Captain HRS___, MD

I want to tell you a story about an Air Force Doctor. His name was HRS. (Name withheld to protect the not so innocent.)

In the early 60's, I was a brand-new, naive 18-year-,old at my first military assignment, Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico. I was a public health specialist, a one-striper airman.

HRS was a fresh MD and a Captain. He was assigned to the Flight Surgeon's office. His prime duty was to see to the health care needs of the pilots stationed at Cannon. His secondary duty was to serve as Public Health officer or as we called it at the time; "Military Public Health" and later, "Environmental Medicine."

That made HRS my boss...not directly though. My primary boss was a fine Technical Sergeant named J. A. Clark. JA was not around for any of the interactions between Harvey and I.  He was out doing environmental health inspections or goofing off, or both.

TSgt J.A. Clark and Yours Truly
TAC Mobility Hosp exercise
Cannon AFB, NM - 1964

HRS was what was known at the time as a "Berry Planner." These were physicians who had been drafted but received a deferment to complete medical training. They were then required to serve two years on active duty. Many of them were a problem as they had bad attitudes about having to serve. Many also believed (correctly) they could carry their bad attitudes openly because physicians were in extremely short supply, thus making their superiors reluctant to take disciplinary action when indicated.

HRS caught on to me being naive and vulnerable right away. I saw his as unpredictable, and maybe unstable plus I was afraid he would get me in trouble based on a whim if he wanted.  I was still learning how survive in a military environment.

One day he asked me to wash his car and offered to pay.  I thought nothing of it and was actually happy to do it as it was a Corvette and I had never driven one.  That worked well.  Sometime after that I did something, or failed to do something I don't recall which...but I do recall that I was wrong. HRS was not happy and decided to punish me by ordering me to go to the Base Exchange and buy him a roll of toilet paper.  My thought was that it was preferable to other forms of formal punishment so I agreed and did just that.

One day he wrote a prescription for me and told me to fill it, then give the results to him.  It was for what were then called "go pills" at the time or what is formally known as Dexedrine.* They had just recently became controlled substances. I did it and then wrestled with what in the hell to do.  Finally, I just guessed.  Somehow, I had enough presence of mind to figure it wouldn't stop at that. The next day I went to our Squadron Commander and reported the incident.

*Some may recall back then flight surgeons would give pilots tongue depressors with pill bottles taped to them.  One end would be colored red and labelled "Go."  These would contain dexedrine.  The other end would be colored blue and labelled "Stop." I forgot what medication was in there but the meaning was obvious. They were intended to help pilots stay alert and conversely decompress on and after long haul flights.

The solution was to have me work in the Hospital Eye Clinic a few months, out of HRS's chain of command, until my time came to leave for my next assignment to the Azores.

Nothing happened to HRS as a result of the incident. He didn't ask me to "fill" any more prescriptions either.

At first, I was totally intimidated by HRS but he taught me how to deal with it so I owe him for that.

A while back, out of curiosity I tried to track HRS down.  I found him or at least I am pretty sure I found him, middle initial and all. A Tulane grad, about 79 years old...it all fit.  Turns out in the late 80's he was convicted for filing fraudulent tax returns and in the late 90's the DEA revoked his license because he was not authorized to handle controlled substances in California.  I found that out in two formal documents on Google.  Google knows everything right?!  Poetic justice for that quirky sonofabitch.

Someone asked me to point out the "see something, say something" lesson here but you probably hear that all the time. Instead, I will add, just as in any experience with an emergency or crisis of conscience, you really don't know how you will react until you actually experience it. You can talk about it all day but you really don't know.  When it happens to you, and I am pretty certain it will if it hasn't already, I wish you luck in doing whatever lets you sleep well at night.

