tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67378512754530209042024-03-18T13:33:08.652-07:00albertnetDana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.comBlogger718125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-75784264154060820072024-03-16T15:40:00.000-07:002024-03-18T13:32:35.314-07:00The Power of Loafing<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am not a lazy person and don’t consider myself an expert loafer.
Nor do I advocate sloth in general. That said, I will argue that being judicious about when
to take your foot off the gas can turn loafing into a superpower.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Who, what, where,
when, why, and how?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This post is for the modern knowledge worker who nowadays has
a lot of flexibility in his or her workday. The <i>what</i> herein is to explain how this freedom can be an issue. It
doesn’t overmuch matter <i>where</i> this
work is done, but the ability to <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/08/teleworking-during-covid-19-pandemic.html" target="_blank">work from home</a> is part of the equation. <i>When</i> is of
course right now and going forward, and the <i>why</i>
is because I sense the encroachment of so-called “grind culture” and want to
help spare you from it, just as I continually attempt to spare myself. Now,
there is plenty of literature out there about the evils of grind culture, but
I’m going to illustrate, through what I hope is a potent metaphor, <i>how</i> to convince yourself to passively
fight it—that is, to loaf strategically.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Some background</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you haven’t come across the term “grind culture” (aka
“hustle culture”), you either lead a blessed work life, or (like me up until
recently) you have been missing out on a handy way to describe something you’ve
surely noticed, probably pondered, and—I hope—have found yourself questioning.
The <i>New York Times</i>, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/26/business/against-hustle-culture-rise-and-grind-tgim.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">in this article</a>, calls grind culture “performative workaholism” and cites Elon Musk’s
pro-grind tweet, “Nobody ever changed the world on 40 hours a week.” It’s worth
pointing out that Musk, who advocates working at least 80, is a douchebag.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Grind culture promotes unabashed ambition, supported by long
hours and what its proponents like to call “grit” (though “self abasement”
would be more accurate in this case). Its adherents don’t seem to realize, or
at least don’t tend to acknowledge, that a company’s executives are the main
beneficiaries of this culture. Grinders also apparently don’t grasp (or perhaps
simply don’t care) that this relative minority of highly ambitious people can
set a new productivity standard for a workplace, that spills over onto
colleagues who might prefer greater work/life balance.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The <i>Times </i>article
I just cited was written before the COVID-19 pandemic. Since then, I fear
things have only gotten worse. These days, a lot more knowledge workers <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/08/teleworking-during-covid-19-pandemic.html" target="_blank">work from home</a>, and the flexibility this gives them to tend to personal matters (e.g.,
picking up a kid from school, putting in a load of laundry) also gives
management a reasonable basis for expecting employees to be available for a
much longer period of time each day. As <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/12/magazine/flexible-work-home.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">another <i>Times </i>article</a> explains, “Cellphones and laptops have made it impossible for many people to
wall off eight hours of the day for paid labor and another eight for everything
else, and they threaten to return all of us to an era of nonstop,
undercompensated labor.” And as <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/glebtsipursky/2022/11/03/workers-are-less-productive-working-remotely-at-least-thats-what-their-bosses-think/?sh=5ec74ed3286a" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this <i>Forbes
</i>article</a> asserts, even as productivity has increased with teleworking, management
doesn’t often perceive this; a study by Microsoft found that “49% of managers
of hybrid workers struggle to trust their employees to do their best work.” In
this climate, perhaps the nervousness we may have about the visibility of our
output (since we’re not observed to be in the office at our post) contributes
to our temptation to send emails or Slack messages at 10 p.m.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So how do we combat this impulse to work longer and more?
How do we fight the trend toward performative workaholism? For me, it’s a
matter of differentiating between <i>doing
more</i> and <i>doing my best</i>. Since
this is a vague notion, I will now proceed to my metaphor.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Life imitates sport</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m an <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/01/fiction-things-they-carried-biking.html" target="_blank">assistant coach for a high school mountain bike racing team</a>. Unlike a track coach who just stands
around on the infield with a clipboard and shouts instructions, we cycling
coaches actually ride with the kids, the whole time, every practice. This gets
progressively, inevitably more difficult every year. The kids obviously never
age because it’s a rotating crop: every year a quarter of them graduate and are
replaced by incoming freshmen. I, on the other hand, am not getting any
younger, or stronger, and my <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/12/cycling-smackdown-small-cog-tale.html" target="_blank">bike gearing</a> isn’t getting any lower. Needless to say, the hills around here aren’t
getting any flatter.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s been such a wet winter, there are only a few trails we
can reliably ride without getting bogged down in mud. This leaves two main routes
we can ride right now: Big Springs Trail and Seaview Trail. The summit of
Seaview, at 1,905 feet elevation, is the highest point in the Berkeley hills,
and the climb up it is a bitch. In fact, there’s a section I can barely make.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let me describe how this works for me, with my last trip up
it as an example. There’s this long, steep opening bit that is a total grind,
but doable, and then we descend for a bit and catch our breath. Then it the
trail starts climbing again, and this time of year we’re dodging puddles and so
forth, and then, just before the grade gets truly brutal, there’s a very
shallow, almost flat bit. I happen to have a photo.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIk3s_oGyvcA8AXB9acx-w7YoXkhRj2VVsrvf-loOhUDykdQQqinCmsbDssY1B8NTUOD-2JSlCtLWHpo0cnS-j59lZB4_z387hum0xLvviCFU7r70t0tygvojjjmaBuM-AZ2uIaSMOFAb4fhPqhamDlAdCNvrgjGsrIx7Wn4n-7eONuaQz8LmfvM72C7rK/s2016/Seaview1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1134" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIk3s_oGyvcA8AXB9acx-w7YoXkhRj2VVsrvf-loOhUDykdQQqinCmsbDssY1B8NTUOD-2JSlCtLWHpo0cnS-j59lZB4_z387hum0xLvviCFU7r70t0tygvojjjmaBuM-AZ2uIaSMOFAb4fhPqhamDlAdCNvrgjGsrIx7Wn4n-7eONuaQz8LmfvM72C7rK/w225-h400/Seaview1.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />After the slow slog up to this shallow bit, it’s always
tempting to pick up the pace, but I never take the bait. For this reason, I
frequently get passed at this spot, as happened last time. One of the kids I
coach had been nipping at my heels the whole way, and when I laid off the pace
here he blew right by me. I cared not a whit. He’s inarguably faster than I am,
and after all my job isn’t to beat him, it’s to coach him. Moreover, my job in
this moment was just to get up the damn hill.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I continued to loaf, and before long could hear another
rider behind me. And now the grade suddenly became almost unbearably steep. I
had no choice but to dig deep. I could still hear the kid behind me, gears
whirring and panting increasing, and I now faced the hardest part of the climb:
a very rocky place with a lot of tree roots, which don’t actually look so bad
in this photo but can easily stop a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/11/ask-middle-aged-guy.html" target="_blank">middle-aged</a> rider dead when he’s barely handling the climb to begin with.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswuB0gtdKVazYEG_BYoJ1Xn8ymZ7ZAt3VDDaKRv9dRZzb6x8rMIgSObTnvLAJRVzEk4WapJOfPqMF5q5-YkuLnzg4CnuiqMK1XgqpLB-zNEf-lbrjd1sPxKCjBcyoa6FaH1CSWnjCIzOuKwohjF7nCcKorjD1nftdicFv_1KF5Z7zesbNL0COp9zoWBto/s2016/Seaview2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswuB0gtdKVazYEG_BYoJ1Xn8ymZ7ZAt3VDDaKRv9dRZzb6x8rMIgSObTnvLAJRVzEk4WapJOfPqMF5q5-YkuLnzg4CnuiqMK1XgqpLB-zNEf-lbrjd1sPxKCjBcyoa6FaH1CSWnjCIzOuKwohjF7nCcKorjD1nftdicFv_1KF5Z7zesbNL0COp9zoWBto/w400-h225/Seaview2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Over the years I’ve compared notes with other coaches about
the best path through this notoriously difficult section. On this last trip, I
managed to thread my way through, just barely, through a combination of the
perfect line and an all-out, leg-searing effort that bumped my bike over the
inevitable rocks and roots I couldn’t steer around. And now here’s my point:
the rider behind me didn’t manage it. I heard the distinctive sound of a cleat
clicking out of a pedal (so he wouldn’t tip all the way over after losing all
momentum) and the inevitable whuff of frustration. A rock or root had stopped him
cold. And this didn’t happen because he’s less strong than I am (after all, in
the group I ride with these days, they’re <i>all
</i>stronger than I), nor because he’s less skilled. It’s almost certainly because
he was closer to being redlined than I was when he reached that section: because
he was already drilling it before the steep stuff began. On the shallow
section, I wasn’t just loafing to loaf. It was a matter of survival. That
steep, rough part is so hard, I have to be rested—physically and psychologically—before
giving it my all to get through it. When a 100% effort is required, you (or at
least I) cannot already be maxed out before reaching it. That pause to collect
myself was as important as the odd, protracted centering routine a high-diver
goes through before starting his or her dive.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alas, the grade doesn’t ease up: this section of climbing
demands several more minutes of excruciation. But you know what’s worse? Trying
to get rolling again on a rocky, pebbly, loose, root-infested 16% grade with
only one foot clipped in. It’s awkward and frustrating and saps your will. There’s
a world of difference between making it the whole way in one shot, and getting stymied
and starting over. Having to unclip from your pedal is how you lose a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/02/race-report-2022-fort-ord-cccx-xc-mtb.html" target="_blank">mountain bike race</a>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I trust this metaphor isn’t particularly hard for you to
decode. Just as I would advise you, on your first-ever bike ride up Seaview, to
ease up and rest your legs before the really steep part, I want to convey to you how important I think
it is to pace yourself elsewhere in life. Alas, the metaphor falls flat pretty
quickly, because life does not always imitate
sport. In real life, you’re not heading up a known trail; you can’t plan ahead
where you’re going to strategically loaf.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>When to loaf in life</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My workplace, which I suspect is typical of a modern
American corporation in a fast-changing industry, is unpredictable. It’s generally
impossible to predict when the hammer will come down. (I sometimes envy tax
accountants or line cooks who know in advance when things are going to get
crazy.) In <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/07/what-do-you-do.html" target="_blank">my industry</a> we’re conditioned to see change as opportunity, and to embrace the ethos of
“<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/10/i-will-disrupt-your-coffee.html" target="_blank">disruption</a>,” to figure out new schemes to go take
more market share, and blah blah blah. We don’t have the luxury of cooling our
jets just ahead of a big effort because we never know when that will be—or,
more to the point, we’re supposed to be bringing it about ourselves, constantly.
That is the essence of grind culture. (This extends beyond the workplace, of
course, unless you’re a childless bachelor(ette) and orphan. Families introduce
countless opportunities for entropy to throw us into a tailspin, particularly
if we’re trying to run our family like a CEO would run a business.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, without guideposts like a really steep, rough section of
trail, and with the constant pressure to find more work to do, how are we
supposed to know when to loaf? My answer is “whenever we reasonably can.” Of
course this will vary from job to job, and from life to life, but the point is,
we are all free to pause and question, throughout our workday, what<i> </i>truly needs to be done next, and when,
and why. Who is waiting on it? Am I doing this because somebody is counting on
me, or am I trying to show somebody up?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In my experience, we’re not always given deadlines, but
instead are asked how soon we can have something done. This question can feel
like a version of “How good are you?” It can seem to force a reckoning: am I
going to do right by my employer no matter what the personal cost, to prove I’m
a team player and the kind of baller Elon Musk would praise? Or do I stick up
for my right to work a normal day? Actually, I think this is a false dichotomy.
Over-committing yourself and failing to deliver doesn’t help anybody. We have
to accept—actually, to understand and to some extent define—what is sustainable
for us. I define “sustainable” not as “the outer limit of what I am capable of”
but “what I can sustain without wearing myself down, making mistakes, and spinning
my wheels.” To return to my cycling metaphor, I don’t want to overextend
myself, grind to a halt, and have to clip out of my pedal.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Strategic loafing isn’t just about how we run our day, but
how <i>long </i>we run our day: when we
decide to shut down and what shutting down means. Just as a physical workplace
used to help us segregate work and life, the act of powering off our computers became
the more modern way to close the door on the workplace, even for telecommuters.
Now, as the <i>Times </i>has<i> </i>pointed out, cellphones can tether us
for our entire waking life. Strategic loafing means the courage to close down
Slack (etc.) at a reasonable hour and resolve not to open our work email until
tomorrow. (Ideally we’d resolve also to limit indulgence in our digital “feed,”
that fusillade of incoming crap so many invite in for their poor brains to
grapple with on personal time. But that’s <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/03/firewall-for-mind.html" target="_blank">another post</a>.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>More cycling metaphor</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/03/all-i-need-to-know-about-corporate.html" target="_blank">Cycling has taught me</a> more than just how to pace myself in the moment. It has also taught me how to
pace myself through the season. There is a time for rest, and a time to hammer.
Yes, I can give it my all, that heralded 100%, but only for about two hundred
meters until I go anaerobic. And I can dial my effort up until I’m at my anaerobic
threshold (e.g., like when going up Seaview), but I can’t keep that up for
hours at a time. And not every ride can be a hammer-fest; some days need to be
mellow—a conversational pace. Time off is necessary, to let the body recover.
