William Dicconson "Dicc" Bowdler

There are an abundance of bad things about social media that's for damn sure.

But, there are also plenty of good things too; like keeping in close contact with family members and old pals.  Last week, I was able to locate a friend I had lost track of for more than 35 years.  Family matters, work, education and relocations all contributed to losing touch with someone I admired and was once fortunate to call "close friend."

William "Dicc" Bowdler and I had worked together as Air Force Intelligence technicians at March Air Force Base, Riverside California in the early 70's.  We and our wives were also neighbors most of the time.  We had a lot in common, sharing interests in golf, music, football, family and humor.

I was drifting along pretty smooth with a new bride, Julieann and some interesting work I enjoyed.  I had no particular plans to do anything more until I found out Dicc was also attending college night classes.  Somehow, I appreciated his example.  I was thinking..."if he can do it I can, and probably should do it." So I began the same...believing it would be a useful way to get ahead, again with nothing particular in mind.  I also found out about College Level Placement exams that could get a person advanced quicker if successfully challenged.  I took those then had an overseas assignment where I was able to take a bunch of University of Maryland classes.  Next I attended Glendale Community College night classes near Luke Air Force Base, Arizona and all of a sudden I was eligible for full-time Air Force "Bootstrap" sponsored extension classes with Chapman College in the San Bernardino, CA area.

Julie and I had to move ourselves from Phoenix to San Bernardino to take advantage of the Bootstrap program.  As I discussed the option with Dicc, who was still stationed at March, just over 10 miles from San Bernardino, he thoughtfully offered to rent a U-Haul there, drive it Phoenix and help us with the move.  It was a great gesture Julie and I will never forget.  It helped relieve the stress we were feeling although I still managed to cut myself (more like scratch actually) with an electric razor the morning of the move - guess I was a little wound up!  But still, there was Dicc, happy and helpful and of course Julieann, who by the way has stepped in to help with anything...every single time for the past 51+ years now.

With Dicc's example and assistance, Julie and I would have a successful move, graduate from Chapman and get the whole college thing done in three and a half years.  I applied and was

Dicc and his lady, Joan "Pixie" Mamone
April, 2020

commissioned in the Air Force Medical Service Corps shortly after.  Dicc, meanwhile, completed his degree, completed his tours with the Air Force and eventually left to pursue career and life in his Elyria, Ohio hometown.

Dicc and I managed to stay in touch for a few years after once meeting briefly in Chicago for a great reunion dinner at the Signature Room atop the Hancock Tower overlooking the Magnificent Mile.  Not long after, we lost touch though as our day-to-day lives with family and work took over.

Then years later; the Internet, Google and Facebook arrived and made it possible to search for old friends.  Once in a while, I would enter Dicc's name in Google and try to track him down.  It didn't help that I had somehow spelled his name "Dick" as I had missed the correct version many years earlier.  Somehow, I eventually discovered him as a former member and President of the Ohio Bailiffs and Court Officers Association but when I inquired, they had lost contact with him too.  Next, I took on the Facebook search feature and noticed this person referring to himself as "Dicc Bowdler" looked a hell of a lot like my old pal.  I sent him a Facebook message and that was it!  Now, he and I can swap lies to our heart's content even though we live on separate coasts (mine's better.)

So Dicc, you see, set the example that would shape my working careers.  Without it, I would have never been Administrator of an Air Force Hospital nor would I have added a successful 20+year career as a health care administration consultant.  I am forever grateful and maybe, just maybe, we can one day soon look across the dinner table at some fine dining establishment and make terrible jokes for our forgiving wives.  

I can't wait.

  

 

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

It was alone

Exploring our bathroom.

Normally you would see it

In line, tandem running with thousands of 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.

(No I didn't but 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.

Eppies '98 - The Old Dudes Run

Eppies Great Race 1998 – 25^th Anniversary Triathlon.

Billed as the “original” Triathlon.  It’s a 6.5 mile run, then a 12.5 mile bike ride followed by a 6 mile river paddle. This would be my fourth time entering.  I had spent marginal training time as I was busy working on a consulting engagement in Atlanta for the months prior to the race (yeah, yeah; no excuse for not running I know).