Sincerely,

Airman Third Class Thomas R. Campbell

AF19773665

Addendum - Note To Younger Self*

Contributions from Tyler, Sam, Amber and Cody on Christmas Eve, 2015

• Don't do drugs - curiosity and peer pressure will take you there. Don't stay.
• Don't play stereo on the Watt bridge - try to stay in the moment - you will get so excited about something you will find it hard to focus on things that require immediate attention so...you will make mistakes. It happens to most everyone so don't beat yourself up too much about it.
• Fear of missing out  - you will worry about other things you could do or want to be doing. This is a feeling you share with your father, especially in his early teen years. It will pass but it will cause extreme frustration at first. Later, you will channel it into activities that will be productive.
• Don't worry so much about getting every thing done you should be doing...spend more time with things you enjoy, seek balance. Remember though, there are basic structural things in society and within yourself you must give due attention too.  
• Trust your instincts - there will be times when you don't (Jamaica). It's okay as you can learn from the experience.
• Never make friends in second grade then keep them for 20 years...them puppies may come back to haunt you.
• Be nicer to your Mother - you will look back on this and wish you had. She will understand though. She always does.
• Narrow your focus on your interests so you can excel - don't try to be good with everything. There is a time-worn adage by author Malcolm Gladwell that sheds  little light on this...it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master something. If you are lucky, you will stumble across something that you love enough to do this.
• Don't be afraid of change. It attacks every generation. It will attack yours. Count on it.  
• Further your education and don't focus too much on music. Maybe, if you are lucky you will find something that combines the two. Or...you can find ways to do both.
• Enjoy the simple things in life...you don't have to be constantly connected.
• Pursue your passion...if it excites you when you are ten it will likely excite you when you are old enough to seriously pursue it.
• Expand your comfort zone by getting outside your peer group.
• Give everyone at least a first chance.

*Embellishment provided by The Meddler

Note To (Younger) Self

"I am he, as you are he, as you are me, and we are all together..." I Am The Walrus - The Beatles.  This line of lyrics occurred to me as I began to think about a letter from my elder self to my much younger self...

Dear "Thomas T. Tatamous."

Yes, that is the name our Mother will confer on us in our pre-teen years before our despicable brother David Claud William was born and stole a huge chunk of our home turf.  Yeah he even got four names to our three and what the hell was that about?!

Thomas T. Tatamous

You and I will receive many gifts at birth. A silver spoon will not be one of them. Later in life you will come to regard this as perhaps your greatest blessing for it will inspire you to work hard, to not take things for granted and to really appreciate a damn good bologna sandwich - preferably fried and always "with ketchup please."

Tatamous, you will not appreciate your gifts as you should and this will slow your progress - but you will crank up the gears a few times and in the process, to your great delight and surprise, witness your potential. You will find some comfort in coming close and in some critical instances, you will nail it.

As a child raised mostly in North Dakota, you will cultivate a naiveté you will carry throughout your life. As a poor child, you will also cultivate a sense of imposter syndrome. Don't let either worry you too much though as neither is necessarily a bad thing.  The first will give you an extra measure of happiness and the second will keep you humble.

At the foot of the Black Hills of South Dakota, you will find your bride.  She will show you the meaning of beauty in body, mind and spirit. She will teach you about tenacity and loyalty. She will love and inspire you for more than 50 years.

In western Washington, she will give you a son.  He will teach us about stature; in his remarkable athleticism at baseball and soccer, in his intelligence, and in his courage to face performance anxiety through hundreds of stage performances.  He will write poetic lyrics to songs that will touch the hearts of young and old alike. His fine character will include attributes of loyalty, thoughtfulness and generosity. He will struggle to find his place in an increasingly complex world.

In northern California, your wife will give you a daughter of striking beauty and intelligence.  She too will be blessed with athleticism. She will also demonstrate extraordinary mechanical ability.  She will discover a sense of composure in stressful, emergent conditions.  She will show fine artistic and organizational skills. Her character will shine with humor, loyalty and compassion for others.  Her spirit will prove a contemporary match for her Mother's.  She too will struggle in dealing with the cultural extremes that are at every young person's fingertips today.

As fate would have it, both your son and daughter will also be lefties like you. That will make them squirrelly, unpredictable, and easily distracted daydreamers... just like you.

Along the way you and I will learn many things... as do others.  You will stack them up in your mind as you go, until you reach age 70. Then, you will be filled with wonder at the serendipitous way you got where you are. As your bride will testify on more than one occasion, you will live "a charmed life."

Now, after that lengthy freakin' preliminary let's get to it.  In keeping with the precedent set by others for this type of note to self, what have we learned along the way and what can you use to become a better person than you are at 70?

1. Beware of peer pressure - While it can be good, it will get you in trouble more than often than not.
2. Be careful who you hang out with -  See #1.
3. Indulge your curiosity - It will take you where you love to be and if you stay with it long enough it will sustain you.
4. "Write like a Motherfucker" - Cheryl Strayed.  In other words learn from lessons shared by others and, of course write... just write.
5. Be true to those who love you - This is not easy.  Repeat.  This is not easy.
6. Inanimate things will break too - Don't let your leftie disposition get the best of you when this happens.
7. You will witness remarkable advances in technology and remarkable declines in civilization. Try not to take either too seriously; it won't help anything.
8. Being judgmental is not a good thing - try to do a better job of avoiding it than your much older self. In the end, you will make much better decisions.
9. Cultivate those endorphins - You will do good, you can do better.

