Pete - and the Magic Bowling Ball

I was junior Air Force Medical Service Corps officer and a pretty raw, AFIT sponsored grad student resident in the Medical College of Virginia Health Care Administration program. The residency was a 10-month program and I, being on active duty, was completing mine at Malcolm Grow Medical Center on Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland. Colonel John Gildner (RIP) was my preceptor although my most active day-to-day advisor was the Associate Administrator.

The Associate and I also participated on one of the Center's bowling teams. My first time there, I was searching the house racks for a suitable bowling ball with little luck. Being left-handed, this was a common occurrence for me as the balls are typically drilled for right-handers.  The Associate...noticing my predicament and, also being left-handed, kindly offered to let me use his personal bowling ball that was custom drilled.  I took him up on the offer and promptly bowled what I believe was my first 200+ game ever.  When we finished for the evening, I borrowed the Associate's ball again and took it to the counter where I asked the clerk to make me a ball just like it..."exactly like it if possible."

Years, and a handful of bowling leagues went by and that was the last time I ever bowled 200 or better - even using the custom ball I affectionately called "Pete."  "Best laid plans...." right?!

The Associate had a great laugh and an "attack the day" sort of style I appreciated - even though he often spoke of leaving the Medical Service Corps he seemed to really enjoy his work. (I didn't realize he was probably joking about leaving.) He ended up remaining with the Air Force and later became the second Medical Service Corps officer to be promoted to Brigadier General.  

Thank you again for the loan General!

Management 101 note:  Early on in my residency, Colonel Gildner called me into his office and chewed me out like there was no tomorrow.  I forget what it was for but it was the first and last time in over 50 work years I had/have ever been chewed out like that.  Then, at the end of my residency he called me something that again hasn't happened, before or after; a "great man." Finally, as a parting gift, he gave me a copy of "The Go-Getter."  Here's a synopsis:

"It's a straightforward parable about a young war veteran who's handed an opportunity that will either make or break his career. If he accepts the job and pulls it off, he's a go-getter; if he fails, it's curtains. The kid's motto-"It shall be done"-sums up Kyne's point: even if you're unsure, say you can do it. Then figure out how to do it and make sure you succeed. Go above and beyond."

The message worked well for me, beyond my 24-year Air Force retirement at the tender age of 41 and through my subsequent 30-odd consulting years; first, with Schubert Associates and then with my own firm, Campbell Health Management, Inc.  Along the way, I found most consultants shared the same basic principle; If someone asks if you can do something, just say "yes." (Get the engagement then if you or someone on your staff can't do it, find and vet someone who can...under your umbrella.)  You'll figure it out from there.  Sure it doesn't always work but it is a hell of a ride, even if the bowling ball isn't "Magic." 

Seventy Fo No Mo

Photo of the Dumb Bell's dumb bells.
The rocker comes later...
Hopefully much, much later.

November 2, 2020

This is the plan...

'Going to try to do 75 old man pushups when I turn 75

That will be soon, on ________ _, 2020

(I'll never tell. Hint:  Sometime in the next six weeks -

Give or take

Just because it's a reasonable way

To help me see 76

Gonna' come back to this one later - with video too.

That's the plan.

November 20, 2020

Video is complete and posted on YouTube.

Click on this puppy!

The Ant

Yes, I saw him (maybe her)

Just yesterday

He was alone

Exploring our bathroom.

Normally you would see him

In line, tandem running with thousands of his fellow workers

In two lines back and forth

Harvesting some source of nourishment

For the bivouac.

For a moment

I thought of myself as a myrmecologist.

(Interesting word eh?! Yes, I just came across it and wanted to use it)

This little nanitic (Whoops!  There's another one.)

Was off on a solo mission

To locate bounty for the bivouac and maybe the Queen.

Courageous I thought...

Adventurous I thought...

But in my bathroom? (I thought)

Then, I got a little antsy so I took him out with my forefinger.

Now, the ant 'sleeps with the fishes.'

  

Golf - The Damn Game Has Nuances...Who Knew?!

When it began, I was still a kid. I mean I was 19 but I was a shining tribute to the word 'naive.' At that point I was in the Air Force, a public health technician stationed on Terciera island in the Azores.

Terciera Golf Course Clubhouse

I had been there about a year and was enjoying life on the island but I was a little bored. One day, some of my fellow hospital folks invited me to try the game of golf. I was involved in other sports and I had little interest in golf. Until then I had always thought it was something a person should take up when too old to participate in other sports. But I went. And I had a fine time trying to whack that little gutta percha ball.  