The analogy here to resting our minds and psyches throughout our workweeks and careers
should be pretty obvious to anyone who doesn’t brag about how long he’s gone
without a lunch break or a vacation. What if all that world-beating doesn’t end
up enabling a person to make a killing and retire at 45? Then what? Twenty more
years of the same? I guess Elon Musk has never heard of base miles.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Call to inaction?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I entered the corporate workforce, I was terribly
afraid of workaholism. What if it ran in families? <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/11/famous-last-words-part-ii.html" target="_blank">My dad</a> was a hopeless workaholic. Every morning he was in the office by 8:30, came
home promptly at 7:45 for dinner, then left again and wasn’t home until after
10pm … <i>seven days a week. </i>It was the
rare week he didn’t put in at least 80 hours. Alas, this didn’t result in a
particularly brilliant career; in fact, when he was right about the age I’m at
now, he burned out completely and fell out of the workforce. (All three of his
marriages had already ended.) That was my example of what <i>not </i>to do.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Such was my paranoia about falling into bad work habits, I
made a point not to put in too many hours. I was willing to risk not meeting
some vague expectation; I figured if my hours were too low my manager would let
me know. Obviously my output had to be on par with my overworked colleagues,
which meant working fast. Cycling had given me an obsession with efficiency, and
I applied that to my career. Hoping that MO would be enough, I didn’t layer
overlong workdays on top of it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So did this approach work out? Well, here’s a telling
anecdote. A few years into my career, I was at a team-building offsite in Palm
Springs (back in the days of such things) and management presented a bunch of
awards. I don’t remember the categories, etc. but toward the end our branch
director presented a big one, and started describing the winner: he’s this, he’s
that, and (this is the part that jumped out at me), “He is no stranger to
working long nights and weekends.” At this, I started to feel something like
sour grapes—as in, “Is <i>that </i>what it
takes to get recognized around here?” but then I caught myself and reflected on
my principles. I reminded myself, “Hey, I don’t need to be the big winner. There’s
more to life than career ambition. I have work/life balance. Let this guy have
his glory, he’s made sacrifices for it.” My rumination was suddenly interrupted
when the director called out the name of the winner: “Dana Albert!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was absolutely stunned. Me? Long nights? Weekends? Huh? It
wasn’t until I reflected on this later that I realized the director wouldn’t
have been around in the evenings or weekends to <i>see</i> me hard at work, any more than my dad’s bosses had witnessed
him. That I put in long hours was just an assumption. My reputation was based
more on results than on rudimentary metrics like hours worked. So: if what
ultimately matters is our output, who needs the performative workaholism of
grind culture?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let me be clear: I’m not advocating naps throughout the day,
or only working eight hours a day as a golden rule. I’ve used the word
“loafing” here somewhat flippantly, to get your attention. What I am talking
about is more of a return to a work life with guardrails. If the traditional work/life
boundaries are no longer available, at least we should have an awareness of the
need to set new ones. I want to take care of myself first, and my employer
second, because this serves us both better in the long run. Professionally
speaking, I want to be the guy who, when a bomb is dropped, isn’t already
overwhelmed, isn’t sleep-derived, won’t get frazzled, knows how to work fast, and
can quickly put his hands on all the resources he needs. In a nutshell, I want
to be the guy who’s not gonna clip out and tip over. To the tired old cliché “I
work hard and I play hard,” I would add a crucial third element: “I rest hard.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-8427737758760598612024-03-07T21:31:00.000-08:002024-03-08T06:47:12.223-08:00From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XIII<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the thirteenth installment in the “From the Archives –
Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/12/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-i.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume II is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/01/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-ii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume III is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/02/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-iii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume IV is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/04/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-iv.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume V is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/11/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-v.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume VI is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/02/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-vi.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume VII is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/06/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-vii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume XIII is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/07/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-viii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume IX is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-ix.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume X is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/11/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-x.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume XI is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2024/01/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-xi.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and Volume XII is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2024/02/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-xii.html" target="_blank">here</a>. (The different volumes have nothing to do with one another and can be
read in any order, or underwater, or not at all.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Bits & Bobs series is the reason I’ve been called “a
master of the short, short form” by … nobody! These are excerpts from emails,
letters, etc. that I wrote to friends and family before I started this blog and
channeled all my literary compulsion into this single endeavor. Read on if it’s
bedtime and you’re jittery, or even better, read this aloud from your phone to
some rando on the bus.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBL02I-Oyuo4GN5conizC7aQhhzB0ClbG72HXchWlAE3F7TKtmCoiINIdV5hzL7u9nnppLlxfOF4GTypFNEz_0FVcJTGB86rdU67oTKDMl6vQFESnCgLTjQcXEDSV9HSoXoYCwtskb8WO9fQsz7_UAnl5afCKCNmyRAEk40AmFvjj89T-yk4gTvxR40j_/s1600/OldCat.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBL02I-Oyuo4GN5conizC7aQhhzB0ClbG72HXchWlAE3F7TKtmCoiINIdV5hzL7u9nnppLlxfOF4GTypFNEz_0FVcJTGB86rdU67oTKDMl6vQFESnCgLTjQcXEDSV9HSoXoYCwtskb8WO9fQsz7_UAnl5afCKCNmyRAEk40AmFvjj89T-yk4gTvxR40j_/w300-h400/OldCat.JPG" width="300" /></a></i></div><i><br />October 13, 1995</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thanks for offering me the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/12/from-archives-careergate.html" target="_blank">TV</a>, but no thanks, I’m good. I don’t miss having one, and when someone asks
something like, “Did you see ‘Friends’ last night?” I kind of enjoy replying, “No,
I don’t have a TV.” No matter how offhandedly I deliver this message, I
probably come off sounding sanctimonious and superior, which causes my
interlocutor to judge and despise me, which of course everyone enjoys doing, so
I can feel good about doing someone a favor in giving him that pleasure. Often,
I’ll be asked, “No TV?! How do you keep up with the news?” The answer is, I
mostly don’t, since we don’t get a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/01/from-archives-paperboy.html" target="_blank">newspaper</a> either. I figure if something’s important, I’ll hear about it one way or the
other. I get enough news by reading the headline thru the window of the
newspaper vending machine while I’m waiting for the bus. What’s the point of
being more informed than that? What am I going to do about anything? Is there a
cautionary tale in the OJ Simpson murder case? As long as I understand that 1)
our country is a vicious planet-plundering machine, and 2) people are dying all
over the world and I have it so good, and 3) we won’t know how the Raiders will
stack up this season until we see them play Dallas, then I think I’m informed
enough.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>November 12, 1996</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Since I’m not hosting <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/11/from-archives-thanksgiving-tales.html" target="_blank">Thanksgiving</a>, I guess it’s really not my call as to whether you invite B—. But since you
asked, my personal opinion is ABSOLUTELY NOT. First of all, in the best of
scenarios, the guy is a jerk, a pain in the ass to have around, he’s ugly, and
he stinks. I know that it’s customary that one’s parent is automatically
entitled to bring his or her spouse to a holiday gathering, but with a divorce
pending it really seems like we ought to have some wiggle room here. Of
additional consideration are the specific facts of the case: B— has zero tact,
zero hygiene, and zero sense of humor, and he has shown rising resentment at
the fact that we Albert boys are typically kind, tactful, humorous, fun to have
around, inoffensive visually, and known either for no odor at all, or for a
swarthy, masculine sweat smell that isn’t unpleasant (lacking, as it does, that
strange and somehow non-human scent element that makes you want to hurl, that
afflicts certain men perhaps at random, or perhaps as a form of punishment). If
you said you were considering inviting Charles Manson, I would be more
ambivalent; after all, he would at least be interesting company. We could
interview him and gain insight into the life of a sociopathic, psychotic
killer. But with B—, we’d just have a whining, complaining, jittery, humorless
little pot-bellied man lashing out against everything and everyone in his
environment, wishing he could be somewhere else—playing bridge, perhaps,
accumulating the points necessary to be an All-Time Grand Master Great King and
Grand Poobah of that discipline. Finally, I offer you one additional
consideration: if B— <i>were</i> to attend
(and I don’t know why he’d even accept other than to deliberately be a pain in
the ass, in addition to having nowhere else to go), I might be tempted to tell
him what I really think of him, without the extraordinary tact and restraint I’ve
demonstrated here. But of course, it’s all up to you as you’re the host. So
please do feel free to invite him, in which case I will simply cancel my flight
and make other arrangements, such as biking over to McDonalds on Thanksgiving,
even if I can’t be sure it’ll even be open.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>December 12, 1996</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Did you hear about this woman who sued DEC for her carpal
tunnel syndrome? It’s kind of odd. The reason she won her case is that DEC had
done employee training on ergonomics & stress-injuries, but didn’t give the
same training to its customers, and didn’t post a carpal tunnel syndrome
warning label on the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/06/case-for-dvorak.html" target="_blank">keyboards</a> they manufactured for sale. Flagrant disregard for health and safety! So why
didn’t this woman sue her own employer for not giving her ergonomics training? Probably
because DEC has deeper pockets. So I’m going to sue UPS (both because I hate
them and because I like money). The way I figure it, there’s no <i>way</i> they don’t train their employees to
lift heavy objects with bent knees, using the leg muscles and not the back
muscles. And yet I’ve received many a heavy box from UPS without a warning
label of any kind. I’m also considering a lawsuit against the novelist Danielle
Steele because her novels are famously “impossible to put down,” are usually well
over an inch thick, and come out a couple of times a year. That’s a lot of
reading, and it’s a known fact that too much reading causes myopia (heck, John
Milton went <i>blind</i> from it), and yet <i>not one</i> of Ms. Steele’s books (so far as
I know) has a warning label about too much reading causing eye strain. Ms.
Steele is loaded (her Pacific Heights home is right next to a member of Metallica’s)
so she’ll probably settle out of court and I can quickly make some pretty good
money.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>December 17, 1996</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, our office holiday party just finished. It was at this
place called MacArthur Park, a restaurant with a large lobby area that my
company rented. E— wasn’t able to come because she had a city council meeting
to go to. Because of my injured foot I spent most of the time sitting down
instead of milling about. There were these “crab” cakes that tasted kind of
like tuna salad—they were definitely stretched. There were also these ribs that
were remarkably bland given that MacArthur Park is famous for its ribs. There
were also these sautéed mushroom sandwiches, open-faced, which were startlingly
good. Finally, there were these half-baked apples with bacon around them that
were okay. You’ve never seen such a sober bunch, not in terms of spirits but .
. . boy, it’s hard not to commit double-entendres here. Let’s just say that
nobody was even one sheet to the wind. Very non-drunk, and therefore non-rude
and non-embarrassing, which I like. Still, it’s not quite as festive as when
you have a sit-down dinner and people get up and make sentimental,
half-clocked, maudlin speeches like at my old work, where people were desperate
to eat as much food and drink as much booze on the company’s dime as possible,
out of spite. Anyway, I behaved myself as well; that is, I managed to keep from
eating so many mushroom sandwiches that I became gassy or hurled or something. The
only problem is that now my best suit smells a bit like cigarette & cigar
smoke. But I’m back in the office and it’s not even 7:00 p.m. (And what am I
doing in the office? That’s a very good question and I’m afraid I have no
answer other than I decided to walk home and it’s on the way.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Undated, ca. 2004</i></p>
We are up visiting Mom. When we arrived here, I was surprised by two things. First, she was not here to greet us—turns out she’d been called in to work at the hospital. Second, there was something really wrong with S— [her <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/02/ode-to-cat.html" target="_blank">cat</a>]. His entire body was trembling, and he struggled to stand up. There was a frightening jerkiness to his movements, like early Hollywood animatronics or first-generation CGI. He had a wild, feral look in his eyes and was emitting low, metallic yowls. He was like half cat, half Terminator, and it seemed he could be capable of anything.
<p class="MsoNormal">E— led the kids to safety while I called Mom at work. She
told me S— had been recently diagnosed as diabetic and put on new medication,
and given the crisis she’d come right home. In the meantime I called the
veterinarian, who determined that the cat’s blood sugar had crashed and that he
probably wouldn’t survive the trip to her clinic. She told me to try rubbing
corn syrup into the cat’s gums with a Q-tip. It was his only chance, she
advised. Corn syrup? Seriously?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hoo boy. This wasn’t going to be easy because as you know, S—
is a bit of a tricky cat to begin with, having that strange tendency to occasionally
turn on you. Like, he’ll be contentedly sitting in your lap, relaxed as could
be, and then will suddenly try to bite you. And that’s when he’s behaving <i>normally</i>, not when he’s having a
life-threatening blood sugar issue. Heck, if my own life were in danger I might
try to bite people, too.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I set out the Q-tips, poured corn syrup from the jug into
the cap, and steeled myself for the ordeal.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The beast must have known that his life was in danger but
without understanding why. His reaction was to mount a strong defense. In other
words, he was in full kill mode. As I approached him, he lunged, narrowly
missing, his teeth snapping audibly together. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll bite
you?” E— asked. Um, yeah. Of course.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I wrestled the poor creature onto my lap, trying to pin
down his windmilling hind legs. S— was making good headway on my forearms with
his barbed-wire claws. My base impulse was to hurl him away from me, but with great
resolve I stayed at it. When I was able to overpower the animal and hold him still,
I felt less panicky. A human, I reminded himself, is stronger than a cat.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A long moment passed, S— straining uselessly. Still pinning him
down, I inspected the deep scratches he’d made on my arms and considered the
etymology of “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cat_o%27_nine_tails" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">cat-o’-nine-tails</a>.” Eventually S—, exhausted, went limp and I set
about rubbing the corn syrup into his gums with the Q-tip. I worked quickly,
carefully pulling back his lips with one hand and working the Q-tip with the
other.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Suddenly the stricken creature came back to life, as though
hit with a thousand volts, snarling and trying again to bite his tormentor. I
got a good grip on his body. I could feel the knobby bones across his back. His
front legs were a blur as he flailed, and I jerked myself back to keep my face
out of biting range. This attack, too, petered out and he slumped again. I
pried his jaws open and rubbed some more syrup in. He still trembled, and
periodically he weakly tried to bite, but he was too weak to fight anymore. Eventually,
amazingly, as I continued rubbing the syrup into his upper and lower gums, the treatment began to work. S—’s shaking stopped, and in time he seemed to relax. By
the time Mom arrived, he seemed stable, and he survived the trip to the animal
hospital. They gave him some basic treatment and now he’s sound as a pound. It
seems he had developed some kind of fleeting diabetes, and when it went away,
the medication he was still on messed up his (now non-diabetic) blood sugar.
Wacky!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-62020059378928940042024-02-29T20:47:00.000-08:002024-02-29T20:47:45.853-08:00Virtual Reality Killer App!<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For many years we’ve been hearing about how Virtual Reality
(VR) is going to be a game-changer across the human experience, and not just a
whiz-bang enhancement to <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/02/fiction-robotron-2084.html" target="_blank">video gaming</a>. This is an amazing technology
just waiting to be monetized. We’ve heard various proposed use cases involving <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2011/02/from-archives-tutoring.html" target="_blank">education</a>,
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/03/physical-therapy.html" target="_blank">physical therapy</a>, tools for first responders, etc. but decades on VR is still kind of a fringe
thing, without the “killer app” that will launch it into the forefront of blah
blah blah. Well, this post proposes a truly germane use of this technology that
could benefit millions of people. Instead of boring you with an essay on what
I’m proposing, I’m going to walk you through the experience I have in mind.
Call this post “VVR” ... as in, Verbal VR.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZchvrdRDTzZGmSI4BFIk7RMI4rWojxkdqfNr8NtoA4D0A1NQiZ6NEtbi-y2zyAT7a15ANLp70CN59nZTfdyq3aTrNat4khUqlJGiD-yTu0q4WFbRZ2vAc0MSL3lNbHRhNzUnCBB4mN7jI5Pl3ZqgXfIgK68S25S7tScHjyaSJ2PlAdFq64cQlOqRoGk1/s2048/VVR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2045" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZchvrdRDTzZGmSI4BFIk7RMI4rWojxkdqfNr8NtoA4D0A1NQiZ6NEtbi-y2zyAT7a15ANLp70CN59nZTfdyq3aTrNat4khUqlJGiD-yTu0q4WFbRZ2vAc0MSL3lNbHRhNzUnCBB4mN7jI5Pl3ZqgXfIgK68S25S7tScHjyaSJ2PlAdFq64cQlOqRoGk1/w320-h320/VVR.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />The experience</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You enter the VR facility, receive a brief tutorial, don a
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haptic_suit" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">haptic suit</a> and a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virtual_reality_headset" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">virtual reality headset</a>, and mount an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Omnidirectional_treadmill" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">omnidirectional treadmill</a>. Immediately you are immersed in a totally new world … but actually, it’s not
exactly new. It’s all too familiar, from the dry heat of a late spring day (courtesy
of the haptic suit) to the sound of yelling and cheering, to the sight of a red-orange
running track surrounding an unrealistically brilliantly green infield. It’s a
lot like where you ran track in high school except that the bleachers are
completely full.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You look down at yourself and you’re wearing the same track
uniform, with the distinctive Cobra insignia, that you wore in high school. You
explore your environment and find you’re surrounded by ultra-fit looking teens
in the identical uniforms, many of them calling you by name. “Stacey, are you <i>pumped</i>?!” a girl asks. After a pause she
gives you a simpatico look and whispers, “Gawd, I’m actually <i>so</i> nervous!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You look down again and see that you’re definitely wearing
track cleats. You realize you’re not just here to wander around. “Stacey, we
gotta warm up, we’re up next!” someone yells. She jogs over to you and says, “Let’s go!” But
before you can follow her, a gruff forty-something man with a Cobras cap, a
tracksuit, a clipboard, and a whistle hanging on a lanyard approaches. “Stacey,
I need a minute with you,” he says, and ushers you off to the side.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Look, today has got to be the day,” he declares. “We’ve
never been this close to winning Conference. All our top runners are totally
peaking right now. This is a <i>massive </i>opportunity.
And like we talked about after last practice, I’m not having you run any events
<i>except </i>the 100 meter hurdle, so you
can just focus purely on that. Obviously there’s no way you’ll win, but I
really think you can get top three. Your speed, your form, it’s all there—but
as I’ve said all season, you <i>need</i> to
three-step it. It breaks my heart every time I see you heading for the hurdle,
flying along, everything perfect, and then you suddenly chicken out and do that
childish stutter step. You should be well beyond this. I <i>know </i>you can three-step because you did it that time in practice
when I ran next to you and yelled at you the whole time. You did it <i>perfect</i>. I really thought that was the
breakthrough, that you’d do it right from then on.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s all coming back to you now: the dreaded three-step, the
bane of your high school existence. When you graduated, most of your excitement
was actually relief that you were done with track: you’d managed to get your
letter, you’d put the experience on your <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/05/is-it-harder-to-get-into-top-college-now.html" target="_blank">college essay</a>, but you wouldn’t be running in college, and nobody would <i>ever </i>hassle you about three-stepping for
the rest of your life. And yet here’s this coach, practically frothing at the
mouth, exhorting you all over again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s not just the points, Stacey. I mean, it is—you
definitely need a top three here, and like I said you <i>cannot </i>get that with all the momentum you lose stutter-stepping—but
it’s bigger than that. We need <i>every </i>girl
to be totally <i>on</i> today. Do you
remember how stoked everyone was when Barb won the 400 at the last meet? That
lifted everyone. We were having a good meet but after that win, everyone dug
deeper and we had a <i>great </i>meet. If
you do your typical step-stuttering thing here you’re gonna bring down morale
for everyone. We’ve worked on your speed and technique all season and I <i>know </i>you can do this, you <i>have </i>to do this.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here he peers over the top of his sunglasses and looks you
right in the eye. “Are we good? Are you gonna do this right?” You manage to
croak out some kind of response and he nods and trots away. There’s a lump in
your throat. Before you can make another move, a girl has bounded over and
says, “Okay, Stacey, today is the day! We all gotta give our 110%! It’s
Conference!” When you don’t respond, her smile vanishes and she glares at you.