On the other hand... you will end up who you are at 70 won't you?! So there's no sense in regrets about the past.  Just take comfort in the knowledge that people generally tend to remember the good things and if you can, spend more time with that thought.

Life will be nothing more than your best guess and you are going to be lucky kid... you are going to be really lucky.  

(I was recently inspired to write this by a post from Amy Jo Martin: Her's was a terrific letter to her younger self and I shared it with my son and daughter in hopes they too would reflect on their journey thus far.  I thought it would be fun to do the same...)

Profiles in Poker

This week I wrote a tribute to one of my fellow Texas Hold'em tournament players. He had what was, to my way of thinking, a monumental birthday...his 95th.  I sent the tribute to some of my pals as I knew they would all get off on any story that includes the word, "donuts."

They all seemed impressed with my description of my poker pal's character and intellectual vitality.  One of them even suggested (you know who you are) I write my next book and fill it with descriptions of this gentleman and others perhaps like him...suggested title; "Profiles in Poker."

Well, I have been thinking about another book but don't think I have enough gumption to find and fill it with descriptions as interesting as the one I have written. Nonetheless, here is an edited version of the first, and probably last one I have written:

December 3, 2015 - This morning I stopped at a donut shop on the way in to the Capital Casino poker tournament.  It was my second time, having been sent originally by someone who rightfully claimed they make the best in Sacramento.  I bought two glazed and a small coffee to work on while I waited for the lady to box a couple of dozen to take with me.

It was just the lady working the counter and me inside.  The shop is located near Interstate 80 on Watt Avenue here.  This can be a pretty nasty location as not so many years ago some robbers executed a guy and girl working at a pizza joint in the same strip mall.  As I sat there I thought, “Damn, what if someone just walked in here and started spraying the place with bullets just because of a bad donut or maybe a “too hot” cup of coffee? I mean hey…look what happened in San Bernardino just yesterday right?  Plus there have been more mass shootings in the US than days in the year so far. 

Then I thought, “Good  location for it but bad bang for the buck as with just two of us there wouldn’t be much “spraying” necessary. Nah, they would probably go for a bigger location with a lot more potential victims so then I relaxed and turned to better thoughts.

I was buying the donuts for one of my poker pals, "Ritz" to celebrate the occasion of his birthday today.  He is 95 and still sharp enough to play competitive poker and play it well.  He is big man, with a large frame and stands tall at around six feet even at his age.  His son, who is about my age, accompanies him 3-4 times a week to play the tournaments. This gentleman is a fine character who immigrated from Italy when he was little.  He was orphaned and lived alone, surviving in a Sacramento basement for more than a year before he was a teenager. Later, he married (lasted almost 70 years before she passed) and served a “duration of the war” hitch in the Navy.  To make extra dough to send home, he ironed clothes for his shipmates.

L-R Ritz Naygrow and Alphonso Ford
(Alphonso is a former silicon valley exec who 
played football at UCLA, but that's another story...) 

With the money he saved, he later bought a water bottling firm, and went to work.  He was successful and as time passed he bought other water companies that eventually included several states. His forte’ was integrating the new companies and making them profitable.  In 1979, a company in France paid Ritz over $60 million for his companies.

I know this because I have a copy of Ritz’s biography right here on my desk.

Ritz is 95 today and here is why I think so highly of him.  He is every bit the consummate gentleman our pal and former Air Force Colonel Bill Grinstaff (RIP) was.  An example…we were on a tournament break a couple of years ago and I noticed a bathroom habit of Ritz'…yup, a bathroom. I was waiting behind him for a sink and saw him turn after washing his hands to pull a paper towel from the dispenser. There are two dispensers side-by-side and he took one towel, dried his hands then advanced both machines so there would be towels handy for the next person.  I have since copied that move and once told his son Tom that I call it the "Ritz Naygrow Memorial Towel Move.” Yes there could be a better title and there are likely many more and better examples but you get my drift I think.  This was before I read his bio so I already had a hunch about the man I would find in his book.

A few weeks ago on impulse I gave Ritz a copy of “Badass” in return for the copy of his biography he had graciously sent.  He later told me my book was full of “Goddamn vivid descriptions” and it should be in “Every Harley shop in the United States.” (I didn’t tell him that most Harley riders can’t read and those few who can won’t....just kidding.) This proves Ritz is an expert bullshitter too, just like all of us.  