That first day I rented a set of clubs and had a caddy!  Yes, caddies were readily available there. As I recall there were two types.  A "Class A" caddie knew a lot about the game and could even coach a neophyte like me pretty well.  A "Class B" caddie may have had a few playing tips but mainly carried your clubs.  They were all kids although some may have been in their early teens. An "A" caddie cost a buck and a "B" caddie cost $.50 so the price was right even for a junior enlisted airman like me.

#1 Tee (I think)
We used to try to cut the hole short by
driving over the trees on the right.

It wasn't long before I made my most expensive purchase of my life up to that point. It was a set of Ben Hogan irons and woods and a Ben Hogan "Rail" putter. With new shoes and a new bag I was in Fat City and loving it!  I was soon playing every weekend most of the year although we had to contend with some fairly serious rain in the Fall and Winter. Sometimes, during a hard rain with wind it came down horizontal. To cope, we would open our large golf umbrellas, sit them on the ground and crouch behind rather than position them over our heads. The rain would generally stop pretty quick though and we could get on with the game. 

Many Saturdays, we would play two rounds, 36 holes with lunch at the club house in between. Another bonus included our sturdy caddies. That allowed us to occasionally ask one to go back to the clubhouse and get us some beer while one of the others carried two bags. Tough life I know!

It wasn't long before I was filling in a handicap card after every round and, with my caddie's (several of them) guidance I was learning the fundamentals. A year or so later, toward the end of my time there I was shooting in the mid to low 80s and carrying a 11-13 handicap. Pretty average for someone who played as much as me but good enough to keep me happy.

Circa 1966 - I'm sitting in one of the course rain shelters.
"I'm ready! Are we up yet?!"
The position?  Ball and tee in one hand
and Miller High Life in the other.
Perfect.

One early morning, we were just getting ready and were one short of a foursome when a man asked to join us. We learned he was a Major and carried a pretty low single digit handicap.  He wanted to make a Nassau bet on the round and we began horse trading over how many strokes he would give me. I was the only one who would negotiate with him for some reason and I was pretty fresh at it so he ended up giving me only one stroke a side.  I recall by my reckoning it should have been three strokes a side but I foolishly agreed. So we had a one dollar Nassau going and that meant I was probably destined to lose a buck on the front nine, another buck on the back and another for the entire 18 holes.

Then we began play.  There is no way to explain it other than I was on fire that day.  I could hardly miss and shot a one over par 37 on the front nine.  The Major had pretty much stopped speaking by the fifth or sixth hole and grudgingly paid me my dollar before excusing himself from our group as soon as we finished the front nine. I was pretty sure he thought I was hustling him. That was definitely not the case. I was just in the zone and in fact, have not played like that since. I later quit the game for a few years here and there. I needed time for things like a couple of Southeast Asia tours, undergraduate (mostly night) school and graduate school.  I returned to the game periodically but did not play nearly as often and never got the same handicap back...shooting more like the mid to low 90's instead of the 80's. Closest I have come in fact was a couple of 41's and those were spread out over the next 50 years!

Still, learning in the Azores could not have been a better environment.  A beauty of a course, expert caddies and a lot of weekend rounds made it damn near perfect. I just wish that Major would have come around and motivated me more often!

You never know what's going to happen out there folks...lots of nuances and on top of that, someone just might shoot far above their normal score.  

       

Hotel Breakers - The Underbelly

Ohio's Hotel Breakers first opened in 1905.  It is located at the world famous Cedar point amusement park in Sandusky, Ohio and boasts the world's largest, fastest roller coasters.

Hotel Breakers - June 2017

Today, the hotel has more than a thousand rooms. Back in the summer  of 1961 when this adventure occurred it had over 800.  Most of the summer workers there were young foreigners on a (lowly paid) American adventure. 

1961 was also the year a couple of enterprising young Huron High School sophomores applied to work somewhere in the park.  One was 17 years old and the other (yours truly) was 15.  The park only hired people age 17 or over and the younger one had to get a Social Security card so he lied about his age when signing up.  For some reason back then, the Social Security folks never questioned his age.

They both were hired and set to work in the hotel's Breakers Cafe, at that time seating around 400.  It was a busy, noisy place but that didn't bother the two at all.  The older one had a main job working on the cafe clipper (dishwasher),  rinsing off dirty dishes before running them through.  The younger one was assigned to bus tables.  His bussing equipment...a large 30" or so diameter tray he soon learned to haul one-handed and loaded through the packed restaurant.  He had fun learning that maneuver.

