still hates me to this day. When I ran across the name listed on a NASA website, I had to look at the pictures to make sure it wasn't the same girl.

Actually, having an astronaut for a girlfriend would probably suit me pretty well. However, I suspect that it wouldn't work out -- I couldn't stand to live in Houston. And an astronaut who routinely flies at Mach 20 probably wouldn't want to hang out with a guy who can't even drive 100 mph. But the real point is that I find it shameful that our country doesn't pay attention to astronauts anymore, and I'm appalled that we don't even have a working vehicle to launch people into space. We have to hitchhike with Rooskies, which is just...wrong.

Yeah, I know; Orion is in the works, and there are folks who are still thinking about how to get people to Mars. But it's not happening fast enough. If I were President, I'd spend less time worrying about regulating everything that people do while throwing tax money at failed programs and companies, etc, and would do everything I could to get us excited about exploring again. (Of course, I'd also lob some nukes at a couple of them scumbag troublemaker countries over there, just 'cause...so it's probably best that my proposal-writing job description includes no real decision-making responsibilities. Sigh.)

Anyway, here's a video from Karen Nyberg, the astronaut, explaining some of the marvelous things we've learned from space exploration. Enjoy!



That's all I have for today, other than another silly trivia challenge. Let me know if you spot the common element that binds this group together:



I'll give you a hint. It has nothing to do with names; it's more of a Kevin Bacon thing. They are the only six people in the world who have done a particular thing -- what is it?

Have fun with that, my friends, and keep dreaming about the skies. Have a great day!

Rusty Wallace Racing Experience

I have driven an actual race car!

The bad news is that (so far at least), none of the major NASCAR racing teams has offered me a contract. Nor have I been approached to appear in ads for chewin' terbacky, power tools, or pumice-based hand soap, either. Sigh.

The really bad news is that I didn't even set a personal land speed record on the track -- but more about that later. The good news is that I had fun, and learned a lot about life inside the roll cage.

I'll confess that I've never been an avid follower of auto racing. I knew enough to laugh when my best friend Mickey started calling Becky Smith's boyfriend "Parnelli" because he drove a fast car. And I knew that Mario Andretti wasn't the guy in that Nintendo video game, even though they kinda talked alike.

These days, I don't suppose you can watch weekend TV without hearing the names of the top men in the sport, guys like Jimmy Johns, Jeb Bush, Patrick Danica, etc. But when I crawled through the window of car number 17, I had no idea whose vehicle I was entering. (A little Googling brought up the name of Matt Kenseth. I've never heard of him; wonder if he can drive as fast as me?)

The background: Amazon Local had sent me a half-price offer on the Rusty Wallace Racing Experience, which had several race package options at Pikes Peak International Raceway near Colorado Springs. I chose the "Qualifier", which includes a brief classroom session followed by 8 laps of driving around the track.



I arrived early, and parked my station wagon in the track's infield parking lot. There weren't any signs posted, so it took me a while to figure out where I was supposed to go. Eventually, though, I checked in at the trailer. (At first, I thought it was just a concession coach.)



I paid an extra $60 for the in-car video option, but declined the $80 "ride-along" opportunity to take a few laps sitting beside a pro. In retrospect, I probably should've taken that option.

I also declined to purchase t-shirts, hats, or any of the other merchandise. They just fitted me with my "pit pass" wristband and gave me incorrect directions to the classroom. There weren't that many doors in the building, so I eventually figured that one out, too. I should've taken a moment to go up to the observation deck on the roof so I could check out the racetrack, but I was in a hurry to put on my jumpsuit and burn some rubber.



The blond fellow in these pictures was our classroom instructor.





His name was either Bill or Phil...I had trouble hearing some of what he said. The classroom door was partly open, and the roar of the racecars was substantial. His lecture went something like this: "The most important thing to remember while you're out on the track is to rrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrr...so don't ever do that. The only thing that will ensure your safety is rrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrr..."

I did follow the visual demonstrations--how to unbuckle the seatbelt and remove the steering wheel, etc. And I paid very careful attention to his instructions about the track markers that indicated the points for accelerating out of the turns and performing the maneuver they called "left and lift", which means to take your foot off the accelerator and turn to the left. I also learned about the "spotter" who would be giving me instructions through the headset inside my helmet. Bill/Phil said "You are only responsible for what's in front of you; the spotter will tell you what to do about anything coming up from behind." He made it clear that we wouldn't be able to see anything other than the view directly ahead.



He was right. With all window mesh, padding, fire extinguishers, roll bars, and other safety stuff, the visibility was strictly limited. But he assured us that the spotters would keep us safe. All we had to do was shift from 1 to 4 on the road coming out of the pits, then leave it in 4th gear the rest of the way. If there was no traffic, the spotter would give us the "clear" signal and we were to mash on it coming out of the turns and across the straightaway, then "left and lift" at the cone that marked the entry into the turn. "High on the straights, low on the corners," Bill/Phil repeated about 100 times. What he didn't mention was that it would be really hard to tell where the turns ended and the straightaways began.