“This is our senior year. Our last chance. Don’t you fuck this up for us!” This
girl must be the team captain.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now the first girl is grabbing you by the wrist. You’d
marvel at the tactile accuracy of the haptic suit except that you’ve entirely
forgotten this is VR … that’s how good it is. It really feels like you’re being
tugged toward an actual infield by a real teammate. “Wait,” you tell her. “I …
I kind of need to hit the restroom.” And it’s true. Along with the butterflies
in your stomach you’ve got the age-old pre-race instinct, deep down in your
body, to lighten the load. You really need to go. Like, number two. It’s a
strong urge—your bowels are starting to churn. Your teammate points toward the
restrooms and you start jogging over there. You start to worry: am I gonna make
it in time? But when you get there you remember this is only VR and there’s
only so much it can do. You need an <i>actual
</i>restroom. Merely touring the virtual one would be no more satisfying than
those nighttime dreams you have of eating, where the food always vanishes as
soon as you try to take a bite.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You paid good money to play this game, but that’s not
important now. You lift the VR goggles off your head and prop them on your
forehead, and step off the treadmill. You head over to the lobby and tell the
attendant, “I need to use a restroom.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Now?” he says. “It can’t wait? You still have 20 minutes on
your game! By the time you take off the haptic suit, do your business, and
zipper yourself back in, it’ll be half over!” But his eyes are smiling: he
knows how pressing your need is. You nod vigorously. “Right over there,” he
points. You stride swiftly to the restroom and push through the door.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s not just any restroom: it’s gleaming perfection, all
brushed aluminum surfaces, a big drain in the floor and state-of-the-art
sprinkler system overhead. There are giant fans in the louvered windows. It’s
clear the entire room is totally sanitized and refreshed between uses. The
throne-like toilet even has a bidet option. You’ve never been so glad to see a public
restroom in your life. And that’s when you know: today’s VR experience isn’t
about the game at all. It’s about <i>this</i>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Conclusion</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/health/conditions-and-diseases/constipation" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">According to Johns Hopkins</a>, about 4 million Americans suffer from frequent constipation, which “is the most
common gastrointestinal complaint, resulting in 2.5 million doctor visits
annually.” It causes bloating, sluggishness, and abdominal pain. Treatment is
challenging, because laxatives cause side effects and prolonged usage can
become a problem of its own. Diet and lifestyle changes are a good long term
course of action, but don’t provide much help when you’re having a bad bout …
maybe you haven’t had a good bowel movement in days, and you wish there were
just some silver bullet providing instant relief. Well, I just contrived one.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLoICA2HjVCR-7c-m0wFr4fuzqhM3fJGu5bSzY8IUxpsJsCF5FGPeBaHgil2jnsVatJQOTgmWEKrk_oUpbKVpEB4UmGEwvtZ5aqohyTy4rSFZoVNewh1k02DmzU_ZZySu-i1W0MgCv4N_pMfOByXZ99WCIaIITuBEUjG3Vo_bBqWwtdadXf8y_WEhm4yEE/s868/ConstipationThemedT-shirt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="859" data-original-width="868" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLoICA2HjVCR-7c-m0wFr4fuzqhM3fJGu5bSzY8IUxpsJsCF5FGPeBaHgil2jnsVatJQOTgmWEKrk_oUpbKVpEB4UmGEwvtZ5aqohyTy4rSFZoVNewh1k02DmzU_ZZySu-i1W0MgCv4N_pMfOByXZ99WCIaIITuBEUjG3Vo_bBqWwtdadXf8y_WEhm4yEE/s320/ConstipationThemedT-shirt.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Of course there are details to work out, like matching up
the details of the specific gameplay and script with the player’s individual
history. (For example, maybe you never did a sport, but at least used to run through
the neighbor’s yard and had to make it to the far fence before their dog caught
you.) The game makers could create versions involving other fraught human
enterprises like dating or public speaking. Fine details aside, I think you can
agree that the immersive VR technology now available could provide exactly what
so many people really need: a non-ingested, 100% safe, 100% effective
psychological laxative. Now someone just needs to go code this game!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-19081529746381053492024-02-23T23:16:00.000-08:002024-02-24T09:29:34.778-08:00Ask a Cheap Bastard<p><i>Dear Cheap Bastard,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I’m kind of fascinated
by cheap bastards like you, and I have often wondered: do you guys feel a kinship with one
another, or do you clash?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Justin C, Austin, TX</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Justin,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Who are you calling a bastard?! Haha, just kidding. I know
Cheap Bastard is my name, and my game, etc. Anyhow, I’ll grant you there’s a
mutual respect when I encounter another cheapskate, and we’ve been known to trade
money-saving tips. That being said, I absolutely cannot stand it when a
manufacturer of something (i.e., some executive making cost-cutting decisions) skimps on the cost of materials just to save a few
cents per unit. This is particularly common with anything related to the home.
As detailed <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/10/plumbing-emergencies-for-dummies.html" target="_blank">here</a>, I had a plumbing emergency once because the valve (or more precisely the “angle supply stop”) of my
bathroom sink was made of plastic and spontaneously failed. This could have
cost me many thousands of dollars had I not been home to deal with the crisis,
but that doesn’t matter a whit to the cheap bastard who chose to make this
important object out of plastic. Parsimonious though I am, I will always gladly
pay more for durable stuff. How many more time bombs may be lurking in my house
due to the ubiquity of cheap bastards in the manufacturing business?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Cheap Bastard,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>My husband is a cheap
bastard and often cites your column as validation of the way he lives his life.
As a result, he’s refusing to help with our son’s college costs. I guess this
isn’t really question, but more of a statement: damn you. Damn you to hell.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Monica J, Phoenix, AZ</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Monica,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not all cheap bastards are created equal. Your husband is of
the sort that should be described more precisely … the better term would be “dick.”
Let me make something clear: for me, being a cheap bastard is a deeply personal
matter and doesn’t affect my family. The very reason that I strive to always
get the best deal, and to do without overpriced crap, is so that I’ll have
enough money to apply it where it matters, such as my children’s education.
Having sired these kids intentionally, I consider it my duty to provide well
for them and not let my miserly ways extend to them. Thus, they kind of get the
best of both worlds: they get to party like rock stars <i>and </i>make fun of their tightfisted father.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Cheap Bastard,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I’ve been a lifelong
cheap bastard myself and proud of it—but I feel like I’m losing steam lately.
Any words of encouragement?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Duane S, Chicago, IL</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Duane,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are various ways to define what a cheap bastard even
is. One type is a person who refuses to part with money for just about
anything; another is happy to buy stuff but only if he or she gets a great
deal; another refuses to pay for labor, preferring to do everything on his or
her own even if it means taking a lot of time to learn how. A cheap bastard may
fall into one, two, or all three categories. With the third in particular, one’s
approach may naturally change over time and/or based on circumstance. In some cases I think it’s perfectly reasonable to lighten up a bit.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here’s an example. When I’d just bought my home, I was
basically broke (as one tends to be) so my wife and I repainted all the rooms
ourselves. Since then, as our burden of debt has lightened, we’ve tended to
hire a crew. I don’t fault myself for that because as I’ve aged, my net worth
has increased while my remaining time on this planet has declined. In other
words, time is starting to be worth more than money. So when my laziness and
thriftiness fight, the lazy side wins more often and I don’t beat myself up
about it. (Sure, my cheap bastard cred may be thus questioned, but being a guy
who’ll willingly drink sour milk and often sifts through the family compost bin
for perfectly edible food, I think I’ve got some wiggle room.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Cheap Bastard,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 84.9pt;"><i>My proudest feat as a
cheap bastard is making a pair of underwear last more than a decade by fixing
tears, holes, etc. with my sewing machine. What’s your favorite cheap bastard trophy?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Geoff A, Amersfoort,
The Netherlands</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Geoff,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I guess I’d have to say it’s the beat-to-hell brake/shift
levers on my flagship road bike. Although they’re top-of-the-line Dura-Ace, they’re
25 years old and I bought them used (at least 15 years ago) for like $100. They
still work reasonably well, and that’s good enough for me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPFQXvEXUAtFTNJRdv0wkHkYFr6c1mGq2dDvanfTc9cEqF6Dqk_kTcFAUzxR86Qnd_avcqIdLM_648AAfwRtBzmaj_eQtl3c2mNzfHclTA7QoMb5kB_ugc8t0ahnEGVQtOMrugkM_knYACtU7W9qZIDx4Euyf3Dxm_QhLkeqvdaLg2f1iut3EuX77df6_/s1613/9SpeedSTILever.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1613" data-original-width="907" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPFQXvEXUAtFTNJRdv0wkHkYFr6c1mGq2dDvanfTc9cEqF6Dqk_kTcFAUzxR86Qnd_avcqIdLM_648AAfwRtBzmaj_eQtl3c2mNzfHclTA7QoMb5kB_ugc8t0ahnEGVQtOMrugkM_knYACtU7W9qZIDx4Euyf3Dxm_QhLkeqvdaLg2f1iut3EuX77df6_/w360-h640/9SpeedSTILever.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><br />I guess this isn’t really like a trophy, since I doubt many
people notice my levers and wouldn’t have much of a reaction to them one way or
the other. Real cyclists, in my experience, judge me by how well I ride, not
what equipment I’m using. I suspect it’s the same with your underwear.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Cheap Bastard,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>There are so many ways
to be frugal beyond just price shopping. For example, cooking dried beans instead of
buying canned, or making your own laundry detergent. What cost-cutting
opportunities do you think most cheap bastards miss? In other words, what makes
the difference between a good cheap bastard and a great one?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Alex R, New York, NY</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Alex,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From what I’ve observed, the greatest blind spot for cheap
bastards is simply not understanding the concept of <a href="https://www.forbes.com/advisor/investing/opportunity-cost/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">opportunity cost</a>, and specifically the cost, in terms of gains not realized, not investing
your money. My father, for example, was a notorious cheap bastard, but he also
never saved for retirement. In his old age he ended up pinching pennies out of
necessity rather than preference, which really takes the fun out of it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">How one manages debt is another example: it’s somewhat
useful to buy in bulk at Costco but far more useful to pay down your mortgage
early. Coupons are chump change; paying interest ought to be the bane of our
existence.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know this is all pretty boring compared to eating compost,
etc., so I’ll talk a bit more about spoiled milk. My mom, a microbiologist,
assures me that sour milk can’t hurt you; it’s just unpleasant. In fact, a family legend maintains that when
my brothers and I were young, and our (powdered!) milk went bad, my mom would
say, perfectly seriously, “Just plug your nose and drink it!” Which we did. Allegedly.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Cheap Bastard,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I really don’t
understand people like you. Isn’t there a social cost of being a cheap bastard?
Like, not looking your best, coming off as low-class, etc.? Which could
adversely affect your social and professional opportunities?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Becky G, Miami, FL</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Becky,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Being a cheap bastard is more than a mentality; it’s an art.
Ideally, the cheap bastard doesn’t appear cheap to the casual observer. If I
were just a cheap dumbass, I’d wear Toughskins jeans and dumpy Kirkland shirts,
or buy defective clothing at Ross Dress for Less. Instead, I buy most of my
clothes at thrift or consignment stores, which means getting really good stuff
that a filthy rich person changed his mind about. I also closely watch the online
sales at J Crew (e.g., I’ll get 60% off on already discounted price, so I can pick
up a nice t-shirt or pair of boxers for $3 or $4). I also only buy used <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2024/01/ask-car-critic.html" target="_blank">cars</a>,
so I can afford to pay cash for a pretty nice one, because who cares if someone
else drove it for the first couple of years? A final point: anybody who judges
me for not having the latest styles, or luxury brands, is probably a jerk whom
I wouldn’t want to befriend or work for. (Are you thinking this may just be sour
grapes? Perhaps, but hey, sour grapes are cheaper than <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/09/wine-tasting-castello-di-amorosa.html" target="_blank">wine</a>.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Cheap Bastard,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I will never be a
cheap bastard, but times are a bit tight and I’d like to save where I can
without going overboard. What’s my best bang for the buck in terms of non-annoying
thrift?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Ron T, Council Bluffs,
IA</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Ron,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My most basic advice is twofold: 1) avoid buying on credit whenever
possible (i.e., no credit card balance, no car payment) and 2) avoid
subscriptions. Interest is just money down the drain if it’s for consumer items
that aren’t advancing you. Subscriptions (other than for magazines or
newspapers) are all about getting you to buy more of something than you need. Why do I constantly get stuff in the mail about subscribing to prescription medications, as if planning for ongoing poor health? And why would I pay for satellite radio in my car when my phone can stream the Spotify I already have? And why does Audible.com exist, when you can check out <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/03/e-book-options-during-covid-19-lockdown.html" target="_blank">audiobooks from the library</a> (not
just on CD, but via instant download to your phone)? Perhaps the most egregious example is Harry’s, a subscription razor
blade replacement service. As detailed <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/04/ode-on-double-edged-razor.html" target="_blank">here</a>, I switched to old-school
double-edged razor blades over eight years ago and am still working through the
100-pack of Feather blades I bought back then for $23. Do the math: there’s no
way a razor blade subscription could be cheaper.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Cheap Bastard,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Any advice for a fellow
cheap bastard married to a big spender? How can me and her meet halfway?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Ted H, Denver, CO</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Ted,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Naturally, a couple needs to be in lockstep on fundamental
financial decisions such as renting vs. buying, having kids or not, and where
to live. But for the day-to-day cheap bastard stuff, it’s best to just let it go …
you’ll never turn a spendthrift into a skinflint. I myself take a day-trader
approach to grocery shopping, honing my discount-finding skills to the point
that I have a Spidey-sense about when Peet’s coffee will go on sale. My
wife, on the other hand, literally doesn’t even look at price tags at the grocery store. The way to reconcile yourself
to this is to look at the tremendous cost of failing to maintain marital
harmony. Consider that her manicure, or your family’s expensive weekend
getaway, are way cheaper than marriage counseling, which in turn is cheaper
than divorce. And how you make the big financial decisions (e.g., how much to contribute to your 401(k), whether or not to refinance your home loan) will make a much bigger difference in your overall situation than all that penny pinching.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Cheap Bastard,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I’m not a cheap
bastard, but I bristle at the “tip inflation” we’re seeing lately, with the tab
listing “suggested” tips of 18, 20, and 25%. If I ever say anything, people
accuse me of being cheap. How do you get away with sticking to your guns here?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Mark K, Seattle, WA</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Mark,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First off, being a cheap bastard should never extend to
tipping. Having your wife cut your hair to save money is your business (well,
and hers too since she has to look at you), but stiffing a waiter is just poor
form. That said, I agree that tips above 20% are uncalled for, since the rising
cost of restaurant food automatically increases the dollar amount of waiters’ tips. In
fact, as described in <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/01/01/has-gratuity-culture-reached-a-tipping-point" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">a recent <i>New Yorker
</i>article</a>, attempts by restaurants to improve employee wages by increasing prices have
mainly benefitted waiters, not so much the cooks and managers. One restaurateur
contends that “since he got into the business, front-of-house pay has climbed
two hundred per cent, compared with twenty-five per cent for the back of house.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Another area where tipping has gotten a bit whacked is with
the digital replacement for a tip jar when you get counter service. I have always
put a buck or two in the jar, but the modern POS terminals they flip over to
you now suggest the same tip as you’d leave for table service—typically you’re
choosing between at least 15%, 18%, or 20%. I always take the “custom tip” option (which
they might as well call the “cheap bastard” option), and key in a more
reasonable amount, because I refuse to be bullied by a POS terminal. Recently
this bit me in the ass at one of my go-to local taquerias, Gordo’s. I’d bought
two burritos and tried to tip $2, but I guess I hit the zero an extra time. It wasn’t
until I saw the total—a little over $40—that I realized my mistake. “Oh, <i>shit!</i>” I blurted out. The cashier looked
shocked and concerned and said, “Oh no, is everything okay?” I just had to
laugh. “I accidently tipped you $20,” I said. I wasn’t about to make him do any
work to correct it, so I added, “No worries—enjoy.” I guess you could call this
a cheap bastard tax.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>A Cheap Bastard is a
syndicated journalist whose advice column, “Ask a Cheap Bastard,” appears in
over 0 blogs worldwide.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-64881309232552884992024-02-15T22:29:00.000-08:002024-02-19T13:50:27.194-08:00albertnet 15th Anniversary + My Favorite Posts!<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I almost missed a big milestone this week: the fifteenth
anniversary of albertnet! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxhijuGVHKbWPc8lVaRp_D4VXlFlZKNlf8q1wUkQcgusIJpDzqtsnsMyZH2QzngdcTeZ3eqYAaW_dlgzTSgq13ha7ZwztmXaE2UEIUBIsXBxuYZWPXwi-Bff6BkwaPdwvClTBmgNF1i9cXLXs0Ox7MZDk-pvAjcoIfKittALm4NgiBymkXf3a-3r3ZFps/s1318/albertnetBestOfGraphicByLA5.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1130" data-original-width="1318" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxhijuGVHKbWPc8lVaRp_D4VXlFlZKNlf8q1wUkQcgusIJpDzqtsnsMyZH2QzngdcTeZ3eqYAaW_dlgzTSgq13ha7ZwztmXaE2UEIUBIsXBxuYZWPXwi-Bff6BkwaPdwvClTBmgNF1i9cXLXs0Ox7MZDk-pvAjcoIfKittALm4NgiBymkXf3a-3r3ZFps/s320/albertnetBestOfGraphicByLA5.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I well remember the day I decided to start this blog. It was a blustery afternoon in early February of 2009, and I was having a late lunch at a Russian tea room in San Francisco, south of Market, with some long lost UCSB friends. We got to talking about writing, and S—, who had seen some of my freelance articles in the <a href="https://dailypeloton.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Daily Peloton</a>, suggested I take a crack at blogging. He had a blog about travel gadgets at the time (though I cannot find it now).</p><p class="MsoNormal">So, on that cold February day I decided to take up S—’s suggestion,
and fifteen years on I’m still at it. <i>Should</i>
I be? Is albertnet a success? Well, as a former boss once told me, “Metrics are
important in this space.” He was talking about a different space, but let’s
look at some numbers anyway.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>albertnet metrics</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>$0 – how much money I’ve made from albertnet</li><li>714 – number of posts so far</li><li>2.2 million – estimated number of total words</li><li>3.7 – times the size of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War