I got the donuts safely to the Casino without eating more and the pit boss helped me set them up for crew and players who were so inclined.  I used a big Sharpie and wrote on the boxes; ‘Happy Birthday Ritz!" We gave him the pick of the first one and I got a big hug from a good friend.  I am a happy camper.

(I recall old friend Paul Murrell telling me he spent some time working in a donut shop in his youth. I think it was his father’s. Years later, Paul and I equipped a contract proposal War Room in Baton Rouge with 2 dozen Crispy Kreme donuts a day to help team members wrestle with their writing anxiety. So here we have yet another good donut story or two eh Paul?!)

Fifteen Groups - Who May Not Enter or Have To Go

Today, Saint John's Abbey in Minnesota released an internal report on 19 monks abusing dozens of children over the years.

Okay, that ices it for me.  I need to build a list...retroactive and otherwise of people and groups I am going to keep out of this country.  I mean, I've had it.  So let's begin:

1. Syrians - This is a no-brainer right?!  Give me a minute and I will come up with a plausible reason.
2. Muslims - Of course they are all guilty by association and I will supply the name of those associations forthwith.  The majority of our nation's Governors assure me they will provide that information soon. Also, since 29% of Americans and 43% of Republicans believe our President is a Muslim, I am going to have to ask him to leave.
3. Catholics - All of them...don't immigrate here and if you are here, leave.  Their priests and monks are pedophiles so they all have to go. Clean out those churches folks completely! Except me. I get to stay because I am casting the first stone.
4. Japanese - They're outta here. I mean, they bombed Pearl Harbor right?
5. Latinos - every last one. C'mon folks...Remember the Alamo!!!
6. Germans - None come in and all who are here must leave. Need a reason?  WWII and attempted extermination of Jews. (Unless of course the Holocaust was not real - I gotta' check on that.) 
7. Protestants - are you keeping up here?!  Hello Crusades!
8. Italians - Hey....Il Duce?  And the crucifixions? Nuff said.
9. All blacks - After all, is there a single African country that doesn't have an historical person or group who has attempted some form of genocide or something related? Wait, I guess that includes all white countries too...
10. Pilgrims - That's right...they launched one of the most successful genocide campaigns in history against Native Americans. Think of it, those weird hats and knickers - you had to know they were up to no good.
11. All Middle Easterners - Hey...if they look like terrorists it must be so right?!
12. Koreans - Yup, all of them. Just because you live in South Korea doesn't mean you aren't in cahoots with those in the North.
13. Vietnamese - Look, North Vietnam won the war. Then they mingled with South Vietnam.  Now they must all be North Vietnamese even if they live in the South - it's only logical.
14. Chinese - There's just too damn many of them and they can't all be innocent right?!
15. Everybody else - Let's just wipe the slate clean then set up an immigration process that takes 85 years to complete...followed by a compulsory 25 year cooling off period.

Now, one might argue that compliance with this list means the United States will end up looking much like the landscape of the Moon or Mars. To that I say; "That's okay because at least the eventual last person standing who will by the way, be a Native American, will feel safe."  

Feeble...Infirm? Yes or no?!

In California, as a person all too rapidly approaches 70 (we're not talking speed limit here either Bubette) the state likes to double check to see that you have not become feeble and infirm.  They do this by testing your vision, your knowledge and your ability to stand in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

It sure as hell isn't THIS sunny.

If you have first secured an appointment online, you will only have to wait 30 minutes or so to check in at the "I have an appointment" desk.  Then you quickly get a number and stare at screens in the waiting area until your number comes up.  If you don't have an appointment the process is the same except you will likely celebrate a birthday, anniversary and a couple other life events. Yup, all that while you wait among the "huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of the teeming" highways.

Today, I found myself among those rapidly approaching 70...damnit.  I had an appointment so I got the 30 minute treatment. Once in, we moved pretty fast through a couple of stations.  The DMV folks quickly numbered me among the infirm as I informed them I could not hear but I passed their vision test so they had to let me slip by.

Next I was directed to the exam and photo room.  There I demonstrated my feebleness as I passed the written driving exam but was instructed to return to the computer to take my motorcycle safety exam...must have missed that part of the instructions. I had not prepared to take the latter but my guesses were lucky as hell so I made it through.  The photo lady didn't like my first picture (Did I hear her mutter "too ugly?") but threw up her arms and gave up after the second attempt.

All in all, it was a humbling experience being packed in with those teeming masses, then herded and examined by some expert herders and examiners.  But... once finished I left all that humility crap behind and am now once again free to terrorize the highways in my Red Sled and loot and pillage villages on my Harley.

