The Kermit the Frog Salesman

In 1983 I opened my own frameshop in San Marcos, California. It was all work back then trying to get the business off the ground. It was not uncommon for me to work 18 hour days. 

The bane of my life were people soliciting and selling all manner of stuff I didn’t need. It got so bad that I would lock the door to the front office.

One day a guy walked in selling Kermit the Frog glove puppets.

He had a puppet on each hand, with little red tongues that shot in and out. He immediately went into his cheery Kermit sales pitch.

I shouted, “Who the fuck left the front door unlocked.” I walked towards the guy to show him the way out and lock the door behind him.

He must have thought I was about to attack him because he turned to run. The problem was the door had closed behind him, and he couldn’t turn the door knob because he had a Kermit the Frog puppet on each hand.

As I got closer, and closer, he kept glancing back over his shoulder with a look of sheer terror like an animal in the slaughter house. He would try one hand, then the other, even both hands. In his panic it never occured to him to remove a glove puppet.

Just as I reached him, he got the door open and was through the front office and out the front door in a flash. I locked the door behind him and went back to work.

I wonder about this guy. Did he realize he was not really cut out to be a Kermit the Frog puppet salesman, and get a real job?

Maybe after this incident he at least left one hand free to open the door for a quick get away.

I love to ride my bike

I love to ride my bike, but for some reason hate getting ready to ride my bike. It seems to take me on average about 45 minutes, half an hour if I rush; from the time I decide to go for a ride, to actually walking out the door with my bike.

If I procrastinate over getting out for a ride, it is never over actually riding, but because of this chore of getting ready. How long does it take to throw on a jersey and a pair of shorts, you may ask? 

The first thing I do is pump the tires up, check for cuts, and give the bike a quick look over. Then fill two large water bottles with filtered tap water, and place them on the bike.

Then I get dressed, shorts, jersey, socks, that is relatively easy. I don’t put my shoes on until the last minute otherwise I am likely to slip on the kitchen or bathroom floor and fall on my arse.

I have done this on a few occasions, hurting nothing but my pride, but the thought that I could do myself serious injury makes me cautious.

Next I stuff my pockets. A multi Allen wrench, wrapped in a shop towel, and a hard plastic case which houses my cell phone. It is actually a plastic traveling soap case that I found at Target; it keeps the cell phone dry and protects it if I should fall. This is most likely when I would need a cell phone, and a broken one would not be much use.

I used to carry my wallet, until I read in the local paper that a man got robbed on the bike path I ride on, so now I just carry a photo copy of my driver’s license as ID, with relevant phone numbers written on it. If I were intending to go on a long ride, I would take some cash or a debit card.

I often take a banana with me, just in case I decide to ride a few extra miles. I think bananas are the ideal cyclist’s food. The perfect size and shape to fit in the back pocket, and the skin is nature’s own wrapper that is biodegradable.

Can it be I am almost ready, put my helmet on. No, wait I have to change my glasses, I have a special prescription pair for riding, with clip on sun glasses. Invariably they are covered in sweat from my last ride; I go to find the lens cleaner. Will I ever get out of here?

Okay, sun glasses on, can’t see a bloody thing; stumble to the bathroom. For some reason I can’t put a helmet on without the aid of a mirror.

Gloves and shoes on, am I finally ready? I know I am forgetting something; my bike is in one hand and the other is on the door knob. I stand there and do a mental check.

Sunscreen.....I forgot the fucking sunscreen. Off come the gloves, helmet and glasses; Go find the sports spray, quick once over on my arms and legs, that doesn’t take long. However, I can’t use it on my face as it says to keep away from the eyes.

Back into the bathroom, almost slip and fall on my arse, ‘cos now I’m wearing my cycling shoes with the cleats and hard plastic soles. Squeeze some different sunscreen from a tube and apply to my face, ears and the back of my neck.

Glasses, helmet and gloves back on, pick up my door key. Look up at the clock; forty-five minutes, just like I told you. Step outside and the heat and humidity hit me. I feel like I have just stepped into a bowl of hot cream of mushroom soup.

The summers here in South Carolina are brutally hot; it is important I get out as early as possible. Afternoon temps get to 90F or a 100F (32C to 38C) with the humidity anywhere from 80 to a 100%. Anyone who says you don’t need special clothes to ride a bike are welcome to do so. Not me if I’m riding more than an hour.

I look down at the bike, it needs a clean. Did I tell you, I also hate cleaning the bike, but I love to ride my bike

Tour de France could become fixed again

A recent Wall Street Journal article about the Tour de France and the fact that the family owned company that puts on this anual event, is considering selling it.

There was speculation that Lance Armstrong might be interested in buying, however, Lance immediately rejected the idea saying. “I love the Tour de France, but I am not interested in owning it.”

The latest news is that a young French Internet Billionaire, named Jacques LeLad, is the latest to show interest in the event. If this happens, it will change the Tour de France as we know it. LeLad is a twenty-something French Hipster and fixed wheel enthusiast. His plans are to change the TDF to a fixed only event.

The Tour de France does of course have a fixed wheel history. From its beginnings in 1903 up until 1938, the event was restricted to a single fixed gear. This was at the whim of then owner Henri Desgrange, whose opinion was that multiple gears took away from the purity and simplicity of the sport. Multiple gears had been available some years before 1938.

In the old days of the race, it took a course over the French Alps as it does today.