& Peace<o:p></o:p></i></li><li>144 – estimated hours it would take to read it</li><li>3,500 – estimated hours I’ve spent writing it</li><li>1.9 – estimated years writing it, if a full-time job</li><li>26.5 – months it would take to read it, at 1 post/day</li><li>5.7 – estimated # of reams of paper to print it out</li><li>46 – number of followers</li><li>921,373 – number of total page views to date</li><li>186,000 – estimated cumulative hours readers have spent here*</li><li>1 – *Number of very big ifs regarding that last metric</li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/11/how-to-succeed-at-blogging.html" target="_blank">a previous post</a> I defined a successful blog as “one that shows up for work.” By that measure,
I’d say albertnet is doing fine. My goal has been to blog four times a month, and
I’ve averaged 3.97. Moreover, irrespective of what others think of it (e.g.,
followers, readers, skimmers, randos who stumble in here and quickly leave,
haters, and bots), this blog has amused me all the way along … and <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/11/because-it-amuses-me-albertnet-subhead.html" target="_blank">as I’ve recently explained</a>, that’s pretty much the whole point. See how easy success can be when you
narrow the definition this way? It reminds me of this motivational poster:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7SfE2m2qaLGyFEwvJoj0_YcawTUSL-eERI6dYkOrNQUezzIK_ssoWkcGyhCh6q06i9Y7t0Kvul5qndDPUc3Y0YWa6sHA4H8Pyv36I8yeohiX9uoYmlUqRRRzcccPgCtHTC6ouqgXlriUkfbW_PFb2rrsKeeF2yD6B6KUsDRCl-iNRukb7hI2xHD48CAr/s1056/Motivational%20poster.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="1056" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7SfE2m2qaLGyFEwvJoj0_YcawTUSL-eERI6dYkOrNQUezzIK_ssoWkcGyhCh6q06i9Y7t0Kvul5qndDPUc3Y0YWa6sHA4H8Pyv36I8yeohiX9uoYmlUqRRRzcccPgCtHTC6ouqgXlriUkfbW_PFb2rrsKeeF2yD6B6KUsDRCl-iNRukb7hI2xHD48CAr/w400-h300/Motivational%20poster.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />(If that looks familiar, it’s because it’s from <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/11/how-to-succeed-at-blogging.html" target="_blank">this very blog</a>.)<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Other measures of
success</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, great, I consider albertnet a success because it’s
been a good hobby for me. But has it contributed to the world in any way? Well,
I do think it’s made something of a mark, based on certain posts that have been
popular enough to climb to the top of Google’s search results. Here are ten search phrases that produce an albertnet post on the first page of results:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>spelling of kindergartner (second result listed, right after
dictionary definition)</li><li>cowboy sam review (second result)</li><li>bicycle “corn cob” poem (first image result, second text
result)</li><li>inner tubes fascinating (first non-video result)</li><li>tire chains seething (<a href="https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2005/01/29/driver-keeps-warm-by-seething-about-chain-requirements/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">my East Bay Times story</a> is the first result; my blog post is second)</li><li>velominati “BS” (second result) </li><li>missy giove acne (second result)</li><li>lance eminem (third non-video result)</li><li>cycling world record Berkeley</li><li>“how to write a sonnet”</li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Google searches used to be a more helpful measure of my blog’s
impact, back when merit alone determined placement in a search. For example,
for at least five years <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/03/everything-you-wanted-to-know-about.html" target="_blank">my vasectomy post</a> was the very first result when you googled “California vasectomy law.” But those
were the olden days. There’s money to be made on search results, and over time companies have learned how to
use SEO, content marketing, and various other techniques to get themselves featured higher, confounding the “organic”
search results of yesteryear. The fact that some albertnet posts still perform well in Google
searches tells me I really am touching a nerve here and there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Which brings us to reader comments. Candidly, I don’t get a
lot of comments on this blog, but sometimes the quality of a reader’s feedback is
so heartwarming, it fuels my resolve to keep going. I’ll give you a couple of
examples. I blogged about a favorite children’s book, <i>Cowboy Sam</i>, and as you can see <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/05/book-review-cowboy-sam.html" target="_blank">here</a>, the granddaughter of the author left this comment:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote>Dana, I have to say that I enjoyed your post about
the Cowboy Sam series. Very entertaining, well written and definitely brought a
smile to my face! Edna Walker Chandler was my Grandmother and passed away in
1982. Her son (my father) passed in 2014 and I inherited copies of most of her
books. Would you mind if I copied your post to my family history book for
personal purposes only? Thank you! --Celeste Chandler</blockquote><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And below my post “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2011/06/farewell-la-fiesta.html" target="_blank">Farewell, La Fiesta</a>” about a favorite restaurant that closed, you can see this gem of a comment:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal">This made me cry.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They called me “Cinco Verde, Budweiser” for many years. A #5
is a Chile Relleno, an Enchilada and Rice and Beans.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m bawling. </p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How am I celebrating?<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So … you may be wondering if I’m doing anything to celebrate
the fifteenth anniversary of this arguably successful blog. Will I be buying a
new car for every one of my readers? Or throwing an amazing party with a free
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/11/vuelta-del-taco-truck.html" target="_blank">taco truck</a> and a live band? Alas, I don’t really have that kind of budget. So, along the lines of the the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">albertnet index</a> that accompanied my fifth anniversary, I’ll provide something here that should interest my
loyal readers: a list of my very favorite posts.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You may wonder how this would be more useful than the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">list of most popular posts</a> that I already provided. Well, popularity is not necessarily the best indicator of quality. Sometimes
a post goes viral (at least, in a modest, albertnet way) because it gets referenced
in some other place that gives it inordinate traction. This was the case with “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/12/no-mo-nodoz.html" target="_blank">No Mo’ NoDoz</a>,” which was cited in a scientific journal for some reason. Not a bad post, but
for about 18 months it was insanely popular and until I chased down that
source, I couldn’t figure out why.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, I’m reasoning that if you like my blog, you must like my
style, and would naturally respect my literary taste, and it’s pretty likely
you’ve missed a few great posts over the years. So, with no further ado, here
is my list. It was really hard choosing my favorites so I didn’t narrow it down
too much: I came up with my top 35. That might seem like a lot, but it’s only
the top 5% of all posts. I couldn’t possibly decide which are my very favorites
among these, so I present the list chronologically, with the most recent at the
top:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><u>Dana’s favorite albertnet posts:</u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/08/if-william-wordsworth-were-writing-today.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration-line: none;">If
William Wordsworth Were Writing Today</span></a></li><li><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/01/i-drank-gallon-of-water-day-for-week.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">I Drank
a Gallon of Water a Day for a Week - Here’s What Happened</span></a></li><li><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/08/three-toasters.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Three Toasters</span></a></li><li><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/01/covid-19-helping-teens-cope.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">COVID-19:
Helping Teens Cope</span></a></li><li><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/10/biased-blow-by-blow-2021-paris-roubaix.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Biased
Blow-By-Blow - 2021 Paris-Roubaix</span></a></li><li><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/07/english-i-think-that-that-language-is.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">English:
I Think That That Language Is Screwy</span></a></li><li><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/10/stop-pushing-stem.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Stop Pushing STEM!</span></a></li><li><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/08/from-archives-riding-la-marmotte-part-ii.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">From the
Archives: Riding La Marmotte - Part II</span></a></li><li><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/01/fiction-things-they-carried-biking.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Fiction
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Focus - Is It “Kindergartner” or “Kindergartener”?</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2018/04/ode-on-double-edged-razor.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Ode on a
Double-Edged Razor</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2017/11/famous-last-words-part-ii.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Famous Last Words - Part II</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2017/06/from-archives-if-i-had-defended-floyd.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">If I Had
Defended Floyd Landis</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2017/01/ode-on-chain-lube.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Ode on a Chain Lube</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2015/09/what-you-didnt-know-about-giraffes.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">What You Didn’t Know About
Giraffes!</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/05/velominatis-rules-brilliance-or-bs.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Velominati’s
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Девушка - My Russian Picture Book</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2012/06/ghost-written-race-report-central-coast.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Ghost-Written Race Report</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2012/04/10-fascinating-facts-about-inner-tubes.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">10
Fascinating Facts About Inner Tubes</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2012/04/ode-to-south-park.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Ode to South Park</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2012/02/bride-of-pink-floyd-wall.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Bride of “Pink Floyd The Wall”</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2011/07/our-national-anthem.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Our National Anthem</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2011/06/farewell-la-fiesta.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Farewell, La Fiesta</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2011/06/stage-play-lances-defense.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Stage Play - Lance’s Defense</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2011/03/from-archives-trouble-with-tire-chains.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Trouble
With Tire Chains</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2010/12/lotion-sniper.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">The Lotion Sniper</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2010/10/lance-eminem.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Lance & Eminem</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2010/06/how-to-write-sonnet.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">How to Write a Sonnet</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2010/03/highbrow-vs-lowbrow.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Highbrow vs. Lowbrow</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2010/02/from-archives-farewell-84-volvo.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Farewell,‘84 Volvo</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2009/09/myth-of-angry-bike-mechanic.html" target="_blank"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">The Myth
of the Angry Bike Mechanic</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2009/06/defendants-i-type-lot.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">The Case Against Margolis
& Liebowitz</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2009/05/book-review-cowboy-sam.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Book Review - Cowboy Sam</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2009/04/corn-cob.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Corn Cob</span></a></li><li><a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2009/03/everything-you-wanted-to-know-about.html"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Everything You Wanted to Know
About Getting A Vasectomy - But Were Afraid To Ask</span></a></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ll update the above list over time, like I’ve
done with the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">index</a>. Check back often! Tell your friends!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, I guess that’s about it. Thanks for fifteen great
years, unless you just got here, in which case it’s about time! ;-)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href=" http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfnXKyFqUg86s6CTb8vQveuf7zBoZbBrPPjl3XbVNVqDG178HT4w_EuxGQcBhBuP285i6RwPAVkw83ZchY9lWedTMaIz3xG91YJMgIbpxAju57-srVksOe4yyScZaIsTmXuFtn3ZwGS64eQirPAbyqBHMW8p6Xy47FZpUf1-HxEWlPqMt4qyzN2qCKWypk/s1358/About%20the%20author%2002-15-24.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="460" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfnXKyFqUg86s6CTb8vQveuf7zBoZbBrPPjl3XbVNVqDG178HT4w_EuxGQcBhBuP285i6RwPAVkw83ZchY9lWedTMaIz3xG91YJMgIbpxAju57-srVksOe4yyScZaIsTmXuFtn3ZwGS64eQirPAbyqBHMW8p6Xy47FZpUf1-HxEWlPqMt4qyzN2qCKWypk/w216-h640/About%20the%20author%2002-15-24.JPG" width="216" /></a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjna2_XFbqDSmHwkiKaoK_e-GWrex1k5-HeHRlAOFywReNYpNCEx9W9F5UgZ4yFj5dEZEnjuCyeDoJ9PmQ0wbNSXu2JIZh6bITUoKiEmhnZNj0UHSPmOQKFT_Oe5WgaAta6bDuKBiKAisZmLfkl8gUa-EVYsFsIdGtkIaRCN97_8-QGrQUTf6Pkzv2IdHC/s829/About%20the%20artist%202-19-24.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="829" data-original-width="454" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjna2_XFbqDSmHwkiKaoK_e-GWrex1k5-HeHRlAOFywReNYpNCEx9W9F5UgZ4yFj5dEZEnjuCyeDoJ9PmQ0wbNSXu2JIZh6bITUoKiEmhnZNj0UHSPmOQKFT_Oe5WgaAta6bDuKBiKAisZmLfkl8gUa-EVYsFsIdGtkIaRCN97_8-QGrQUTf6Pkzv2IdHC/w219-h400/About%20the%20artist%202-19-24.JPG" width="219" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-5290979301607392032024-02-08T21:35:00.000-08:002024-02-09T14:35:27.917-08:00From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XII<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the twelfth installment in the “From the Archives –
Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/12/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-i.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume II is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/01/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-ii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume III is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/02/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-iii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume IV is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/04/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-iv.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume V is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/11/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-v.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume VI is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/02/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-vi.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume VII is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/06/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-vii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume XIII is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/07/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-viii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume IX is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-ix.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume X is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/11/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-x.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and Volume XI is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2024/01/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-xi.html" target="_blank">here</a>. (The different volumes have little or nothing to do with one another.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Bits and bobs” are little anecdotes from my letters and emails
to friends and family, which comprised most of my writing before starting up
this blog. The dispatches in this volume were to my brother Bryan, written when I
was newly married and living in San Francisco. He was still living in our
hometown of Boulder, Colorado. Here is a photo of the two of us from around the
time I wrote these.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3H0XOHmF8md1j41eKG758A4hUOKqxYrNIigu980Qripzf8X44cuF_tr57AhZDR4EwUEXAAxNSkkUlbvktFjT5hCYa-jBbqBmRDWngQ65ioG1z0LwoRlACb01gFflH1_L8gfhnMJzXCDQOTUx-JhTY05wUmgguLx-InBvjj22qOy4k_JWgySwAXqWiy0hr/s614/Bryan&Dana'98.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="614" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3H0XOHmF8md1j41eKG758A4hUOKqxYrNIigu980Qripzf8X44cuF_tr57AhZDR4EwUEXAAxNSkkUlbvktFjT5hCYa-jBbqBmRDWngQ65ioG1z0LwoRlACb01gFflH1_L8gfhnMJzXCDQOTUx-JhTY05wUmgguLx-InBvjj22qOy4k_JWgySwAXqWiy0hr/s320/Bryan&Dana'98.JPG" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />January 25, 1995</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I bought the Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing program for DOS. (I
call it “Mavis & Butthead.”) It was supposed to run on 560K of RAM, &
they recommended a “meg.” Now this is really confusing: how much is a meg? I’ve
heard it’s 640,000 bytes, but I’ve also heard it’s 1,000,000 bytes. Very confusing.
Anyhow, it wouldn’t even run when installed, although I have a meg. I made a
DOS bootable diskette with modified AUTOEXEC.BAT and CONFIG.SYS files to get
past its memory verification, and was therefore able to run it. However, it
really was slow. I couldn’t make it keep up with me. I would type, “Mavis
Beacon, your program stinks!” and on the screen I’d get, “Mvi Bn, yr pgm sk!” It
was absurd, a total disaster. I took it back.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, instead I bought this cheesy el cheapo <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/01/from-archives-typing-tutor-corporate.html" target="_blank">Typing Tutor software</a>. It only requires 512K of RAM; an IBM XT, AT, 286, 386 or higher; hard
drive optional. Now that’s my kind of program. Its proudest feature is the
Typing Lobster Sea Adventure game:</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote>The Lobster Sea Adventure(TM) is an exciting game of chase and it’s an incredibly fast way to increase your typing accuracy and speed. Avoid being “pinched” by the lobster while typing in full sentences and using the shift keys. So many users have increased their typing speed and accuracy with the lobster and had fun at the same time!</blockquote><p>Pretty much the most amazing <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/03/from-archives-video-gaming-in-80s.html" target="_blank">video game</a> ever. Not. </p><i>Feb 1, 1995</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thanks for clearing up the meg issue. I grasp now that there
<i>is </i>no standard. Say, that reminds me:
at work I sent around these Computer Information Forms to get an inventory of
what software people have, and what they want. I put a checkbox for “I need
Microsoft Office” and another for “I only need Word.” On one form, an engineer
had drawn in a new box and written “I need a new computer” and checked it. That
inspired me. Our office manager (or “Director of Marketing and Administration,” a lofty title designed to boost her morale on the cheap) is using a petrified HP fossil
called a Vectra. It’s so slow I made a special computer information form just
for her; instead of having her fill in the RAM, ROM, MHz, CPU, etc. I just made
one checkbox next to the text: “My computer is a tired, crippled old thing that
barely runs anything at all. I’m surprised it doesn’t use 8-track tapes instead
of diskettes. Somebody should just take it out and shoot it. But please, back
it up first.” She put a huge check mark in that box. Alas, as it turns out nobody’s
PC seems powerful enough to switch from WordPerfect to Word. Cash flow is too
tight. We’ll all have to wait.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>March 22, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Things are pretty stressful at work. My boss, the company
president, totally dissed me. He’d promised a paper to a magazine called the <i>Inspectioneering Journal</i>, but totally
forgot to write it. At the last minute, realizing he had nothing to
write, he kicked the project down to me, telling me to write a paper on
Mechanical Integrity, on the double. I wrote one, in a huge rush, and I thought
it came out pretty well … I even put in some neat visual things, like a table
and a pie chart showing the types of issues discovered by OSHA during inspections.