It's a short track (1 mile), and it would take a few laps to figure out where I was. Again, I should've looked at the course (or at least the aerial view) before I got shoehorned into the car.

But I wasn't thinking about any of that. I assumed that turns were turns and straights were straights. It didn't occur to me that I'd never driven on a steeply banked road before. When I left the classroom, I felt confident that I could handle the task ahead.

The next step was to put on the firesuit and little stocking beanie, and find a helmet that fits. I'm not sure what the stocking beanie is for, but there was a box of clean ones and a box of sweaty ones...so at least we wouldn't be dealing with someone else's hair.



You probably would expect someone with a giant brain like mine to have a pretty large noggin, but the truth is that my head is average sized. Unfortunately, all they had were large and extra-large helmets. I tried a large, but didn't want to slosh around inside its cavernous dimensions. I had to wait for a medium to be returned.



Of course, this meant that my helmet would be all warm and sweaty. But racing is a manly sport, so I grabbed the thing and headed over to the row of cars.



I only waited a couple of minutes while they loaded other folks into their cars. It's a bit of an ordeal. First, they have you put your helmet on top of the car and climb up to sit in the window for the official photo (shown at the top of this post.) Then you carefully descend into the vehicle, being careful not to neuter yourself on the exposed end of the steering column. Bill/Phil had warned us that we wouldn't be able to see the pedals once we were inside helmets, so I took a moment to look around the car and make sure I knew where the clutch and brake were. The attendant handed me the steering wheel, which I attached with a simple push. Then he handed me the helmet. I took my glasses off and slipped it on, and then tried to put my glasses on through the visor opening. It sounds simple, but there wasn't much clearance, and I had forgotten that my stocking beanie completely covered my ears, so there was nothing upon which to hang the earpieces.



And that's when I started to panic a little bit. I couldn't hear very well, wasn't sure my glasses would stay in place, and had no peripheral vision whatsoever. The dude was grappling with about 100 seat belt attachments, and I felt like I was being rushed. I realized that the pedals were a bit further from my feet than I was used to, and became convinced that I was going to kill the car when I tried to shift gears. The firesuit and helmet were horribly well insulated, and I started to feel the sweaty dampness in every part of my body. I was hot, I couldn't move, and the dude was trying to talk to me while race cars were buzzing by me at 100 mph. My rational brain knew that I should take some time to calm down and think about things, but my animal brain just wanted to race the car out onto the track so I could feel some airflow!

The attendant handed me my earphones, which were also very hard to squeeze up under the helmet. But I could hear the spotter talking, so as long as the car wasn't too loud on the track, I should be able to hear the instructions. It took two of the kids to attach the mesh to the window (while I continued sweating), but they eventually got it secured. They had me yank on the steering wheel to make sure it was attached, verified that I could hear the spotter, and then disappeared to go get the designated official.



She had me test the steering wheel again, and told me to push in the clutch. Then she flipped the toggle to start the car and it roared to life. Now we're talkin', I thought. I'm about to channel my inner Unser.



Once everyone was away, and the pit road was clear, the spotter told me to go. I gently -- very gently -- let out the clutch and started to roll.



The spotter asked me to swerve a little to show I could hear him, so I did. Then it was time to punch it.

My memories are a little blurry from that point on. I made it into 4th gear before I hit the track, but I'm pretty sure I skipped 3rd on the way there. I was barely out onto the track when I saw the cone that marked the "left and lift" point, so I got off the gas and steered down into the turn. I didn't see the "floor it" marker coming out of the turn, but slammed my foot down anyway. The pedal was to the metal for what seemed like about 2 seconds before the next corner cone appeared, so I slowed back down. It hadn't felt like I was going all that fast, but I wanted to follow instructions carefully.




It seems pretty simple; hit the gas and turn left. But I didn't seem to have the mental bandwidth to process everything I needed to. I had to watch for the track markers and corner labels, watch the flagman to make sure he wasn't signaling a yellow or red, and listen to the voice in my ears to identify when he was talking to me and follow instructions. And I also wanted to drive as fast as I could, while trying to keep a small part of my awareness above it all so that I could remember the experience. It wasn't just the visual and auditory senses that were demanding brain cells, either; there were the G-forces, the heat, the feel of the steering wheel and pedals, the smell of fuel and tire rubber, and the ever-present roar of the engine.



The first couple of laps were spent trying to figure out where the straightaway was. I felt like I was in a constant circle, and was unsure when to give it the gas. I realized that I was staying too low on the track when the spotter came on the earphones and said "17, what are you doing? You're supposed to be high in the straightaways. Get up there!" I shouted back "I can't figure out where the @#$&! straightaway is, ya &@&*%@!"...but of course, he couldn't hear me. And then I thought, "Oh great, the in-car video will show me yelling like an idiot. I won't be able to post it on YouTube." But about that time, I started to understand what the track was like, and where I was on it. I held the correct line a little better for the remaining laps.