Race day.  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 the American River.  Beautiful day!  Put kayak on rocky north bank of river along with many (a thousand?) others doing the same.  Place my life jacket and water bottle in it and it’s ready.  Everyone is in great spirits anticipating a lot of fun. 

Kayaks at Sunrise bridge prepositioned
for their paddlers.

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

Sacramento State University
Guy West Bridge

Get home and Julieann, my wonderful wife and “Pit Boss” is prepared to drive me to the race start point near Arden Pond a couple of miles away from our home.  I fool around the house and waste time so when Julie gets me there the race is about to start.  I head for the bathroom anyway, along with several hundred entrants with the same mission.  I am a supposedly clever, seasoned veteran though so I mosey a couple of hundred yards up the trail to the permanent facilities.  They are not crowded but I still manage to not make it back in time for the start of the race.  

The famous start line. If there is an old dude
up front there with the pack it could be me.

No problem.  I am after all, again a ‘seasoned veteran’ so I just turn around and fall into a jog with the lead pack.  I am accustomed to being in this position (the lead)….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 (the very slow) me on the way to our collective destination.  I like to do this because people feel good when they are passing me – whatever I can do to advance the self esteem of mankind you know.

I am with the "Ironman" (There it is again!) contestants.  The Ironman folks are those who intend to complete the full triathlon alone.  The wheelchair entrants, who are faster than anyone, began two minutes before us and the relay teams (teams of runners, bikers and paddlers) will begin two minutes after us.  After I get maybe a half mile down the trail, the lead runners from the relays  usually catch me.  These are the guys who are 6' tall, weigh 145 pounds and do sub 5-minute miles. As they approach you 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 people who will tell you for a fact that a runner’s high is indescribable.

We run (I shuffle) 6.5 miles west on 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 the levee our trail is on.  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 shuffling along at the back of the pack and said, “don’t worry buddy, there are millions of people out today who aren’t doing a damn thing!”

To the Guy West Bridge, I am somewhere over 70 minutes along.  I am jog/shuffling at a 10 minute mile pace but ahead of last year's pace!  This is great!  I hop on the bike, over 90% of them are gone by this time and 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.   Heading east along the river.  It is still a beautiful day, I've got plenty of beverages and I'm making good time on the bike…drafting some guys for a while.  It’s a lot of fun and most of them go faster than I can.  They pull ahead and I go solo for a while until I catch up to two young 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.

Eppies bikers on the trail.

 

We are within a half-mile of finishing the 12.5 mile bike portion when a squirrel suddenly runs across the path in front of the second woman, the one I am drafting. She swerves to avoid the squirrel and goes down immediately.  I know I am going down too. My front tire is a couple of feet from her body lying across the trail, if that much.  I let go of the handlebars and at the moment of impact with her body, do a flying “W” (forward somersault) over the front of both bikes and the fallen rider, landing on my back on the trail.  I am expecting the worst for her 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 actually don’t have a clue.  It seems all right though so I stand up and start looking over the damage. They take off just 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 watches 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, as if I am in contention for anything other than finishing.  I ask him to hold the bike while I attempt to get the rear tire to turn.  Failing, I then decide to carry the bike on my shoulder 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) spectator comes by and asks me if I need some help.  I decide to forego the manly behavior and say, “why not?” so I 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 bend it back into position and I am off!  I come whipping into the finish, a little shocky but damn happy that everything seems to function.  Julieann Marie, my Pit Boss and very understanding wife, is there to catch the bike and point me across the bridge to the kayak.  I quickly tell her my story, hopefully without too much embellishment and head off to finish in the kayak.  Still can’t feel anything hurting too bad – musta been some kind of miracle.

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

Next, I approach the San Juan rapids which are normally nothing more than a rough chop but “due to unseasonably high runoff” are a little higher 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 kind of 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 comes over in a ski-doo and asks me if I want some help.  I look over and recognize him as the guy who taught me how to go through rapids in a beginners kayak course a few years before.  Of course I want a "full refund" on his class 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 old upper body. I notice Julieann, my trusty Pit Boss, is standing there to cheer me on.  I start 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 fairly 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 working again.  All the time I am thinking Julie will be worried this has something to do with the earlier bike accident.