I sent the finished article to the journal’s editor for review; if it passed
muster, he’d submit it to a panel of other editors for final approval. There
wasn’t time to run it by my boss first—we were literally right against the
deadline. Well, my boss read it after the fact, and totally bagged on it,
freaking out that it would be torn apart by the editorial panel and this would
make him look bad (since he was the alleged writer). He said I needed to extensively
revise it <i>immediately</i> before the
editor could pass it along. He didn’t say one positive thing about it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of my boss’s main demands was that I eliminate my entire
introduction, which was an overview of OSHA’s Process Safety Management
standard (upon which the guts of the paper were based). He also wanted the
whole article put into the passive voice (e.g., “we determined” becomes “it was
determined”) which of course violates one of the most fundamental principles of
style. There were a few more nitpicky “corrections,” all of which were equally wrong. So,
my morale being in the gutter, I just didn’t bother making any of the revisions
and sending along a new version. I did call the editor and left him a voicemail
saying, “With the benefit of hindsight we’ve determined that our initial
paragraph may have been needless so I’d like to revise the paper before the
panel review.” I didn’t hear back right away, but when I did, it was a message
on my voice mail saying, “Well, I wanted to let you know that I got the paper
and ... congratulations, you did a great job, it’s just perfect for our
journal. I’m really impressed with the clarity of your writing and I am very
excited about working with you on more projects. As for the introduction, I
wouldn’t change a thing. It’s all appropriate. Further, I would like you to
submit a photo of yourself along with the one of your company’s president, to
accompany the article, since I’m listing you as a co-author.” Needless to say I
feel totally vindicated. I’ve been leafing through <i>The Joy of Cooking</i> for a good crow recipe to give my boss. I need a
low-cal one because he really ought to be eating this all the time.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>April 27, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You might remember my cool Benrus analog <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/03/expensive-wristwatches.html" target="_blank">wristwatch</a> with the fancy
rotating bezel on it. I’ve known for well over a year that that ring is in fact kind of like a slide rule. Yesterday an engineer at work ripped it out of my hands when I showed it to
him, and fairly drooled all over it. In the course of two or three minutes he
demonstrated like twenty different calculations you can do with it. But “slide
rule bezel” is confusing because it doesn’t slide and that doesn’t sound cool.
So I call it the “hyper-alloy detonator depth-charge bezel.” The only problem
is, it only rotates one way. Does that mean you can add but you can’t subtract?
Multiply but not divide? Clearly I did not retain the engineer’s lesson; I only
use the bezel to time parking meters, but rarely, and I usually forget I’ve
used it and just go by sixth sense anyway. Besides, I don’t use parking meters that
often, since I don’t have a car.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>May 11, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can’t believe you actually complained about the poor bike
racing coverage in the [Boulder] <i>Daily Camera</i>.
You’ve got to be kidding me. That paper has the best racing coverage I’ve ever
seen. We’re lucky to get a list of top ten results in the back pages of the
Sunday sports section, next to the bowling results. I can get a little bit of
information from CompuServe, the online information service, but my main source
is forwarded messages from my friend who can get complete results from America
On-Line, which has a Bicycling Magazine forum or some such thing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>October 29, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On a cold, blustery day we went to the San Francisco Center
and poked around. One of the things I looked at was a thick wool button-down shirt
from Woolrich, just like the ones we all wore back in high school (and which
are featured in our Four Brothers portrait that hangs proudly above my desk as
I sit here typing).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zlhCo1FbYJMQq0CwtTo_FbZUZiWHIeVFxYpTHvftmgSgRX2GyF1RWUT0krISg0OqLM84lKH5JL1FMaU4rSM_KOXvCoa_5YoEgfXhV2lsp0XB93tEq_bDU7BX9V7SS3-66l6BCyDPU0H0yE1oDfu9hTYd4L_FOa9Kz0KUuATgrx7qQS-_EwLnSmx-Fy4j/s932/AlbertBrosDec'95.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="932" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zlhCo1FbYJMQq0CwtTo_FbZUZiWHIeVFxYpTHvftmgSgRX2GyF1RWUT0krISg0OqLM84lKH5JL1FMaU4rSM_KOXvCoa_5YoEgfXhV2lsp0XB93tEq_bDU7BX9V7SS3-66l6BCyDPU0H0yE1oDfu9hTYd4L_FOa9Kz0KUuATgrx7qQS-_EwLnSmx-Fy4j/s320/AlbertBrosDec'95.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Lo and behold, I did finally find some wool button-down shirts, but the price tag
was staggering … close to $100. Just for a shirt! (Okay, a nice, thick one, but
still.) You’ll certainly recall that we bought ours at the Factory Outlet in
Broomfield, back when Factory Outlet meant slightly irregular and overstocked
stuff that was really cheap, instead of what it means now (which is nothing
more than a company-run store that sells only their brand of product and nobody
else’s, for a price that is supposedly cheaper, but usually not by much). I’m
sure there was <i>something</i> wrong with
our Woolrich shirts, but I never could figure out what. A friend of mine back
in high school once hit upon a theory: my shirt was defective because the front
pockets didn’t have buttons. Well, they did: I just hadn’t buttoned them. So
much for that. I have to wonder: now that factory outlet stores generally sell
all first-quality stuff, what do companies do with their seconds? Surely they
must have seconds. Do they just pitch it? Or do they pretend it’s fine and put
some extra tag on there talking about how such variations give the garment character
or something?<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally I came upon some reasonably priced shirts but they
looked really cheesy. I was lamenting the downfall of this once proud brand
when I realized I’d drifted right out of Woolrich and into the Dockers store. I
guess I’m just not cut out for <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/12/2009-holiday-newsletter.html" target="_blank">shopping</a>…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>November 25, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My job is slowing down somewhat. Now that I’ve given notice,
I’ve been branded a treacherous backstabber, not to be trusted. I’m having my
projects taken away from me and given to people who don’t know how to do them, which
leads to these people tearing their hair out while they come up to speed. At least I’m around to help for a while. (“Like this,” I’ll
tell them, grabbing a huge hunk of hair in both hands. “You want to tear as
violently as possible.”) I’m also helping to interview the candidates for my replacement.
This is good too, because I get to ask those probing questions: “You’re walking
in the desert, and you see a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/from-archives-techcorp-files-part-i.html" target="_blank">tortoise flipped up on its back, its stomach baking in the hot sun</a>. You could flip it back over, but you don’t … why is
that?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>December 12, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, I hope y’all had a good time at Dad’s birthday dinner.
I talked to him today briefly. To have an excuse to keep the call short, I used
a long-distance calling coupon that the cash register at Safeway spat out when
I bought some gum. I dialed the 800 number and a recorded message said, “Thank
you for buying Carefree gum at Safeway!” and gave me directions for entering my
PIN, etc. The coupon was good for five minutes, which was really kind of
strange because you feel like you can’t think of anything to say since you’re
so hurried. I managed to remind Dad to reimburse me for Max’s b-day present; Dad
had called me on Max’s birthday to say, “Give Max $50 for me and I’ll reimburse
you.” But when I reminded him, he claimed he didn’t know what I was talking about. Could he be that
scatterbrained? It was only three weeks ago! I’m trying to convince myself I haven’t
just been scammed by my own dad.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>December 12, 1996</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yeah, I know what you mean about web pages. I could make one
using this CompuServe web page wizard, but what’s the point? The only reason I
could think of is that by doing a search engine (i.e., AltaVista) search, a long-lost
friend could find me. But I got no friends.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-77494426736169323392024-01-31T22:40:00.000-08:002024-02-14T16:52:12.175-08:00Will A.I. Steal Our Jobs?<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of the great things about Artificial Intelligence is how
well it drives hype. The media, instead of just delivering bad news about
yesterday and today, can now get us really excited—and worried!—about the
future. One of the most potent forms of this hype is the widespread suggestion
that many of us may lose our jobs to A.I. (My mother-in-law was asking me about
this just the other day.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In this post, I’ll examine the topic. I’m not an expert on
A.I., but I’m confident that my credentials as a male will serve me well in
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/02/is-it-really-mansplaining.html" target="_blank">mansplaining</a> this to you, regardless of your own sex. And actually, I’ve been blogging
about A.I. for over ten years, having produced over a dozen posts (linked at
the bottom of this one). I’ve even done some light research for today’s topic. I’ll
wrap up by telling you what I think ought to be a much larger concern around
A.I. than job preservation.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2QRArsu0w4UuDTWxE4sGzCsnyH0pdWbwfy9QdpKyDJNblbwwdhyphenhyphen339tJbceSeiXecbsuoSzj-fpkFquDoXOmKE70ZkDbdO7zgupMvs9pan_1m7gyILGnwngOjMfBqzBNLjFuVjX0eNbmLTGdQvuL1SK2Q7nR-EY7jeCmsOQ-YCi3i1Poyp7oBwsR28r-/s990/RobotTrain.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="990" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2QRArsu0w4UuDTWxE4sGzCsnyH0pdWbwfy9QdpKyDJNblbwwdhyphenhyphen339tJbceSeiXecbsuoSzj-fpkFquDoXOmKE70ZkDbdO7zgupMvs9pan_1m7gyILGnwngOjMfBqzBNLjFuVjX0eNbmLTGdQvuL1SK2Q7nR-EY7jeCmsOQ-YCi3i1Poyp7oBwsR28r-/w400-h194/RobotTrain.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Which jobs?</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Before I can answer your question, “Will A.I. steal my job?”
of course I’d have to know <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/07/what-do-you-do.html" target="_blank">what you do</a>. Obviously I can’t just ask, so I’ll have to make some assumptions. I suspect
you’re a college graduate to even be visiting albertnet, because my blog posts
are long and difficult. Moreover, I researched the most common jobs in America for
the non-college educated, and the results—which include “fast food and counter
workers,” “home health and personal care aides,” and “stockers and order
fillers”—wouldn’t leave any employee with enough energy to plow through this
much text.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, with that assumption in mind, I’ll go with the top five
careers for college graduates based on current labor statistics. I’ll also
cover the classic professions: medicine and law. It doesn’t matter if your
career isn’t any of these; what I cover should be illustrative examples.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>The top five careers</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The five most abundant job prospects for new graduates in
America, according to the <a href="https://www.bls.gov/careeroutlook/2021/article/projected-openings-college-degree.htm" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics</a>, are as follows (along with the number of openings per year, average, for
2020-2030):</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>General and operations managers 229,600 openings</li><li>Registered nurses<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>194,500</li><li>Software developers & testers<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>189,200</li><li>Accountants & auditors<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>135,000</li><li>Elementary school teachers<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>110,800</li></ol><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ll explore, briefly, each of these careers in turn, before
going on to doctors and lawyers.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>General and operations
managers</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, I don’t know exactly what this rather general label
means, but clicking on the BLS hyperlink for it takes me to a <a href="https://www.bls.gov/ooh/management/top-executives.htm" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">page describing what executives do</a>. The summary is that they “plan strategies and policies to ensure that an
organization meets its goals.” This would be very difficult for A.I. to do,
because it cannot form opinions, doesn’t have the ability to effectively
promote ideas and inspire people, and couldn’t have any clue about navigating
office politics. The managers and executives at my company do a lot in person,
which attests to the company’s conviction that this is necessary (vs.
telecommuting). A.I. cannot, needless to say, do <i>anything </i>in person. It produces rivers of text on any subject by
regurgitating gobs of highly masticated learning data from across the Internet,
but this has nothing to do with forming and fostering creative ideas.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Much of the tech world, in my personal experience and as chronicled
widely by the media, is devoted to “disruption”—that is, coming up with a
completely new idea that turns existing business models on their heads (like
Uber did to the taxicab industry). A.I. is often employed, tactically, in such disruption,
but it cannot drive it the way an industry leader does. A.I. is very good at
certain tricks, but it’s not good at visionary thinking because it literally
lives in the past. (Consider that ChatGPT’s training data hasn’t had an update in
over two years, by its own admission.) I think managers and executives can rest
easy here (so long as they keep their companies poised at the leading edge of
the A.I. zeitgeist).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Registered nurses</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I think we can all agree nursing is a hands-on occupation,
and for that you need actual hands. But you don’t have to take my word for it. I
just asked ChatGPT, “Can you please change the dressing on the laceration on my
right leg?” and it swiftly replied, “I’m not able to provide physical
assistance or medical care as I am a text-based AI language model. It’s crucial
to seek help from a qualified healthcare professional for proper wound care.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Software developers
and testers</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The full title of this occupation is “Software Developers,
Quality Assurance Analysts, and Testers.” Everyone knows what software
developers do; as for the others, the BLS writes (<a href="https://www.bls.gov/ooh/computer-and-information-technology/software-developers.htm" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a>), “Software quality assurance analysts and testers identify problems with
applications or programs and report defects.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let’s start with developers. I interviewed a friend of mine
on this, who is a manager and software developer specializing in A.I. for an
extremely well known tech company. Not only does he know all about developing
software, but he knows lots about A.I. He started off by saying that ChatGPT
is actually a powerful tool in the hands of a good developer, and can lead to
much greater work efficiency. ChatGPT can provide blobs of code that do a
specific thing, but of course this is only a small part of the job of a software
developer. The developer is essentially a problem solver and has to figure out
the right approach to doing so. In theory, the increased efficiency
that A.I. enables could reduce the number of jobs, since doing everything
faster means needing fewer hands. But, my friend advised, this would only be
true if there were a finite number of problems to solve. In fact, the number of
problems, and the number of projects, and the number of innovations, are infinite,
and it’s a company’s job to tackle enough of them to keep an ever-growing
number of developers busy. So not only will A.I. not replace these jobs, but it
won’t diminish the number of them.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Moving on to QA analysts and testers, I believe their jobs
are equally secure. Have you ever done a CAPTCHA—that simple task of, for
example, looking at a 3x3 grid of thumbnail photos and counting the number of traffic
lights? That’s a website’s way of making sure bots don’t impersonate humans.
CAPTCHAs work because A.I. is stymied by graphical user interfaces (GUIs). So
it wouldn’t be able to test software, or at least the type used by humans
(which is a whole lot of it). Moreover (and I know this from my own
professional experience), software testing is all about how straightforward and
useable an interface is <i>to a human</i>.
Testers need to be able to imagine the perspective of the human who will use
the software. A.I. lacks this capability; although it can mimic human thought
or impression, it has no grasp of these things; it’s essentially autistic.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Accountants and auditors</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, I’ll confess I’m kind of out of my depth here. I
gather that accountants balance the books, and auditors keep the accountants (and
everyone else) honest, but that’s about all I know (or care to know). I will
say that obviously accuracy is the name of the game here, which is where A.I.
needs to be handled carefully. As you probably know, generative A.I. platforms, such as the GPT-3.5 model that drives ChatGPT, are prone to “hallucinations”—where
they basically just make shit up and present it as fact. The poster child here
is the case (described by the <i>New York
Times </i><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/05/27/nyregion/avianca-airline-lawsuit-chatgpt.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a>) of a dumbass lawyer who used ChatGPT to prepare an argument in a court case,
and got into big trouble because his argument cited half a dozen
previous relevant court decisions, all of which were pure fabrications—ChatGPT
had pulled them out of its ass. As the <i>Times
</i>dryly concluded in its article, “The real-life case of Roberto Mata v.
Avianca Inc. shows that white-collar professions may have at least a little
time left before the robots take over.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Elementary school
teachers</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s pretty clear that the education of elementary school
kids needs to happen in person. Countless articles about the result of distance
learning during the COVID-19 pandemic recount how far behind students fell. For
example, according to <a href="https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/education/2023/02/09/students-lost-year-learning-pandemic-education/11205544002/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this article</a>, half the nation’s students began the 2022-2023 school year a full year
behind grade level due to the poor education they’d received during the lockdown.