Look out... here I come.
 

Books in. Books out. Hell yes!

I was so desperate for something to read.  So desperate I was actually more than half way through Zinsser's book; "On Writing Well."  According to some, this book is second only to Strunk's "The Elements of Style" which is on most lists of the top 100 non-fiction books of all time.  "Elements" is another book I have begun and may finish one day when I am again desperate.

Then I noticed an article in the Sacramento Bee announcing an SPCA benefit book sale at a mall nearby.  I thought, well I have never been to one of these so maybe I will stumble across something.

I came up with a couple of reasons to explore this a little; first, to round up and donate books around home that would never make to our keeper shelf.  The keeper shelf holds a few special books that I hope someone in our family discovers to read, or read again or loans to someone one day.  Books that don't make the shelf are generally donated to Goodwill or, if particularly crappy, are sent directly to the recycle can out back.

My second mission would be to cruise the Internet for another look at all-time best non-fiction book lists and note any titles I might want to look for at the sale.

I wasn't expecting much but when I arrived early this morning on the first day of the sale I noticed the parking lot was surprisingly full.  I grabbed my "yes sir, yes sir two bags full" of books and headed in. There was a line outside waiting to drop off donations but it moved pretty quick. She said; "Do you want to fill out a form for tax purposes?"  Nah, I want to leave a few residual tax dollars in the Fed coffers to fill in a pothole on one of our nations's decrepit highways.  I said; "No thanks" and handed them over.

I headed in and was surprised to see what appeared to be thousands of books neatly laid out spine up on tables and somewhat categorized.  This was in an area maybe a quarter the size of a typical grocery store?  Even more surprising, there was a crowd of well over a hundred crammed into the area, all closely checking out the titles. I waded in and and spent most of my time ducking browsers who were seriously examining areas I wanted to get at.  I finally made it through two sections that caught most of my interest; History and Biographies.  Suddenly I had five books picked and was headed for check out...yup, more lines.  My five picks were;

• "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings", Maya Angelou
• "The Autobiography of Malcolm X", as told by Alex Haley
• "Kitchen Confidential", Anthony Bourdain
• "The Gangs of New York", Herbert Asbury
• "Clapton", Eric Clapton

Five books. Ten bucks.  Can't miss.

All right, all right...brief explanations are in order I reckon.  The first two are on most lists of all time best non-fiction books so I have to check them out.  "Kitchen" is written by one of my favorite characters...he has a couple of world travel/food television shows I really enjoy. "The Gangs of New York" was a great movie so I am naturally curious about the book and finally "Clapton" seems interesting right?

The only distressing thing about the whole experience was the number of old people who were there. But then, I look in the mirror and see...well, you know what I see.

America's Loneliest Highway - Gotta' get back there...

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 between Provo and Carson City, Nevada and we thought it would make a good ride on the home stretch of our great Milwaukee adventure.

This mentality is 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.

(Click on this photo for a better view.)

Around The Clouds

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.

Somehow we went whipping past them.  It was almost like the highway zigged and zagged on purpose, around the clouds, just to get us through the area 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 head 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 the old venerable highway.

Another feature is there is very little traffic. 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 Highway 50.  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 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, who was out in the middle of a 50-mile stretch of nowhere.  Next we saw a solitary jogger in a similar situation.

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, 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."

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 neck brews. We then turned in early in preparation for the last leg home.

Just Stop… And Tip Over

While the Coyote and I were on our glorious run along the highway I had an attack.  It was rapture of the outdoors (a total surprise to anyone who knows me).  As a result, I began keeping an eye out for photo opportunities.  Somewhere on the lonely highway we passed a very scenic outcropping of rock.  I noticed it had an area right in front where the bikes would look great posed 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 entrance to the site.

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.  Thanks for the idea Arte!  So Al came up, laughed at me for a bit 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 first(duh!!) then 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, typically while motionless. If it has to happen, sitting still is the best time as the worst development is usually 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 says, "It’s Just a Matter of Time."

Theres more.  It's here:  "Badass: The Harley Davidson Experience"

The Dick..."Tater"

I was on the everlovin' elliptical machine at the gym this morning.
I thought about the players in the Senior US Open.
They are at Del Paso golf course just a mile or so from me.
It will hit 110 degrees Fahrenheit today.
That will surely cook some of them right off the course.
Maybe they will have volunteer cool mist applicators at every tee.
My pal, Don Brunelle is one of them out there...
One of the volunteers that is.
I will ask.
If he survives the day.