The single gear riders would stop at the foot of a climb, remove the rear wheel, and turn it around to a larger sprocket on the opposite side of the wheel. Repeating the process again at the top of the mountain in readiness for the descent.

In a recent interview, Jacques LeLad said that if his bid was successful there would be no more mountain stages. Through a translator he said,

“Fixie Bikes are of the street, and that is where the race should be.”

It will become a series of street races held in the larger French cities. The competitors will travel from one stage to the next in tour buses.

When asked if he thought the French public would come out to watch such an event, LeLad replied that he was unconcerned about spectators, as the event would draw fixie enthusiasts from all over the world. “They will be ’ere in their millions.” He quipped.

The sad thing is that he is probably right, and in this economy the French government is not going to turn away millions of potential tourists. It is doubtful the French government will stand in the way of this move.

The UCI, (The world governing body of cycling.) is powerless in the matter, as the Tour de France organizers, are a privately owned company.

There is a website where fans of the Tour de France as we know it can lodge a protest. At this time it is all we can do.

Friday Fun: Limericks

I composed some limericks for your amusement, with a cycling flavor of course.

A professional golfer from Spain
Decided cycling would be his new game
He had a good year
'Til he slipped a gear
And dimpled his balls on the frame.

A roadie pedaling hard as he could
Was passed by a "Fred;" that’s not good
Legs, hairy and pale
With a flapping shirt tail
And a dirty sweat shirt with a hood.

Riding my bike, who would guess?
That I would come off second best
Got into a fight
With a girl at a light
Turned out, was a bloke* in a dress.

*bloke = man

This last one tells a story in four verses.

A weight weenie said with a grin
My bike is the lightest it’s been
I’ve got ceramic balls
That weigh nothing at all
Then his bike blew away in the wind.

It sailed ’cross the sky like a kite
Gave airline pilots a fright
Made the six o’clock news
And Larry King too
Spoke of a runaway satellite.

Landed in some Middle East Nation
They asked the US for explanation
But even Dick Cheney
Couldn’t explain the
Mysterious flying sensation.

The CIA probed the mystery
And George Bush had to go on TV
Let this be a lesson
A weight weenie’s obsession
Could’ve started World War III.

Why do cyclists shave their legs? The only explanation you will ever need

It’s hotter’n hell, 90 degrees (32 C.) and we are going out for the evening. My wife is wearing long pants.

“Aren’t you going to be hot?” I ask. “Why don’t you wear a dress or shorts?”

“I can’t, I haven’t shaved my legs.”

End of questioning, no further explanation needed.

My lovely wife doesn’t want to be the only one in a roomful of ladies with silky smooth legs, while she is sporting stubble. Even though I would have to get down on my knees with a magnifying glass to find a tiny emerging follicle.

This is exactly the same reason why cyclists shave their legs, No one wants to go out on a group ride and be the only wooly mammoth in the pack.

Even if I am riding alone, I still shave my legs; I never know who I might meet on the road. Shaved legs simply look better on a cyclist. Some call it vanity, frankly I find that an affront to my pride.

I started racing in 1952 and that’s when I started shaving my legs. The European professional riders shaved their legs because they were riding the big stage races like the Tour de France and the Giro d’Italia.

Stages were long back then, sometimes in excess of 180 miles. (289.6 km.) They needed some serious massage therapy at the end of each day in order to have the leg muscles supple and relaxed ready to go again the next morning. It is neither comfortable for the cyclist or the masseuse to be massaging hairy legs.

The long, smooth legs in the picture at the top belonged to “Il Campionissimo” Fausto Coppi. I was no different from any other cyclist of the 1950s; we all wanted to emulate the great professional riders of that era. So we shaved our legs.

Shaved legs are faster; it is psychological. Like polishing the engine on a hot rod car; you can’t see inside the engine but you polish the outside. The cyclist is the “engine” of his bike; you can’t see the heart or the lungs inside, but by making the legs smooth and clean so you see every vein, sinew, and muscle, it is a definite psychological boost.

Professional cyclists today shave their legs for the same reason as their predecessors, and road cyclists of all levels, from amateur racers to weekend warriors follow suit. End of story, there should be no further explanation needed.

Fellow cyclists understand, but non-cyclists question this practice. We come up with all kinds of creative reasons for shaving our legs. We pretend that it is in case we fall and get road rash.

Sure with hair free legs it is easier to clean and dress wounds, but that is not why we shave our legs. A lady known only to me as “Jan” commented on a recent post. “If you fall and get road rash on your legs, wouldn’t you also scrape up your arms?” Good point, cyclists rarely shave their arms. (That would be weird.)

If someone asks me, “Why do you shave your legs?” I answer simply, “It’s traditional.” That is the only answer I need. No one questions it or doubts my word. After all, if something is traditional, who am I to break with tradition?

Professional racing cyclists have been shaving their legs for at least 100 years, that’s probably longer than ladies have been shaving their legs. So the practice definitely qualifies as a tradition.

Think of it like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain; when someone asks, “Why would you run down the street in front of a herd of stampeding bulls?”

“It’s traditional.”

“Oh well, that explains it. No further explanation needed.”

Or, “Why are you taking that dead pine tree into your house at Christmas.”

“It’s traditional.”

You see how it works; it doesn’t matter how bizarre or irrational the act, just say, “It’s traditional,” and it is immediately accepted.

It is so easy. No more excuses, no more lies about road rash or guilt feelings over vanity. The answer is, “It’s traditional.”

No further explanation is needed.