Occasionally, the young one would be moved into the cavernous hotel kitchen to assist with simple food preparation. Once, his job was to make coleslaw. Crazy thing was... he made it in an average size outdoor garbage can, around 30+ gallons. He'd load the can with chopped cabbage, then dump in an entire restaurant sized (gallon) jug of mayonnaise along with vinegar, sugar, lemon, salt and pepper.  Hell, it may have been two gallon jugs he doesn't remember. Next, he would mix it up using a giant ladle and his hands, often well up past his elbows. There wasn't any mention of sanitary standards back in those days either. At least the garbage cans had never been used for real garbage, as far as he could tell. Anything that could be supersized back then was... all due to the high demands of the cafe patrons.

The two from Huron soon developed a side 'business of sorts. In the Breakers cafe, waitresses didn't share a portion of their tips with the other help. The younger one, the "Sinner" who was in his prime criminal days figured out a way to get a share of the tips. When the cafe tables were cleaned and reset, a paper place mat was put down before the utensils and dishes. Then, when patrons were finished with their food, all plates, utensils and place mats were removed by the bus boys. The boy from Huron was one of them.

Tips, always cash in those days, would often be left on the place mats in addition to, or rather than directly paid to waitresses. When that happened, he would often wad up the mat and place it on the tray with the tip hidden inside. Then, when he returned a loaded tray to his pal (accomplice) at the head of the clipper he would signal that there was a tip inside one or more wadded place mats. If it was just change, and he made sure it always was, his clipper partner would hold the wadded mat in one hand while hitting it with his rinsing hose. The mat would quickly rinse away leaving the change which would then find its way into his pocket.  If there happened to be a rare dollar bill or more included in the table tip, he would leave the bill back on the table for the waitress. It didn't turn out to be a lot of money and most often he would leave the waitress tips alone, but it did add a little job excitement for the two.

They would use the extra change to fund their frequent breakfast and later stops for food.  In the morning, at a small roadside restaurant known for its great hash browns and later at an A&W for their favorite; "Two chili dogs with an orange drink please."  

That is the story of the "Sinner" and his elder accomplice working the underbelly of Cedar Point's Hotel Breakers. Just a small glimpse at life in a small town for a couple of juveniles carving out their own adventures.  There would be plenty of time to 'go straight' later.

 

Hold'em...Tournament Life vs. Life Its Own Self

I think the poker environment I play in represents a microcosm of society as it should be. I am referring specifically to Texas Hold'em tournament poker.

The regular players here in the Sacramento area by and large represent all ages, races, colors, creeds, and classes.  Their education, work and cultural backgrounds also vary widely. Yet, they all share certain characteristics. They like to gamble and they are competitive. Most like to laugh and joke around with other players and dealers as well while simultaneously playing their best, most serious game.

Dealers also share some admirable characteristics. They are patient, they are helpful to rookies and thoughtfully remind those (like me) whose attention wanders when they need to take action during a hand. Dealers are also careful not to pass judgement on any disagreements or actions that might violate standard rules. Instead, they will pause the hand and ask the tournament director to resolve things. Directors, like dealers are also careful not to offend or escalate situations but will deal justice firmly and quickly when needed.

Our shared poker rules cover everything from decorum to details on how the game is played. For example...you are not allowed to criticize the way others play. All in all, the rules, their clarity and our referees make for a peaceful, respectful environment.  Most of the rules are "right up there" on the wall plainly visible to all present. 

All in all, it is structure that complements the masses...and minimizes chaos. Exactly what we need most in America and throughout the world "knowwhatimeanVern?"

America's Loneliest Highway - The Gump Group

America’s Loneliest Highway (574 miles)

On our return from the Sturgis rally, Al and I picked up US Highway 50 not too far south of Provo, Utah. We knew it had a reputation for being a desolate stretch of road from there to Carson City, Nevada. We thought it would make a good ride on the home stretch of our great Milwaukee adventure.

Highway 50 - two lanes, narrow shoulder, very little traffic.

This mentality was in keeping with the old adage “it is not the destination, but the journey” in reference to motorcycle trips. If you don’t understand this, just try it. Once. Beware though because it is like trying to eat just one potato chip. Only better, much better. 

Our run to Carson City would take us around 600 miles from the eastern edge of Utah to the western edge of Nevada.  It was our first afternoon of travel on 50 and it looked like we were going to get some heavy rain somewhere along the way.  There were dark cloud formations in the west and we figured they were heading our way.