I also noticed a little girl in the pool area outside the gym.
She was wearing a one piece suit.
She had a diaper on underneath.
I was thinking...is it permissible to put a little kid in diapers in a public pool?

But then, I looked up and one of the flat screen TV's was on.
Full of outcries about today's SCOTUS decision.
You know, the one upholding the Affordable Care Act.
After five years the fight continues.
Instead of offering viable alternatives,
or focusing on fixing the pieces of the 20,000 page behemoth
that are broken, those opposed vow to fight on.

I am getting tired of trying to keep up with the endless bickering,
with the threatened and actual government shutdowns.
I am tired of the spin doctors trying to sell me hasty generalizations instead of arguments biased in favor of the people.
I am really tired of our Congress; incapable of constructive legislation, refusing to represent the people, uncompromising, suited dandies pandering to anyone who will show them the money.

So, I have decided to shelf democracy for a few years.
I have decided to be the United States dictator.
My approach to running this country will reflect this quote from a now retired Air Force Medical Service Corps Colonel, Bob Mills.  "Gentlemen, you have (this much) time to make a collective decision.  If you haven't by then, I will make it for you."

(He was addressing a joint group of military health care facility leaders; participants in a test program of capitation budgeting in the Northwest US. His threat inspired us to act.)

I will give Congress a certain amount of time to act on an issue and if they can't I will show them the door and act for them.

I think you pretty much know the types of decisions I will make.
They won't all be right either but they will certainly be biased toward the Common Man.  Some of my decision drivers will include:

• To protect and preserve dignity, for all races, colors and creeds
• The opportunity to seek and hold gainful employment 
• A fair shot at a decent health care system
• To uphold the Constitution with as fair and contemporary an interpretation as possible 

One of the first things I will do is remove the parasites from our busted health care system, you know...like the one that costs your cancer-stricken family member more than $100,000 a year just for medications.

The list goes on and on but this I will be clear about...we will leave this country a better place for our children and grandchildren. We owe them that much and we haven't been producing....have we?

So I'm gonna' be the Dick....for you "Tater" and all you other folks who don't have that cute nickname. Get ready for a hellofa ride.

Eppies Great Race - "Another One (Almost) Bites The Dust"

Eppies Great Race (now known as "The Great American Race) is a Triathlon held each July.  The route covers Sacramento's scenic American River - the heart of gold country. Eppie's is billed as the “original” Triathlon.  

This is an account of my fourth and likely last time running in the "Ironman" division, meaning a person who competes in all three legs of the event, running, biking and kayaking.  The run is about 6.5 miles, the biking is 12.5 miles and the kayak portion returns you to the original start, another 6 miles.  In my case, you can more appropriately substitute the "compete" part with "participate" as I typically dwell in the very back of the pack.

Yours truly during the 'sedate downriver Kayak portion.

That year I had marginal training as I was busy consulting on a project in Atlanta for months immediately prior to to the race (yeah, yeah no excuse I know).

Race day on the 25th anniversary of the Great Race.  Got a good night’s sleep.  I am ready.  Get up early.  Already have bike and kayak loaded in and on the Jeep.  Head out to drop off Kayak.  To Sunrise Bridge near Negro Bar on American River.  Beautiful day!  Put kayak on rocky north bank of river along with many (a thousand?) others.  Place my life jacket and water bottle in it and it’s ready.  Everyone is in great spirits anticipating a lot of fun.  

I head west for about 12 miles to the Guy West Bridge near Sacramento State College – It’s a copy of the famous Golden Gate, designed for foot and bicycle traffic – neat bridge and the day is still beautiful.  I position my bike, helmet and gloves on a rack in the over-50 Ironman Division (A hell of a good sounding name don't you think?!). I then secure my jugs on the bike…one is water and one is Gatorade. I have been sippin’ on a big stainless steel mug of coffee all the way through this – delicious!

Return home and Julieann, my wonderful “Pit Boss” is prepared to drive me to the race start point near Arden Pond, a couple of miles away.  I fool around the house and waste time so Julie gets me there as the race is about to start.  I head for the bathroom anyway, along with several hundred entrants with the same mission.  I am a clever, seasoned veteran though so avoid the plastic outhouses and head a couple of hundred yards up the trail to the permanent facilities.  They are not crowded but I still don't get back to the start line until after the race has started.  No problem, I just turn around and fall into a jog with the lead runners.  I am accustomed to being in this position, the lead pack that is, for the first few hundred yards of most races because I like to find my way to the front before the start.