Granted, there was a lot more going on during the pandemic than just distance
learning, but if there was one thing Americans could agree on during that time,
it was that in-person instruction needed to come back.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until we have sophisticated, affordable, and ubiquitous animatronic
robots, A.I. simply cannot provide in-person instruction as we know it. It’s
just a digital tool, not at all what kids really learn from. And robots will
never be people, with personalities. Elementary school teachers connect with
students, draw them out, encourage them, understand their struggles, and have
firsthand knowledge of how humans learn. A.I., of course, has none of this. As
described <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/03/schooling-chatgpt.html" target="_blank">here</a> I tried to teach ChatGPT how to write a proper poem (in terms of a specific
meter) and it confessed, “As an AI language model, I do not have the ability to
practice or improve my skills in a traditional sense.” All it can do is ingest
troves of training data and reference them later. It cannot relate to the human
effort to learn. It cannot come up with creative strategies for connecting with
kids. Also, it would never settle for the piss-poor salaries paid to elementary
school teachers. (Yes, that was a joke. Another thing A.I. can’t really do.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Doctors</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Having completed the top five careers for college graduates,
I’ll now move on to a field that affects us all: medicine.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As with nursing, medicine obviously needs to be hands-on. My
doctors (and physical therapists) have all relied heavily on touch and (literally) feel in evaluating and diagnosing injuries and health issues. Meanwhile, the important dialogue I’m able to have with them about my
health requires advanced “soft skills” far beyond what A.I. could get from training data. The reason I even entertain the notion that A.I. could replace doctors
is that I’ve read, here and there, about how well A.I. does interpreting
radiology images. I just did a little refresher research and found <a href="https://insights.omnia-health.com/clinical/three-reasons-ai-not-ready-replace-radiologists" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">in this article</a> that it still isn’t as accurate as a human. Moreover, as the article attests,
“radiologists are more than just interpreters of images. They connect the
findings from imaging analysis to other patient data and test results, discuss
treatment plans with patients, and consult with their colleagues.” Meanwhile,
the A.I. that performed well had been trained on billions of images from the
public Internet, whereas “radiological datasets are also often guarded by
privacy regulations and owned by vendors, hospitals, and other institutions”—meaning
that advancements in A.I. in this industry will lag behind that of autonomous
vehicles or retail.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I interviewed a friend who’s a medical doctor and his
dismissal of A.I. as a threat was pretty curt. Alluding to its tendency to
hallucinate, he mentioned how poorly the patient community would react the
first time A.I. casually told a relatively healthy patient, “You have twelve
months to live.” And though I suppose we could entertain the idea of a robot doing
a fine job with a surgery, what happens when <i>it </i>hallucinates? “Mr. Smith, I have some good news and some bad
news. The bad news is, instead of a pacemaker I accidentally installed an ice
maker. The good news is, if I pull on your ear you’ll cough up an ice cube.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Lawyers</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What is the output of a lawyer? I don’t work in this field,
but I think it’s fair to say the two main outputs are documents and spoken testimony.
Let’s start with the latter: A.I., lacking a human presence and thus the ability
to provide moving verbal testimony, probably wouldn’t do well in a courtroom.
What would that even look like? A person simply standing up and reading an
A.I.-generated testimonial? How would A.I. negotiate? What would its powers of
persuasion be like? Do you agree we could rule out its ability to testify
effectively in a live environment?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If so, let’s move on to documents. A.I. does seem really
good at spewing forth gobs of text on pretty much any subject. Now, as I
recounted earlier, it does have this little problem of providing fictitious citations as legal precedent, and since nobody really knows how A.I. works there doesn’t seem to be
an easy solution on the horizon for such hallucinations. But that’s not its only
problem.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Unless I’m just hopelessly naïve, the practice of law
requires the ability to delve into complexities and tease out the legal basis
for one’s position—the point of law on which the case can turn. This is why law
school and the bar exam are required, right? Well, how good is A.I. at this
kind of analysis, really? I haven’t fed it any legal quandaries to chew on
because I don’t have any, but I have experimented with trying to get it to
explain something similarly abstract: dramatic irony. How did it do? As
detailed <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/02/ai-smackdown-english-major-vs-chatgpt.html" target="_blank">here</a>, it totally crashed and burned. Not only did it betray a total lack of
understanding of what irony is (though it can spew out a canned definition of
it), it fabricated evidence from a children’s book in explaining instances of
it. It was just swinging wild, and did shockingly badly. Make no mistake:
ChatGPT can assemble basic (if torturously verbose) sentences out of building
blocks of reconstituted training data, but it still doesn’t analyze anything in
any useful way.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For my family holiday newsletter this year, I sent out a
quiz. I asked fifteen questions about what my family did in 2023, and put an
A.I. spin on it: for each question, one multiple-choice response was true,
another was generated by ChatGPT, and the third was a lie I wrote in the style
of ChatGPT. Most of the recipients were able to identify most of the correct
responses, but very few were able to reliably determine which of the other responses
was A.I. vs. my mimicry of it. In other words, ChatGPT was very bad at
pretending to be human, but I was very good at pretending to be ChatGPT. Trust me, humans are still better at actual thought.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>What we </i>should<i> be
worried about</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So what <i>is </i>A.I.
really good at? Well, I’m sorry to say, I discovered recently that it’s
phenomenally good at faking photos. I took <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2024/01/19/technology/artificial-intelligence-image-generators-faces-quiz.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this brief quiz</a> in the <i>New York Times </i>asking me to
identify, out of ten photos, which were real and which were fabricated by A.I. I
did <i>horribly</i>, getting just 3 out of
10 correct. The friend who turned me on to the quiz scored only 2 points. My
daughter and her friend both scored 4, and my wife got 5 right (which is the
same as guessing at random). The quiz was based on a scientific study which
found that the vast majority of participants were misled by the A.I. fakes. For
four of the five fake photos, 89 to 93% of participants erroneously labeled
them real. For four of the five real photos, 79 to 90% of participants
erroneously labeled them fake.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I don’t think very many of us are employed in a
field where generating fake photos is a big part of the job. That being said, the
ability of A.I. to fool people is very disconcerting anyway. Referring to one
of the study authors, the <i>Times </i>article
declared, “The idea that A.I.-generated faces could be deemed more authentic
than actual people startled experts like Dr. Dawel, who fear that digital fakes
could help the spread of false and misleading messages online.” Indeed, when deployed
by bad actors, this A.I. capability could wreak havoc on the public discourse, further
befouling the already squalid troll-o-sphere and perpetrating pervasive new
acts of societal vandalism. So let’s be careful out there…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Other albertnet posts
on A.I.</i></p>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/08/i-chatbot.html" target="_blank">I,
Chatbot</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/08/almost-intelligent-part-i.html" target="_blank">Almost Intelligent – Part I</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/09/almost-intelligent-part-ii.html" target="_blank">Almost Intelligent – Part II</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/02/smartphones-artificial-stupidity.html" target="_blank">Smartphones & Artificial Stupidity</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/01/ai-smackdown-moto-vs-cortana-vs-siri.html" target="_blank">A.I. Smackdown – Moto vs. Cortana vs. Siri</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/11/could-artificial-intelligence-replace.html" target="_blank">Could Artificial Intelligence Replace Writers? – Part 1</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/12/could-artificial-intelligence-replace.html" target="_blank">Could Artificial Intelligence Replace Writers? – Part 2</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/12/could-artificial-intelligence-replace_14.html" target="_blank">Could Artificial Intelligence Replace Writers? – Part 3</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/02/ai-smackdown-english-major-vs-chatgpt.html">A.I.
Smackdown – English Major vs. ChatGPT – Part 1</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/02/ai-smackdown-english-major-vs-chatgpt_22.html" target="_blank">A.I. Smackdown – English Major vs. ChatGPT – Part 2</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/03/schooling-chatgpt.html" target="_blank">Schooling
ChatGPT</a></li>
</ul><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-35938578037813525862024-01-23T23:10:00.000-08:002024-02-11T14:01:32.195-08:00Ask a Car Critic<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dear Car Critic,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Why do so many modern
cars, not just sports cars but sedans and even station wagons, have low-profile
tires like you’d see on a racecar? I rode in my kid’s Honda Accord and the ride
was so harsh! What’s the point?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Chuck M, San Diego, CA</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Chuck,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can offer you a simple answer and a more complicated
answer. The simple answer is: people think low-profile tires look cool. The more complicated
answer is: in accordance with <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/03/cough-drops-mimetic-theory.html" target="_blank">mimetic theory</a>, people want to buy the products that would be used by the ideal human whom
they admire and wish they could be. They can’t afford the Aston Martin DB10
that James Bond has, but at least they can at least have a car with similarly
sporty tires.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfy7Br9qYMhqAS09oTifFtW7-jzt1K9ojHuZpAl1JQqiCYxVKCWN-GNBSZodbC1qMgay3at-wbDAha8OQCylY3EXTYQ4l_9377fB-aIWP7yRMjpiSCvnJPxDjIkvS5pbkLnta9835CH0hzQs-MtANCvaIgQMl1gwTmjkEZgkXKC6YmXmuX084XZxtx9Fej/s240/LoProfileTires.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="240" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfy7Br9qYMhqAS09oTifFtW7-jzt1K9ojHuZpAl1JQqiCYxVKCWN-GNBSZodbC1qMgay3at-wbDAha8OQCylY3EXTYQ4l_9377fB-aIWP7yRMjpiSCvnJPxDjIkvS5pbkLnta9835CH0hzQs-MtANCvaIgQMl1gwTmjkEZgkXKC6YmXmuX084XZxtx9Fej/w320-h213/LoProfileTires.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Not satisfied with my own hunch on this, I asked a tire guy.
(I was at his shop after blowing out my second low-profile tire in under three
years.) He said the same thing: low-profile tires look cool and that’s more
important to people than having a smooth, quiet ride and not having to worry about big
potholes (like the one that destroyed my first low-profile tire).<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All this being said, there is a safety benefit to these
tires. Because they’re wider they have more contact with the road, which
improves traction, and the shorter sidewall means they squirm less under hard
cornering. Granted, these characteristics generally benefit a driver who’s going
too fast to begin with, but they can help in an emergency situation. (For
example, I was driving on an interstate highway when a UPS truck came right
into my lane. My extremely sudden swerve into the next lane might not
have gone so well with traditional tires.) One other safety benefit is that the
larger wheel rim can support bigger brake discs, which (if your car has them)
enable faster stopping.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Car Critic,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>What is it with drink
holders? Can’t people drive across town without their fricking Big Gulp? Cars
never used to have these … what changed?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Sandra S, Spokane, WA</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Sandra,</p><p class="MsoNormal">While I am appalled by America’s evident addiction to soft
drinks, I do find drink holders totally appropriate for road trips. Coffee is a
must for very long drives, and I wouldn’t want to hold it in my lap. It would
also be hypocritical of me to badmouth drink holders, because I’ve had them on
all my bicycles since 1978 (though of course we call those “water bottle cages”).
But drink holders on shopping carts … <i>that’s</i>
just silly.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeBjtHQFFlPRbQq5xEWJ1KNE-Qzo4NqGKSVdKJHMZpd_3D0PGiFlRnRjBfBTU2TU0XKzBvBtq5wOxxHeTCE9viAY1n5Wpj6Zy6H54YqAG5SZUNr5zm3FWf_k2gYoI4COhzU5HscaTyfAhemi9_BHGROpB2xRIBq8yfyqybH_prB1I-EHHQOKiNr2xlCDL/s943/ShoppingCartDrinkHolder.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="943" data-original-width="702" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeBjtHQFFlPRbQq5xEWJ1KNE-Qzo4NqGKSVdKJHMZpd_3D0PGiFlRnRjBfBTU2TU0XKzBvBtq5wOxxHeTCE9viAY1n5Wpj6Zy6H54YqAG5SZUNr5zm3FWf_k2gYoI4COhzU5HscaTyfAhemi9_BHGROpB2xRIBq8yfyqybH_prB1I-EHHQOKiNr2xlCDL/s320/ShoppingCartDrinkHolder.jpg" width="238" /></a></i></div><i><br />Dear Car Critic,</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>It’s time for a new
car and my husband wants an SUV. I’m concerned about the gas mileage and
frankly the sheer size of these vehicles, but my husband keeps emphasizing the
safety aspect. We have two kids so he may have me over a barrel there—but I
thought I’d check with you. Thoughts?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Emily W, San Antonio,
TX</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Emily,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course there are good reasons to buy an SUV (e.g., you
ski every weekend, or you’re a tradesman in a snowy, mountainous place and need
to haul your tools around, or you have a fragile male ego that needs to be
coddled), but safety isn’t among them. It is an absolute myth that SUVs
are safer.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I used to work in risk management, and we evaluated risk
along two axes: severity and likelihood. It may be true that an SUV protects
its passenger effectively in an accident, but it’s also true that SUVs are more
accident-prone. The reasons are threefold: 1) higher rollover risk, 2) greater
weight leading to slower stopping; 3) overconfidence on the part of the driver.
There was an excellent article about this, by Malcolm Gladwell, in the <i>New Yorker</i> twenty years ago; you can
read the abstract <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2004/01/12/big-and-bad" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a> and the full article <a href="https://eta-publications.lbl.gov/sites/default/files/bigandbad.pdf" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a>. As Gladwell put it, “The benefits of being nimble—of being in an automobile
that’s capable of staying out of trouble—are in many cases greater than the
benefits of being big.” He cited data on deaths per million vehicles, as
provided by a study conducted by the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory in
conjunction with the University of Michigan, showing that, at that time, SUV drivers had
far higher rates of death than drivers of small and even compact cars.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That data being rather old, and Gladwell being <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/09/the-talent-conundrum_22.html" target="_blank">perhaps less than 100% reliable</a>, I have researched more modern statistics about car safety. My first stop,
the <a href="https://www.nhtsa.gov/ratings" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">ratings website</a> managed by the National Traffic Safety Administration (<a href="https://www.nhtsa.gov/about-nhtsa" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">NHTSA</a>), was not very helpful. I looked up the safety ratings for a variety of SUVs
and they were all five-star, which might help explain why SUVs have a
reputation for being safe. But then I started plugging in other vehicles at
random, and they all got five stars as well. I tried my own car, my family
members’ cars, my neighbors’ cars—<i>everything</i>
was five stars. (It’s like the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/04/the-maple-syrup-relabeling-travesty.html" target="_blank">useless rating of all maple syrup in America</a>: it’s <i>all </i>Grade A, whether it’s the
tasty golden stuff that rises to the top or the murky brown stuff at the
bottom.) Everyone gets a ribbon! What a joke. I think for the most part the NHTSA
focuses on crash test dummy results, not the likelihood of an accident. The
only difference I saw between the Ford Expedition and my car is that my car
gets five stars across the board whereas the Expedition gets only three to four
stars (depending on year) for rollover rating. (The only vehicle I could find with
fewer than five stars was the four-star MINI Cooper, about which the NHTSA cautioned, “During
the side impact test, the interior door panel struck the torso of the rear
passenger dummy, causing a high lower spine acceleration.” To which I respond,
who rides in the <i>back </i>of a MINI
Cooper, besides your annoying baby brother who probably deserves a good spine
acceleration?)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The <a href="https://www.iihs.org/about-us" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Insurance Institute for Highway Safety</a>, an independent, nonprofit organization, is more helpful as it publishes modern
data on deaths per million vehicles. It covers a decent variety (though alas,
it’s not comprehensive). As of 2020, the Ford Fusion averaged 25 deaths per
million and small cars in general averaged 54; the Ford Explorer had 22 deaths
with midsize SUVs averaging 27. My first takeaway is that SUVs have gotten a
lot safer in the last 20 years. That said, my second takeaway is that SUVs are
not safer across the board. If you really want a safe vehicle, don’t assume
SUVs are the way forward; simply peruse <a href="https://www.iihs.org/ratings/driver-death-rates-by-make-and-model" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">the IIHS website</a> and find some individual vehicles with good numbers (and/or look up the car you already had your eye on). For example, the Subaru
Outback shows just 6 deaths per million vehicle year, while that Jeep Grand Cherokee
you might assume would be safe has a whopping 103 deaths per million. (My own
car, a basic station wagon, which I assumed would be safe because it’s a Volvo,
isn’t listed on the site, but the 4WD version of it boasts just 5 deaths per
million.) Suffice to say, limiting your new car selection to SUVs on the basis of safety doesn't make much sense.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbD9N7JCM5hdjLOSxylUl5icchu6IAurKUHi8LD5JZ3URTSopZ0wdNnENnKhsWjrqV4tkcxewxhc381oENsXa_UZMDdj792-D0tRhPITvtwfqukWo5_aclRpIMyWuowZTzNXwXTUY6Krlyw0irz_OGEPy0Y5SRPBaoWy2y8MlmFrK1D_iujb-g7oGntmKJ/s1037/SUVrollover.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="1037" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbD9N7JCM5hdjLOSxylUl5icchu6IAurKUHi8LD5JZ3URTSopZ0wdNnENnKhsWjrqV4tkcxewxhc381oENsXa_UZMDdj792-D0tRhPITvtwfqukWo5_aclRpIMyWuowZTzNXwXTUY6Krlyw0irz_OGEPy0Y5SRPBaoWy2y8MlmFrK1D_iujb-g7oGntmKJ/w320-h193/SUVrollover.JPG" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Dear Car Critic,</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>It feels like from a
cultural perspective, there was a golden era of motor vehicles that’s now
behind us. It was mainly a guy thing … it was just so much fun to sit around
and gab away about cars, happy as clams. Where did this go?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Mark A, Grand
Junction, CO</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Mark,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hear you, and your letter makes me think of the classic
Tom Waits monologue “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F9AoKJGWis" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">The Pontiac</a>.” Now, I can’t say for sure that men everywhere have stopped talking about cars
(which would be like proving a negative), but I’ve witnessed this shift
myself. I would say that historically, and thinking back to my dad’s
generation, a big part of what men talked about when they talked about cars was
how to fix them, which I think has become less of a DIY thing over the years,
with the rising complexity of modern vehicles. My own car doesn’t even have a
dipstick and I had to look on YouTube to figure out how to get the digital
dashboard to show me the oil level. The cultural change is similar, perhaps, to
how men used to talk about navigation at great length, comparing various routes
you could take between point A and point B, and how that’s now been made obsolete by
GPS. And then you’ve got the younger generation that increasingly doesn’t even
drive (for example, my own daughters haven’t bothered to get their licenses). On
top of it all, we have endless new entertainment options that take up a lot of
people’s attention. So those are a few theories for you, anyway.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Car Critic,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>How do you get little
animals out of your engine area when they go there to escape the cold? Man I
dunno but I think car mammals are funny.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Amanda A, Portland, OR</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Amanda,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know how seriously to take this question, but I
totally agree car mammals are funny. Case in point: a friend of mine finished grad school and bought his first proper, non-beater, grownup car, a nice Audi
sedan. Then he was called away to a postdoc in Sweden for a year, which
consisted primarily of doing a lot of testing on lab rats, about which he felt
kind of conflicted. Well, he came home to discover that a family of rats had
taken up residence in his car and eaten all the upholstery and electrical
wiring, costing him many thousands of dollars in repairs. He shrugged it off,
chalking it up to karma.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Getting back to your question, it seems like if you could
manage not to drive your car for a good while, especially during a cold snap,
the animals would leave for warmer environments (though hopefully not the cabin
of the car). Or, you could try sending in a very svelte, slinky cat.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Car Critic,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Why are so many modern
cars so ugly?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Bruce H, Brooklyn, NY</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Bruce,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know, right? This bothers me a lot … I drive down the
highway looking at all the cars around me, noting my reactions to each in turn:
“Ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, passable, ugly, kinda cool, ugly, ugly, ugly.” I
suspect the problem is the endless need that the automotive industry has for
novelty. As of 2020, the US automotive market size was almost $900 <i>billion</i>, meaning they’re able to get a
whole lot of people to replace their perfectly good cars with newer ones. So,
despite how expensive these things are, the industry treats them like fashion
products—thus nobody is working really hard at creating timeless, classic
designs. That’s my theory, anyway.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6UXZ6UWg1yurjfy-bLx1Y49J5LlRAHJxC4DltGUNqNV_xGCG-WEFLT8h_oZBcdhFmdqfRgXXUbxyw1cfcmsDgZ2ltkHJQvWn4SS899o5-KCmCMs3LqiAO_mSj5yJNgW-oZcbWSw27sLZyqDDfj-dE1NZp8k17SdVm_mTH3IWseEwLQkHrVHpxrbMI2A4/s1099/NissanCube.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="1099" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6UXZ6UWg1yurjfy-bLx1Y49J5LlRAHJxC4DltGUNqNV_xGCG-WEFLT8h_oZBcdhFmdqfRgXXUbxyw1cfcmsDgZ2ltkHJQvWn4SS899o5-KCmCMs3LqiAO_mSj5yJNgW-oZcbWSw27sLZyqDDfj-dE1NZp8k17SdVm_mTH3IWseEwLQkHrVHpxrbMI2A4/s320/NissanCube.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />I did a little research for you, too. As described in <a href="https://www.thestar.com/autos/why-do-cars-look-so-ugly-famous-designer-says-he-knows-why/article_c6b0d4cc-c67f-54b9-aae3-36ba9a2f5ca4.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this article</a>, the car designer Frank Stephenson, who “reincarnated the MINI” and designed
the (also cool looking) Ferrari F430, says “carmakers have this mindset that
bold, shocking designs convey confidence in their brand and product” and “they
assume that consumers will eventually catch up to their way of thinking.”