A kayaker disembarks and heads for the
finish a few yards away.

 

Nevertheless, I stumble a hundred feet to the finish.  This is worth mentioning again: What a beautiful day!

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 so long, 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 so far though.

Postscript:  October, 2003.  I have retired the helmet I was wearing that day.  You can see the scrape on the left side where my head hit the pavement as I completed the famous “Flying W” somersault.  My stick-on contestant entry number is on it too.  It is hanging on a rack in my office along with mementoes of son Tyler’s glorious baseball days.  I think that is a great spot for a nice reminder of another day when I was extremely lucky.

I haven’t done another Eppies as I haven’t made time to train.  But you never know…

Post-postscript: September 2019.  Borrowed this note for background:  "Triathlete and fundraising activist Eppaminondas "Eppie" Johnson owned 16 all-night coffee shops plus upscale restaurants between California and Las Vegas.  The first Great Race was held in 1974 as a way for Johnson to promote his original restaurant, at 30th and N streets in Sacramento.  The race ran for 45 years until 2018, five years after Johnson's death at 85." 

The Story of Aught

Don "Aught" Palen
&
His famous blue jacket

A big, stocky man
Six foot plus
A fine athlete in baseball and tennis...
Maybe not golf

A genius at music trivia
He can trace session musicians
At least 6 groups back
With no effort 

An extraordinary collector of albums
He has a good sized, two story home
Where at least half the space,
(The entire upstairs?)
Including a big chunk of garage is taken up
With vinyl, tapes, cd’s, posters and on and on

It has to be one of the largest
Most comprehensive
Collections in existence

He also has a good size (some would say great) heart
He looks for and emphasizes positive features
In every person he meets
He is a sentimentalist of the first degree
Who clings to 'the way we were' with steadfast devotion

Of course he has some eccentricities, as do most of us
His include a propensity to tell or email a joke
(... and yes Virginia, some are extremely lame, moldy, or both)
Every time he communicates with someone

Hanging out with some Texas pals

Be they friend or foe

A Schenectady raised patriot
He served a full career in the US Air Force Medical Service Corps
Rising from the enlisted ranks to become a Lieutenant Colonel

He has a propensity to wear
An (antique?) blue sport coat
With a hue we most often see
On an Easter egg
He also once sported a mullet
Long after the rest of his hair
Had bid him a fond adieu'.

He has a well deserved reputation for wearing outrageous outfits
On golf courses
His standard is set on this objective...
The more conservative the golf course
The more outrageous his outfit
Likely an old carry over from military "Shock and awe" strategy
He failed to learn in Squadron Officer School

Finally, and after living in Texas
So close to the border for so many years
He shaved his head

Collaborating with Lady Gaga

I believe he did this in an effort
To resemble a rare breed
A Mexican Hairless
And blend in better
But I have not been able to confirm this on Snopes,
Truth or Fiction, or Urban Legends

When he played baseball
And he played it well
He favored a double "00" as his uniform number
Another sign that he wasn't planning to take anything too serious

Recalling this some years ago
Right at the turn of the century, 2,000 in fact
I nicknamed him "Double Aught"
Later shortened simply to "Aught"
You see the connection right?

You can find Aught in some unlikely places today
Such as in performance with Lady Gaga
With certain cowboys

Having a frosty with the Pope of Texas

And with other Texas folks
Including the Pope of Texas
Okay, okay... he's the Pope
Of the rest of the world too

Aught's actual name is
Don Palen
An extraordinarily good man
He is married to a wonderful lady,
Andrea
I'm guessing close to 50 years
The two of them together
Andrea is also from the Schenectady area

Aught has two great sons
One; Sean, an MS, and former inner city math teacher (a hero of mine)
The other; Mark, a PhD and professor at Exeter (another hero of mine)

Aught is my brother...from another Mother

Veni, Vidi, Velveeta...they don't make'em

...like they used to.