Then, several hundred, or several thousand, people proceed to pass me on the way to our destination.  I like to do this because people feel good when they are passing me – whatever I can do to advance mankind you know.

I am with the Ironman contestants.  The wheelchair entrants, who are faster than anyone, began two minutes before us and the relay teams will begin two minutes after us.  After I get a mile or so down the trail, the lead runners from the relays usually catch me.  These are the guys who are 5’6” tall, weigh 145 pounds and do 5-minute miles. As they approach from behind, the sound of air whooshing in and out of their lungs is very powerful and they look like they can run forever.  I believe these are the people who will tell you a runner’s high is indescribable.

We run (I shuffle) 6.5 miles west on the levee that adjoins the trail.  Along the way, around the three-mile point, we are fortunate to find a couple of folks who have run water hoses from their homes backing up against it.  If you want, they will spray you from head to toe.  It’s a great feeling because it is usually in the 90’s by the time you hit this point.  The first year I did this race, one of the “hose” guys noticed me struggling and said, “don’t worry buddy, there are millions of people out there today who aren’t doing a damn thing!”

We continue on to the Guy West Bridge.  I am somewhere around 70 minutes along.  My pace is something over 10 minute miles but ahead of last year!  This is great!  At the bridge I get on the bike for the return trip 12.5 miles up river. 

Over 90% of the contestants are gone by this time. Nonetheless, I head out with a great WHOOP!!! (I am so fired up at this point) to celebrate the end of the run.  The bike and kayaking are a piece of cake in comparison.   I am heading east along the river.  It is still a beautiful day, I've got plenty of beverages and I'm making good time…drafting some guys for a while.  It’s a lot of fun and most of them go faster than I can.  They pull ahead so I go solo until I catch up to two women who are switching drafts on each other.  I fall in third and they are moving at a good clip for me, 18.5 miles an hour. 

We are within a half-mile of finishing the 12.5 bike portion when a squirrel suddenly runs across the path in front of the second woman, the one I am following. I am within a couple feet of her rear tire; she swerves to avoid the squirrel and goes down immediately.  I know I am going too, my front tire is a couple of feet if that much from her body and bike lying across the trail.  I let go of the handlebars as my bike collides with hers and I do a flying “W” or somersault over the front, landing on my back on the trail.  

I am expecting the worst but she gets up immediately.  She and her friend start asking me if I am OK.  I am laying there taking inventory to see if everything still moves and I say, “yeah” when I don’t have a clue.  But I stand up and start looking over the damage and they take off as an emergency medicine technician comes running up from a station a couple of hundred feet ahead.  

He congratulates me on a “spectacular crash" and begins watching me pick up my bike to check it out.  He stands back like he is not supposed to assist me for fear of complicating my position among the entrants.  (Yeah right buddy. I'm in a race here to see who finishes last...)  I ask him to hold the bike while I attempt to get the rear tire to turn.  Failing, I then decide to carry it in manly fashion to the finish.  

First, I have him apply a Band-Aid to my finger because it is bleeding all over the place.  Then I pick up the bike and head down the trail.  An old man (as if I am not) comes by and asks me if I need some help.  My "manliness" diminished I say, “why not?” and set the bike down to check it out again.  I finally notice the rear wheel isn’t turning because the adjustable brake has been jammed into the tire rim.  It only takes a second to reach down and adjust it and I am back on the bike!  

I come whipping into the finish, in a little shock but damn happy that everything seems to function.  Julieann the Pit Boss is there to catch the bike and point me across the bridge to the kayak.  I quickly tell her my pitiful story, hopefully without too much embellishment, and head off to finish in the kayak.  I still can’t feel anything hurting too bad – musta' been some kind of miracle.

Then, I am heading down the river in the kayak, taking it pretty easy knowing I am now so far behind my normal pace it doesn’t matter.  I am chatting with a few other entrants along the way.  I even help a female (rookie) get out of a swirl she is caught in.  Now I am feeling manly and heroic again.  Doesn’t take much…

I approach the San Juan rapids, which is normally nothing more than a rough chop but due to "unseasonably high run off” is a little higher chop this year.  Of course, I am a seasoned veteran and know to paddle like hell to get through without losing balance and tipping over.  As I am about half way through, my “paddle like hell” technique suddenly fails and I tip over.  Since I am way behind, it’s ok.  I am floating down river clutching my upturned kayak, paddle and water jug.  The water is moving fast so I am wondering if I am going to be able to tip it over and climb back in as I have been taught…but haven’t practiced in a couple of years.  