Meanwhile, he complains, modern designers have “lost the appreciation for
sketching on paper, and this contributes to the new, robotic, cold designs the
industry is imposing on consumers.”<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, it’s also possible to complain that too many cars
look too much alike, which kind of flies in the face of the “bold, shocking”
claim. Maybe it’s both. Or may it’s just that, by and large, cars are lame.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Car Critic,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Did Harry inherit more
than William?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Wendy C, Granite Bay,
CA</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Wendy,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong columnist. I know nothing
about the royal family (and couldn’t care less).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Car Critic,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>What is a PZEV
vehicle?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Robert M, Phoenix, AZ</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Robert,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It stands for “partial zero emissions vehicle,” which is
linguistic blasphemy and a mathematical impossibility. On a less snotty note,
this is the class of gas-powered motor vehicles that are the cleanest running. As detailed <a href="https://www.caranddriver.com/research/a32812793/pzev/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a>, PZEV vehicles have more sophisticated catalytic converters that turn nitric
oxide and nitrogen dioxide into less harmful gases, and fancy filters to keep
unburned fuel vapors from escaping into the air. Now, if you’re trying to
figure out of your own car is a PZEV, good luck with that. I went down that
rabbit hole and was lucky to make it out alive (and no more informed than when
I went in, alas).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxz3UDRBWo8r8MANOrI90Ri5V0Kb1Da6SF5fHSmCgYcnyLxIgEN01KeDjIeDP7sLxAnNieKFCgdxJ8ACSbBM5lFtfYMxEuwTw6wBx2SU6lIr-0Rs3BlUV02kRw0FHYuvzfVeE9Z9YnImZubwZu1Rh2aDI2uZjuyEY56WkPgg-3e0HxbNXuPJRHlKuP7HYd/s841/PZEV.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="841" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxz3UDRBWo8r8MANOrI90Ri5V0Kb1Da6SF5fHSmCgYcnyLxIgEN01KeDjIeDP7sLxAnNieKFCgdxJ8ACSbBM5lFtfYMxEuwTw6wBx2SU6lIr-0Rs3BlUV02kRw0FHYuvzfVeE9Z9YnImZubwZu1Rh2aDI2uZjuyEY56WkPgg-3e0HxbNXuPJRHlKuP7HYd/w320-h103/PZEV.JPG" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Dear Car Critic,</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I’m kind of torn when
it comes to cars. On the one hand, I feel like I shouldn’t be swayed by “wow” features
I’ll never use, like the cool little paddles alongside the steering wheel to
shift gears. On the other hand, I want to own a car I will really love, even if
it’s much fancier than I really need. Does that make me a hypocrite?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Lily A, Ashland, OR</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Lily,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I wouldn’t sweat the features that you don’t use. I mean, on
the most fundamental level, most of us drive around with nobody in the rear
passenger seats 90% of the time, but we wouldn’t want to switch to a
two-seater. Meanwhile, most modern car tires (but not SUV tires!) could easily
handle 100 mph safely even though almost nobody goes that fast (and none of us
should). Most cars strike me as vastly over-engineered, but when we consider
what’s at stake—literally life and death—perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.
(Road traffic accidents, as documented by the CDC <a href="https://www.cdc.gov/injury/features/global-road-safety/index.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a>, are a leading cause of death among people ages 1-54, second only to
<a href="https://www.cdc.gov/injury/wisqars/LeadingCauses.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">accidental poisoning</a>, which includes overdoses.) I chose my car primarily because it’s safe,
secondarily because it’s not ugly, and thirdly for its fuel economy, and
although I adore the <i>idea</i> of its
Geartronic shifting paddles, I never use mine, either. (I do wish my car were a
stick shift.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Hey Car Critic,</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Why do you exist?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Ron M, Boston, MA</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Ron,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If I take your question literally, the answer is: because my
parents wanted a girl, and my three older siblings all came out male. But I’m
guessing that’s not what you’re asking. I’ll bet you’re chafing at the fact
that, despite having no credible qualifications or education, I get to have my
own column. That’s a harder question to answer, and you’d have to ask my
publisher what he sees in me. My best guess is that it’s just because I’m dirt
cheap. Meanwhile, though <a href="https://www.sandiegouniontribune.com/cars/click-and-clack/story/2023-05-07/in-relationships-money-cant-compare-to-happiness" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Ray Magliozzi’s “Car Talk” column</a> is obviously far superior to mine, I have to say reading it sometimes makes
me sad, as I think back to the radio show Ray no longer gets to do with his late
brother Tom. Maybe people would rather read a hit-or-miss column from some
rando who doesn’t even like cars.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>A Car Critic is a
syndicated journalist whose advice column, “Ask a Car Critic,” appears in over
0 blogs worldwide.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
<p></p>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-65277009448900544722024-01-16T23:14:00.000-08:002024-01-21T15:43:11.636-08:00New Year’s Resignation<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Is it too late to suggest a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/01/the-dumb-approach-to-new-years.html" target="_blank">New Year’s Resolution</a>? I’m hoping this is timed just right: those who started too early have
already given up on their original Resolutions and need replacements, and those
who haven’t yet made theirs are desperate for inspiration. Read on for my
earnest recommendation. I’ll describe what I’m even talking about; give a few
examples; explain why people disdain the art of resignation and what you can do
about it; and touch on why we need it now more than ever.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_Zl8YEnZ3Q_V7P7_ck3rQbPWrS8DhuhOF0nyxBOZ9qFXbLxz47crsY89_JU0G6_useq0_9cX_qqKzpUTwFYiotz7pBNM5l1xFOqk9NkS9TJ72fORO0zVjVXnjSxTuN4NkPhmkirDshqbMA32JsPG3st22qi4CxzItnnjPViQA7KaVYlAWiPUmoErfMcx/s400/Lindsay'sResolutions.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="400" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_Zl8YEnZ3Q_V7P7_ck3rQbPWrS8DhuhOF0nyxBOZ9qFXbLxz47crsY89_JU0G6_useq0_9cX_qqKzpUTwFYiotz7pBNM5l1xFOqk9NkS9TJ72fORO0zVjVXnjSxTuN4NkPhmkirDshqbMA32JsPG3st22qi4CxzItnnjPViQA7KaVYlAWiPUmoErfMcx/s320/Lindsay'sResolutions.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Tune your resignation
engine</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Huh? Resignation engine? Look, there’s no really easy way to
put this, but I propose that as this year’s Resolution we strive to improve our
capacity for resignation. On the face of it, this might sound like “just give
up,” which isn’t exactly inspirational or aspirational. But I’m not talking
about the sense of resigning from a job or office; I mean the other definition,
“unresisting acceptance of something as inescapable; submission” (American
Heritage Dictionary, Fifth Edition).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Don’t give me that look. I know this still sounds pretty
defeatist but bear with me. Unresisting acceptance sounds weak, largely due to
the common phrase “resigned to his fate.” But resignation doesn’t have to
involve fatalism. When you apply it instead to a <i>process</i>, instead of to an expected outcome, it can become a
superpower.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve blogged in these pages before (<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/03/the-importance-of-goals-debunked.html" target="_blank">here!</a>) about the perils of submitting to a goals-oriented culture that
overemphasizes getting results, as opposed to simply doing things well for
their own sake. Consider the following notion, which I stumbled across in <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2014/10/13/opinion/a-cure-for-hyper-parenting.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">a <i>New York Times </i>article on parenting</a>: “A Dutch father of three told me about his Buddhist-inspired
approach: total commitment to the process, total equanimity about the outcome.”
I love this and think it can apply to a variety of human endeavors. If we focus
on a process we know is worthwhile, we become more resilient when it doesn’t
produce the outcome we’d hoped for.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So the behavior I’m really encouraging is to strive to better
at resigning ourselves to the difficulty of a process, not to any specific fate
(i.e., outcome). How this capability benefits us is complicated, so I will give
an example.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Sunburst criterium,
1986</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A criterium is a multi-lap bicycle race on city streets,
usually lasting 90 minutes or less. On this occasion, it was like 100 degrees
out, no exaggeration. I was a decent racer, generally able to finish in the top
ten; in Colorado in those days we usually had at least fifty riders in every
race and a lot of talent. What made things particularly intimidating was the 7-Eleven
junior team: not only were these the fastest riders in the state, but they had
each other—no other team could really stand up to them. To make matters worse,
when I got to the Sunburst criterium I found out the entire junior national
team was there—like five or six <i>more </i>top
guys. To go suffer in the heat against all these big shots was pretty
demoralizing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I pretended to be casual about it, but I could be kind of a
head case in those days, not above defeatist thinking, and it almost seemed
pointless to go destroy myself out there with little chance, it seemed, of a
top ten. But even in those days I had a talent for resignation, or at least I’d
developed some capability in that realm, because I resolved to just get out
there and hang with the pack for as long as I could, hopefully the entire race.
I was well aware that if I got dropped I’d never catch back up, and would
probably be lapped, and pulled from the race by the referee, which would be frankly
humiliating, but what else could I do?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sure enough, the pace was brutal. Criteriums never start out
mellow like a long road race, and between the 7-Eleven riders (or “Slurpees” as
they were known) and the junior national team, a lot of egos were on exhibit. I
was in the back of the pack, which in theory would give me the best draft
(i.e., break from the wind), but when accelerations are constant and little
gaps open up, the inefficiency grows as you get farther back in the
group—you’re whipped around like the end of a long tail, working your ass off
just to remain in contact. It’s more efficient to move up toward the front, but
<i>everyone </i>has that idea, so it’s a
constant struggle. I was dying the whole time but just hung in as though I had
a chance.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Remember my rhetorical question from earlier—“what else
could I do?” Well, there’s actually an answer: I could have dropped out, and
after all nobody would fault me <i>too </i>much
for that, because as I said it was like 100 degrees out. And before too long, a
rider did drop out, and then another, and as the race went on the pack continued
to thin out. Every rider that bailed—especially when it was a Slurpee or a national
team member—kind of gave others tacit permission to do the same. I myself never
considered doing so: I was resigned to suffering because I always suffered, and
rote suffering seemed like the entire point of the sport. So I just hung in,
and with two or three laps to go the damnedest thing happened: I realized I no
longer felt that bad, and I was finally able to move up through the pack. There
were fewer riders in it, after all, and most of them were pretty gassed. With a
lap to go I’d made it into the top ten, and though we weren’t able to reel in a
breakaway of one or two riders, I did a good sprint at the end and took fourth
in the race—a really solid finish for me, especially with the junior national
team there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So what’s the takeaway? It’s this: for me, the race went
well because I was resigned to suffering but not to defeat<i>.</i> I could have told myself I couldn’t get a top ten and been
resigned to that, which would have been a mistake … I never would have made my
move at the end. Or, I could have decided I had no chance and dropped out like
so many other guys. But I didn’t assume, despite my misgivings, that I was
simply doomed. Instead, I was resigned to wretchedly enduring the speed and the
heat, and continued as though I had no choice. The reasons I ended up placing
high were nothing I’d predicted : 1) it turns out I handle the heat better than
a lot of guys (which I’d never realized until that day), and 2) the junior
national team had come from all over the country and probably most or all of
them weren’t acclimated to the thin air at Denver’s elevation, 5,400 feet, and
thus were at a disadvantage (which I didn’t put together until today, thinking
back on this almost forty years later). My resignation to just suffer, in this
case, was essentially the opposite of fatalism. My willingness to just see what
might happen, versus telling myself a clever story about how it would probably
turn out, was the right approach. When we’re looking for a reason to persevere
in the face of certain failure, we need to remember that failure is never
certain.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Resignation as a habit</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What I described above is an instance, essentially, of
tenacity: I kept going instead of just quitting. There’s obviously an athletic
component to this, which is why some people are able to continue a rigorous
physical activity when others cannot, but remember: I was not one of the most
talented riders in that race. Tenacity often comes down to mindset, and mindset
in turn comes down to grit: the kind of grit that can be earned, the hard way,
even in the absence of great talent. I did a good many pointlessly hard rides
in my teens; for example, a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/04/teens-gone-wild.html" target="_blank">130-mile excursion over Trail Ridge Road</a>, the highest continuous highway in the U.S. at over 12,0000 feet elevation. (It
was an out-and-back ride and would have been easy to bail on, but I didn’t.) Every
time we embrace resignation and continue striving under brutal duress, we toughen
ourselves, in mind and body, and thereby increase our confidence that we can
endure next time as well. This gives us the ability to be resigned in advance next
time we’re considering a bold undertaking.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is an important point: there are two forms of being
resigned to a process. There’s the type in the moment, which I’ve described
before (<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/09/everest-challenge-pep-talk.html" target="_blank">here</a>!), which I call “climbing stupid.” Instead of asking yourself, on a
brutal cycling climb, “can I make it?” you pretend that you literally have no
choice, and approach the task one pedal stroke at a time, like a robot. Acknowledging
that you could quit is the first step in doing so, and you must not take it.