A recurring September event - dateline Reno circa 10 years ago or so

Veni ("I came" - & thanks for forcing a little bit of Latin into me Mrs. McKillip)

The Coyote, his bride and I
Were to meet early for our annual trek
To Reno, Nevada for the biker event "Street Vibrations"

Both had to work late

Reno's famous Virginia Street during Street Vibrations

The previous night
So they begged off our departure time
I had to get there earlier as I also had
A World Poker Tour tournament
I wanted to enter
I left ahead of them
The Harley packed light just for a couple of nights

I should have been forewarned things might be cockeyed that day
But I pressed on
There were warm temperatures on both sides of the Sierras
So I dressed light
T-shirt, shirt and light jacket
Figured I would endure the cold over Donner pass

The trip was smooth and uneventful
Set the cruise control on 80 and let'er rip...
I hit Reno in a couple hours with a little time to spare
So I headed for Chester's Harley Davidson
To present my HOG (Harley Owner's Group) fanatic card
And pick up my 'proof of life,'
A commemorative event pin for members only

Got that done then went to the wrong casino
To enter the tournament
They were both off the main strip
And I'm easily confused
But then repacked the bike
And found my way to the right casino in time

Vidi ("I saw")

There I quickly paid up
And had a few moments to grab a bite
Went to the table a couple of minutes early
Sat in my assigned seat
And noticed a player there who looked familiar
I asked, "Is it possible I have seen you on the rectangular screen?"
He said "Yes."

This is TJ
He doesn't look mean at all in real life.
(It took a Poker Hall of Fame pro
 to knock me out of that
tournament... I'd like to spin it that way.)

I said, "Please forgive me for forgetting but you are...?"
He said, "TJ" and the dealer said his last name but I couldn't make it out
So I said something dumb like; "Well, it's awesome to be sitting at the same table with you."
He turned out to be TJ Clotier
My first genuine poker pro and I was gambling with him
Me and eight others that is

I'm thinking; 'Wow, these are all pros here? I am in wayyyy over my head.

Velveeta (OK, so I didn't conquer, & enough Latin already.)

I broke (yes, a play on words) into tournament poker here in Sacramento a few months ago

And have played with some pretty tough hombres

So I was surprisingly comfortable with the table

Got about an hour and a half into the puppy

Was a couple thousand ahead

Then after small initial bets ("blinds"), TJ and I were head to head

After the flop I had a flush draw.

TJ was first to act and pushed all in with over 12 thousand in chips

There was a king in the flop
I correctly assumed he had another as one of his hole, or "pocket" cards

But was still surprised at the size of the bet

I knew I had a 15-20% chance, twice to hit the flush

It would be on the turn (sixth card) or the river (seventh and final) card

I had recently seen one of the top players in the world, Phil Hellmuth

Miss a flush in similar circumstances... three consecutive times in a televised tournament

So I had a little more vivid picture of my chances in spite of the odds

Yet, I had a chance to knock out a Hall of Fame poker player

I took the chance and called

It wasn't to be
My flush missed and I was out of the tournament

I again thanked TJ for the privilege of playing against him 

Wished the rest of the table luck
Two had been knocked out before me

And headed on my way with another precious memory

To tuck into the cranial treasure chest

In all, TJ is a really friendly person who plays fairly tight poker
(But I am truly unworthy of judging)

And entertains the entire table with short stories of his past adventures

That part I CAN judge...

As for the rest of the trip...

I had a $49 dollar room that night at Reno's Silver Legacy

Right on the strip and in the middle of the biker/vendor action

They close down Virginia Street
For bikes, spectators and vendors only

It was impressive how low key things were...

Not as many bikers and not as many vendors as years past

The recession has made it less than half of what it once was

But the Coyote, his bride and I still got a chance to mosey

Down the middle of the street,

Enjoying the night lights,  a damn good Santana tribute band

A couple of beers and a couple of stogies

So it was...beat out of a tourney, a low density crowd and few vendors but great friends, music, and atmosphere

Cheap and cheesy.. just the way I like it... Velveeta
...and a little spam can't hurt either!