A river volunteer paddles over and asks me if I want some help.  I look over and recognize him as the guy who taught me how to kayak through rapids in a beginner class a few years before.  Of course “I want a refund!”  but all I get is a laugh and a tow to shore with my gear.  So I proceed to empty the water out of my kayak, put my gear back in and head down stream. 

Finally, the true finish!  I am feeling pretty good, having worked out a little with weights to strengthen the upper body. I notice Julieann, my trusty Pit Boss, is standing there to cheer me on.  I go to roll out of the kayak while the attendants grab it so I can waddle to the finish line.  Getting out of a kayak into a foot or so of water is ordinarily a very awkward maneuver and this time my left leg has fallen asleep and won’t work!  So I look pretty pitiful as I collapse a couple times into the river before the leg starts responding again.  All the time I am thinking Julie is going to be worried this has something to do with the earlier bike accident. 

Finally, I stumble a hundred feet to the finish much to the relief of my Pit Boss who is patiently waiting for my 'Don Quixote' like mission to be complete.

With luck, I’ll be back next year, maybe wearing leathers (heh…heh…) to minimize the road rash I picked up all over the right side of my back.  

Life is an amazing thing.  If I was to do it over, I wouldn’t have smoked cigarettes so many years(or at all), I would have had more kids, started running sooner and I would have been a better husband to Julieann.  I am extremely grateful for what there is though...definitely. 

Post Script:  This year will mark the 42nd Race.  I have threatened to do another off and on now for seventeen years, a great feat of procrastination. Still, I did four of 'them there puppies' and I am damn happy I did.  In my next life, I will not put it off.  I will run at least twice as many and hopefully, skip the flying W's. 

Combat Consultant Badge

- My Combat Consultant Badge -
A red cross signifying specialization in health care.
A quill signifying further specialization in writing about health care.
(Formerly the logo of Campbell Health Management, Inc. - a company
that helped win billions of dollars of health care contracts over a span
of some 20 years and left it's founder, as his wife fondly referred to
him just today; "A babbling idiot."

Well it was just time is all. After more than 20 years of serving as a consultant to absolutely anyone who asks*, yes...it was time to award myself the Combat Consultant's Badge.

Those who know me and my deep, abiding sense of modesty will be surprised to learn I have decided to accept the Badge on behalf of all the pitiful consultants who came before me and those who will drag themselves along after.

I promise to dutifully work on my acceptance speech and plan to deliver it on a date, time and location known only to me and its presenter...also me.

Reflect, if you will, back for a moment to the great Northridge, California earthquake of January 17, 1994.  It was a Sunday. We had a small team of consultants working on a billion dollar plus government contract proposal for Blue Cross of California (then Wellpoint, now Anthem). We were at their headquarters in nearby Woodland Hills...the only ones other than some security folks in the large building there.

It is noteworthy to learn that consultants are often the only ones working in client offices on Sundays because regular company employees like to bail...as would anyone in their right mind. Consultants, who are not in their right mind, tend things on Saturdays and Sundays and late on weeknights.  With them, it's the billable hours...sometimes 90 hours a week, sometimes 0 hours a week.  You gotta' get'em while you can Vern.

We were parked in cubicles on one of the building's upper floors. Suddenly, the entire building began to shake...big time.  I, being a natural born leader (at least I was once recognized as such by one person...I think) and a quick decision maker and all simply shouted; "Get under your desks!" We all did. Fortunately, that was a pretty decent guess.  The shaking was so intense that immediately thereafter, my still hot morning cup of coffee fell off the desk and soaked me while I was in an extremely undignified hands and knees position. After a few moments, the shaking stopped and we were all thinking about what sort of effect the quake would have on our billable hours. Quickly, we decided "none." That was it for the day and we headed out for our hotel.

There was a long covered walkway at the building exit and we noticed much of the ceiling had fallen, leaving the walkway underneath a mess.  Someone mentioned they had just re-stuccoed the structure. The hotel was only a few blocks away and we gratefully camped out there for what was to be no further danger.

This is just one of many combat related incidents that have happened to me and others of my ilk over the years.  Their stories, like mine, are painful to recall but recall we must...for it is only through these valuable life hacks that we learn to set our coffee out of harm's way before diving under a desk during an earthquake.

*The reference to "anyone who asks" is part of the "damned if you do" dogma of a consultant's life. That is, if someone asks you do something and you have absolutely no idea what they are even talking about you say "yes" anyway.  Then, you find someone who knows how to do it, or you fake it, or both...