I could be wrong about this -- as I said, the few minutes I spent on the track went by in a bit of an adrenaline haze -- but I think I was passed twice. The first one was the professional driver; I received no warning and he was around me in a heartbeat. The second was probably another guy like me, only he was handling himself better. The spotter said "17, left and lift...go to the inside." I honestly don't recall the car that passed, but I do remember that the spotter gave me the "clear" signal a moment later.



I didn't pass anyone. But I felt like I was pushing it pretty well for the rest of my laps. I tried to let off the gas a bit later on each lap, and mash it again a bit sooner out of each corner.



And then my time was up. The spotter told me to bring it into the pits, and when I came around to the grandstand, I got the checkered flag.



Again, I wish I would've looked at the track layout before getting in the car. I had no trouble turning into the pit road, but had a moment of panic when I once again saw the racing lanes at the northwest corner of the track. I saw the remainder of the pit road (and the familiar line of cars and attendants) a moment later...but for a second, I thought I had missed it somehow. I hadn't realized that the pit road circles most of the track's circumference.



I wanted to make sure I was slow and safe coming into the pits, but didn't want to have to downshift and risk killing the car. I just stepped on the clutch and held it in until I more-or-less drifted to a stop right in front of the attendant. This was the first time I realized I had no idea how to turn off the car; it had no keys. But the guy reached in around the window webbing and flipped a switch to kill the engine. I flipped open my visor while the folks outside the car worked to remove the netting and unbuckle all my restraints. A moment later, they told me I could unlatch the steering wheel, which I then passed through the window, followed closely by the helmet.



Then as I wriggled out of the car, the guy asked me, "Did you have fun?" I think I stared at him blankly for a second, still immersed in processing the whole experience. I honestly wasn't sure whether it was fun or not. I got the impression that the standard response is "You betcha by golly wow, I surely did!" But my reply was more of a confused "uh, yeah, I guess so." But I was already starting to think about how I could've gone faster, and tallying up all the stuff I had done wrong.

I'll save the metaphysical discussion about hedonism vs. competitiveness for another day. But I can say this for sure: If I had gone back out on that track 5 minutes later, I'd have gone a LOT faster. As I walked over to return my firesuit and helmet, I realized that I had not pushed the car anywhere near its limits. I had raced the car to the point where I felt just on the edge of safety...but I realized that my feeling of "safety" was based on my experience in a dadgum Subaru, not a freakin' NASCAR machine. The tires alone would account for being able to hold the road at twice my accustomed G-forces, not to mention the superior center of gravity and suspension, as well as the track engineering. I should've felt WAY out of control to even begin to approach the car's limits...but of course, I didn't figure that out until I was back in the infield. Sigh.

Anyway, after returning the sweaty gear to wardrobe, my next stop was back at the trailer.



They had a pile of plaques featuring our "butt in the window" photo alongside a nice picture of the car we drove. I didn't need a plaque, nor a generic photo of the car, but I did decide to pay $15 for the picture at the top of this post. As I signed the credit card receipt, I realized that my hands were shaking...which made me realize that I had been through a fairly intense workout. I was tired all over. Knowing that made me feel a little better; guess I'd have to wait until I saw the video and downloaded the GPS data before I beat myself up too badly.

I asked where I could get my video, and they said the attendant should've given it to me when I got out of the car. Glancing back over at the pit area, I saw that someone else was already buckled into car 17, and was about to take off -- with my SD card! I ran over to the area and was about to jump the barrier when the gatekeeper saw me and said "Are you Terry?" When I answered affirmatively, she handed me the card and reminded me to verify the video quality at the trailer. (They'd had a few problems with the recordings.)

I'm glad I listened to that advice. It turned out that the recording was a dud. Nothing was on the disc. I was bummed. Despite the fact that I would've been embarrassed by what would've been captured, I still wanted to have it. But no, not today.

So I guess I was done. I did watch a few laps and took the times for the other cars. There were some that were faster than me, and some who were slower. Nobody was going anywhere near the speed of the pro. I figured I was about in the middle of the pack. Not great, but not too embarrassing, either. Oh well. After that, I hung around for a bit to take a few more pictures (including some from the observation deck), but it was hot and I was hungry. I said a silent goodbye to Rusty, Bill/Phil, and all my nameless competitors...and buckled myself into my quiet and air-conditioned Outback. And in case you wondered, no, I did NOT get a speeding ticket on the way home -- though I did stop at the Waffle House for a few zillion calories to replenish my fast and furious energy levels.

A few of my other photos are below. Would I recommend the experience to others? Yes, without a doubt -- though I would recommend doing those things I did not: Understand the course layout, push the car until it actually slips, and ignore the recommended safety cones. Will I do it again? Well, you tell me. My previous top speed had been 124 mph in my 1969 Camaro. When I downloaded the GPS data from my race laps, I learned that my top speed had been 90 miles per hour. 90. In an official NASCAR race machine, on a real honest-to-goodness banked professional racetrack. 90. Good lord.

So, I guess that's my story. I'm glad I did it, and it has me thinking about other new experiences I should try. If you have any ideas, please let me know. Otherwise, always buckle up, keep your hands on the wheel, and have a great day!