The "Loneliest Road" sprawls out behind us.

Somehow we went whipping through them.  It was almost like the highway zigged and zagged on purpose, just to get us through the area mostly dry. Once, while dropping down off a mountain pass I felt a splash of water and that was it. It had to be the briefest rainfall I have ever been in. It was like a cloud just burped or something.

A little later, while coming off another pass, we actually got into a shower for a couple minutes. We didn’t pull off to put on rain gear because we had leather jackets on and our jeans got wet right away. We were thinking we would just hunt for shelter when we got off the pass if the rain persisted. Well it didn’t and by the time we got to the valley below we were dry. Blessed again by the gods above! This is just another bit of evidence to suggest He has a Harley Himself.

Highway 50 goes through several mountain ranges, so you find yourself generally in one of three situations:  You are either heading uphill toward a pass, downhill out of one, or on a 30 or 40 mile run across a flat valley floor with great views of the mountain ranges all around you.  I am sure we hit at least a half dozen passes of 6,000 feet or more on our run across the old road.

There is very little traffic as well. I guess it’s because there is simply no one out there. It’s like everyone is on the interstate or in a city somewhere and no one is on the road with you. If you tour on a motorcycle you know what I mean when I say, “this is perfect riding.”

The Gump Group

In that 600-mile stretch we did see a few small towns and encountered what I call the “four Forrests." Not trees mind you, but the Gump type– you know, like in “Gump. Forrest Gump.” The first one we saw was a biker, as in bicycle type, who was out in the middle of a 50-mile stretch of nowhere.  Next we saw a solitary jogger in a similar situation.

A tank(?) dressed as a cactus - only on 50.

Then we were heading through some foothills into a valley and along the side of the road was another solitary figure. He had two large garbage bags full of something lying next to him and he was sitting cross-legged staring out into the valley below. Finally, we were a few miles out of a little town and there was a guy clad in shorts and shoes only, walking away from town and heading for what looked like nowhere.

Now as I recollect these guys all had some things in common. They all looked fairly old. They all had gray hair and beards and they all were thin. So what the hell does that mean? Maybe it is this: If you want to get old, turn gray and get thin, head for "the loneliest highway in America", Highway 50.

That night we settled in at an old mining town named Austin, Nevada. Austin had a handful of stores and three tiny motels. The rooms were cheap at $35 and clean to boot. We moseyed (That is what you do in an old mining town, right? You mosey!) up the street to the restaurant and bar and had a couple hamburger steaks with fries backed up by a couple of damn fine tall necks and turned in early in preparation for the last leg home the next day.

Just Stop…and Tip Over

While the Coyote and I were on our glorious run along The Loneliest Highway I had an attack. It was rapture of the outdoors (a total surprise to anyone who knows me. Somewhere on the remote route we passed a very scenic outcropping of rock. I noticed it had an area right in front where the bikes would look great for a photo. I happened to be in the lead at the time so I slowed down and gave Al a couple of hundred million signals to indicate we were turning back. As we approached I left the highway to take a short gravel road that led maybe a hundred feet to the site.

The "Oasis" on 50. Bikes loaded and ready
but hard to pick up!

About the time I got the bike on the gravel I noticed a small, almost dry creek was crossing the road.  It also had what looked like a pretty large muddy area I would have to cross. I only had a split second to assess the situation and came up with zip…nada. I mean, I could not tell how deep the mud was and I was not going to put almost a thousand pounds of bike, gear and person on it to find out. So I grabbed a handful of brake, put my foot down to steady the bike, got no purchase in the gravel and gently laid the bike down. What I mean is…I fell over.

If you remember the television show, Laugh In, you may recall Arte Johnson used to do that all the time. Picture a full grown man riding around on a little tricycle, coming abruptly to a halt and falling over. That is what Arte did and that is just what I did. Then Al came up, laughed at me for a while and then began trying to help me get the bike out of there. We couldn’t get the puppy up so we finally decided to unload my packs and try. That worked and we were soon underway none the worse for the wear. So much for the badass biker concept right?

Falling over... it has happened to me several times while practically motionless. If it has to happen this is the best time as the worst development is typically a slightly bruised ego. Conversely, if it happens while you are moving, there are an infinite number of very bad things that can happen. “So what…?” you say, “I have ridden for ten months or ten years or longer and it has never happened to me.” Don’t worry it will. As the old Brook Benton standard tune goes; "It’s Just a Matter of Time.”

America's Loneliest Highway - take it for a ride.