The other type of resignation is when you know something is going to be
absolutely brutal, and that you could opt out of committing to it, but instead
you recall all the times you persevered, and the grit you know you have, and thus
you can resolve to commit, in advance, to something that you know will be
really difficult and that will draw on all your powers of in-the-moment
resignation.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here’s an example. As documented extensively in these pages,
I did a weeklong cycling tour in the French Alps last summer, which brought me
right to the very edge of my capability as a cyclist. <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-day-v.html" target="_blank">The penultimate day </a>completely kicked my ass: not only the fearsome Col du Galibier, which was
the devil I knew (having <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/08/from-archives-riding-la-marmotte-part-ii.html" target="_blank">spectacularly detonated on it twenty years before</a>) but also the Col du Granon, the devil I met that day and hope never to
encounter again. I finished all four climbs that day through the first type of
resignation: climbing stupid. I was just completely knackered after that, but
had <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-vi.html" target="_blank">one more day</a> to go, with three more brutal climbs. During dinner, the tour director came
around to see who still wanted to do the full route (the so-called “Epic A”) the
next day, vs. dropping down to a more merciful route (the Epic B). Among the
tour groups, the week had started with fifteen Epic A riders but had dwindled
down to five, and of those five I was probably the most shattered. The director
seemed to be addressing me personally when he cautioned our group that the
forecast was for drizzle, if not outright rain, the full day. I <i>hate </i>the cold and the wet; as described
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/02/bicycling-in-rain-or-how-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">here</a> I normally eschew wet weather riding altogether. I was sorely tempted to drop
down to the B group—after all, hadn’t I suffered enough?—but when my friends
promised to hang back with me on the first two climbs, I reconsidered. Calling
on my long history of somehow enduring such things, and boosted by my friends’
vote of confidence in me, I resigned myself—in advance—to doing the full route.
In the event, the weather improved dramatically during that final day, and the
second giant climb, the Col de Sarenne, ended up being the most beautiful of the entire week.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOpApO2NRRFWPjLj2ezNaDageSVumI6Q4evDduUesz2F5eFoyF1Gx62TUVp4MgEP8hvMvxVNcoJ4pgPf0KG4g5Kibxnryuj6QL6kxjD5ylYeGhmEK6x8nFcD8KXmmKQGoikCEq-1PZv4YXCRGDJuGMxFmenS-H8LDnymAwnbfLQJBYJVqfX_FKDkIMIWc/s907/IanDanaLautaret.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="862" data-original-width="907" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOpApO2NRRFWPjLj2ezNaDageSVumI6Q4evDduUesz2F5eFoyF1Gx62TUVp4MgEP8hvMvxVNcoJ4pgPf0KG4g5Kibxnryuj6QL6kxjD5ylYeGhmEK6x8nFcD8KXmmKQGoikCEq-1PZv4YXCRGDJuGMxFmenS-H8LDnymAwnbfLQJBYJVqfX_FKDkIMIWc/s320/IanDanaLautaret.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYwPWOhaiweErfzqa0-4gtQJy8-rbCN0xnvBNiFMX7yQ1VfS41PDUSpSA8Ggg2Xvxh5CYgB6eOCUxL2fnfI-MK_lqMoMNN7kXQ2Vpa1NVmoxyXE5IH8aL-_893BhcBn6CuxCqXG6bpPlJtsfrhpEYGpx9H2TdInusb9Tn4BxM5vPMnkAwNH6UAhyphenhyphenH6jHw/s1613/IanCraigSarenne.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYwPWOhaiweErfzqa0-4gtQJy8-rbCN0xnvBNiFMX7yQ1VfS41PDUSpSA8Ggg2Xvxh5CYgB6eOCUxL2fnfI-MK_lqMoMNN7kXQ2Vpa1NVmoxyXE5IH8aL-_893BhcBn6CuxCqXG6bpPlJtsfrhpEYGpx9H2TdInusb9Tn4BxM5vPMnkAwNH6UAhyphenhyphenH6jHw/w400-h225/IanCraigSarenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">(Did I pay dearly for my boldness? Of course I did. As
described <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-vi.html" target="_blank">here</a>, the final climb of that final day, the legendary Alpe d’Huez, caused me to
draw deeply on my entire lifetime reservoir of resignation to finally make the
summit, after which I was just wrecked. It was an absolutely brutal day on the
bike, which is of course the whole point and what cements the memory as one of
my fondest. I mean, duh.)</p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Obstacles to
resignation</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If resignation came easily to us, of course I wouldn’t be recommending
it as a New Year’s Resolution … I wouldn’t need to. But it doesn’t come easily.
Why not? For one thing, because it’s humbling. Sure, describing some heroic
struggle in the Alps doesn’t paint it in such a poor light, but so often
resignation is more along the lines of being on hold for 45 minutes with an
airline because your flight got canceled. It’s so tempting to declare, “I don’t
have time for this shit!” and pretend you can seek some other course of action,
usually involving anger and aggression.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m not trying to imply that resignation is just another
word for patience, because they’re not exactly the same. An impatient person can
be appropriately resigned if it’s the only way forward. Moreover, there’s a
specific impediment to resignation we don’t see with patience: the perception
that some <i>principle</i> is being
violated, that one shouldn’t <i>have </i>to
be resigned to a difficult or tedious process. “Why should I<i> </i>have to be on hold with the airline? <i>I </i>didn’t cancel my flight!” Or, “Why
should I have to do tedious, painful <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/03/physical-therapy.html" target="_blank">physical therapy</a> twice a day? <i>I </i>didn’t <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/11/bike-vs-car-how-i-broke-my-femur.html" target="_blank">cut off a cyclist with my car</a>!” Of course, these strong feelings of principle are pointless. Do you want to avoid
changing planes in Houston at 3 a.m.? Do you want to walk normally again? Well
then … resign yourself.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My favorite example of resignation being challenged in this
way involves parenthood. When my older
daughter was just a toddler, I often had to be on watch duty, which (after an
initial period of fascination, wonder, and pride at her dinking with her toys)
became incredibly dull and repetitive. My wife and I were determined not to
make TV or other electronic entertainment into a babysitter, which made the job
even harder. I would sit down with a novel and try to read while keeping an eye
on my kid, but every ten seconds she would wander out of sight, or figure out
some way to introduce danger into her supposedly childproof environment, or get
bored and start crying, or fill her diaper, and I’d have to put my book down, get
up, and intervene. Given how sleep-deprived I was, this became annoying as
hell. It was often tempting to try to solve the problem by swift, decisive
action, such as picking up my daughter and giving her a good shake. (Just kidding,
making sure you’re still awake.) I found this work detail incredibly
frustrating until I figured out the root problem: I simply wasn’t resigned to
the reality of it. I was supposing I could multi-task and get some reading
done, but this was pure fiction. Once I became committed to doing just this one
thing—watching my kid—it got a lot easier. By focusing on her, I could renew
the anthropological study of what she was doing, and/or lie on my back on the
floor and let her crawl over me, or otherwise engage with her, and I generally
enjoyed it. This is because I was resigned to the process. Again, it wouldn’t
be correct to say I was resigned to my <i>fate</i>,
because I wasn’t in fact <i>fated</i> to be
bored. That had seemed like the likely outcome, but in the event my baby turned
out to be far cuter and more fun than any other baby who ever lived (as far as
you know) so the single-threaded supervision wasn’t as bad as I’d assumed it
would be. Just like the weather on the Col de Sarenne, or my competition in the
Sunburst Criterium.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_Hj4SNDm22OdG5BO6rNkwqNGt5Je91YN-RP39JBLkMRUoBp_ymqoDZ50kP3cP9hTmW5-G_LwjLTz5GDjD7K95pDn6VLPHXoc_8ONixzJScNiVJzItY_ihdGjrMkJ8ZdJ_BBXn3Q24AJp22UgsLPSpykHYr6Gt5DRBKpcrau7tS7ZmRDk2sNNm0HhIq5T/s789/AAstalkingCat.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="789" data-original-width="534" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_Hj4SNDm22OdG5BO6rNkwqNGt5Je91YN-RP39JBLkMRUoBp_ymqoDZ50kP3cP9hTmW5-G_LwjLTz5GDjD7K95pDn6VLPHXoc_8ONixzJScNiVJzItY_ihdGjrMkJ8ZdJ_BBXn3Q24AJp22UgsLPSpykHYr6Gt5DRBKpcrau7tS7ZmRDk2sNNm0HhIq5T/w271-h400/AAstalkingCat.JPG" width="271" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Extending resignation</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mastery of the art of resignation lends itself to more than
just enduring a tough or tedious situation. It can help you be more
philosophical when life doesn’t go the way you want it to. For example, my
younger daughter was home from college for the winter break, and my wife and I faced
an all too familiar feeling of rejection when she didn’t spend much time with
us. She wanted to be off with her friends, or shutting herself away in her
room. But when we bothered to think about it, the idea that she’d want to hang out
a lot with a couple of 50-somethings was totally unrealistic. We asked
ourselves, what were <i>we </i>like at age
twenty? Were we any different? Of course not. Once we resigned ourselves to not
seeing that much of our daughter, we no longer felt disappointed or offended,
and when she did cook a meal with us, or read aloud to us, or go with us on a
hike, that seemed more like a gift than some contract being met.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So it is with ageing. Does my wife tolerate my receding
hairline and all the groaning I do when I embark on some really difficult
physical task like getting up from the sofa? She does. If I point-blank ask her
if it’s okay that <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/11/ask-middle-aged-guy.html" target="_blank">most of my hair is now in my nostrils and ears</a>, she laughs with me instead of at me (I think). She has wisely accepted, as
have I, that despite what the Anti-Ageing Industrial Complex keeps telling us,
getting old and wrinkled and stiff is inevitable, and watching each other’s inexorable
decline is, in fact, what we signed up for when we married. So as we age, I’d
say we need the capacity for resignation more than ever. If you agree, why not
make it your New Year’s Resolution to tune your resignation engine? Starting
now? Don’t worry, you have what it takes … if you’ve made it to the end of this
post, I can vouch for your grit and tenacity. ;-)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Further reading</i></p>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2011/01/new-years-resolutions.html" target="_blank">New Year’s Resolutions</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/01/one-size-fits-all-new-years-resolution.html" target="_blank">One-Size-Fits-All New Year’s Resolution</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/01/new-years-resolutions-dental-hygiene.html" target="_blank">New Year’s Resolutions - Dental Hygiene Edition</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/01/new-years-resolutions-lets-get-it-right.html" target="_blank">New Year’s Resolutions - Let’s Get It Right This Time</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/01/a-wide-net-approach-to-new-years.html" target="_blank">A Wide Net Approach to New Year’s Resolutions</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/01/the-dumb-approach-to-new-years.html" target="_blank">The DUMB Approach to New Year’s Resolutions</a></li>
</ul><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-51626953712887123392024-01-08T22:14:00.000-08:002024-01-09T21:28:28.341-08:00From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XI<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the eleventh installment in the “From the Archives –
Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/12/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-i.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume II is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/01/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-ii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume III is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/02/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-iii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume IV is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/04/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-iv.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume V is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/11/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-v.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume VI is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/02/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-vi.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume VII is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/06/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-vii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume XIII is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/07/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-viii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Volume IX is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-ix.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and Volume X is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/11/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-x.html " target="_blank">here</a>. (The different volumes have little or nothing to do with one another.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Before the blogosphere, I didn’t have any audience for my
random ramblings except friends and family whom I emailed. Now, I can be
largely ignored by five billion people at once instead of just one at a time! O
brave new world!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The dispatches below are from ancient emails to my brother
G—, when I was newly married and living in San Francisco.
He was (and is) living in the Netherlands. Here is a photo of the two of us from around the time I wrote these.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTqlSlvm5iedcNRMPtU7NRi7NKHCCvXH57H3EYNYUQduRTaQXg_rdvStJmCwZJYAd5B_Y71j8xvGXG2FtRT172petLoCeDv2wSHkuXN6x2KXG3nJMix13QAFWHa81qbi7KdOf_7m6wzXIH3fznCicGZfNxZqMtXMeoax2l6zP-qpXxLonQ06m7prWaVMP/s1306/DanaGeoffCirca1997.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1306" data-original-width="1145" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTqlSlvm5iedcNRMPtU7NRi7NKHCCvXH57H3EYNYUQduRTaQXg_rdvStJmCwZJYAd5B_Y71j8xvGXG2FtRT172petLoCeDv2wSHkuXN6x2KXG3nJMix13QAFWHa81qbi7KdOf_7m6wzXIH3fznCicGZfNxZqMtXMeoax2l6zP-qpXxLonQ06m7prWaVMP/s320/DanaGeoffCirca1997.jpg" width="281" /></a></i></div><i><br />March 4, 1995</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I heard from B— about your computer woes. I’m kind of afraid
to buy a computer, because the technology gets outdated so quickly. But then
again, I only need a simple machine for my needs, except my hard drive is almost
full and certain things run slowly. And I really think I’d rather use a
different typing tutorial program for learning <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/06/case-for-dvorak.html" target="_blank">Dvorak</a>; I mean, the Typing Lobster is cool and all, but the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/01/from-archives-typing-tutor-corporate.html" target="_blank">more sophisticated typing software</a> could probably better teach the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/06/case-for-dvorak.html" target="_blank">Dvorak layout</a>. My computer is a 386 running at a scant 16 MHz, with only a single meg of
RAM. But it <i>is</i> a 386, darn it, and I could
always add RAM. For that matter, I could replace the hard drive. It’s the
motherboard that’s a mother to replace. Hence the name, perhaps. Motherboard.
What a cool word. I’ll bet every computer nerd gets a little rush when he has
the opportunity to use “motherboard” in a sentence. He pauses momentarily for
buildup, looks his pal in the eye, and says, “Goddammit, Ralph, we need to slap
in a whole new motherboard. Shit.” Then he breaks into a grin, because I’m sure
that for a computer geek, replacing the motherboard is like overhauling a nice
road bike is for us.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Work is busy, but not too bad and something really cool just
happened: our office manager quit, and I got her office! It’s a great office. Fantastic
view from 22 floors up. Plus, I have a door I can close when I hold important
meetings (which are rare, I admit). More importantly, once I’ve been given an
office, I’ll never have to go back to that stupid half-high cubicle, and my
colleagues are bound to have more professional respect for a Man with an Office
than for a Guy with a Space. Our controller lauded my move, saying, “Big day
for the big D … goin’ from the doghouse to the penthouse!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>April 12, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Had a real scare tonight. We went out to Chinese with E— and
her niece, S— who is a freshman in high school and spending spring break with
us. We found a really good place, the <a href="https://www.rnglounge.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">R&G lounge</a> (recommended highly by a Chinese woman
we met in a dime store). The place had good food, and a funny fortune (“Be
tactful; overlook not your own opportunity,” like who else’s are we gonna
overlook?), and pretty good service. The waitress was dumbfounded, though, when
S— asked for sugar for her tea. S— has a real sweet tooth: I found an empty
frosting tub in our recycling, for example … but I digress. Anyhow, I did a terribly
irresponsible thing: you know that beautiful multicolor umbrella that you gave
us for Christmas? Well, I accidently left it behind after our meal! I didn’t
realize my error until we were already all the way over in North Beach, and it
was 10 PM. Needless to say I sprinted back to the R&G Lounge, running for
all I was worth, but got there after the place had closed. I hammered on the
door; no luck. I ran around back and hammered on the back door; still no
response. But I couldn’t face the loss, so I just kept pounding. It was a glass
door, so I couldn’t use my foot; just kept rapping with my knuckles, which got
sorer all the time. Finally somebody appeared, and let me in. He seemed a bit
disappointed that I’d returned for the umbrella, which he did go find for me.
He declared, “I thought that umbrella would be <i>my</i> souvenir!” I’m so glad I got it back. I can go on living.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>April 26, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I got your e-mail bemoaning the staggering $100 price tag
for Levi’s blue jeans over there in Holland, and am excited to help you out. Since
you haven’t indicated whether you needed Levi’s blue jeans in particular, I
went to the Gap over the weekend to see if they had any sales. No luck on
discounted jeans, but I ended up blowing $85 on a few groovy linen shirts. So
it wasn’t all for naught.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, yesterday on my lunch break I went to Banana Republican
and looked around. At first it didn’t look promising, but then I found a
section with some discounted jeans. The only problem was, the sizing seemed
strange. They had sizes like 34R and 34L; I figured out it meant regular and
long, but how regular? how long? I asked the clerk and she said regular was 32”
inseam, long was 34”. The weird sizing was in fact why they were on sale:
because the sizes didn’t make sense, and nobody understood them, and BR has now
gone to a two-number system like everybody else, and have to blow out all the
jeans under the old sizing system. So I found some that had little stickers
over the “34L” that said “34/34.” I guess that was an unsuccessful solution to
the problem.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t find any in 36” length but tried on some 34s, and
they fit well. I didn’t have E— there to verify that the jeans have that
uncanny ability to turn even the most homely guy into a sex symbol, but the
length, anyway, was fine. I asked a clerk and she said they always did run
long. (Didn’t ask her about the sex symbol thing.) Anyway, I bought three
pairs—two for you and one for me. I was tempted to buy more. These aren’t
Levi’s, mind you, but they’re called the Ranch Hand cut, which is a relaxed
jean.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I should pause here to explain some of the clothing
nomenclature to you. If something is cheap and quotidian, it typically has a
plural name, e.g. pants, jeans, sunglasses. However, if it is very expensive
and chic, it gets a singular name, e.g. “a nice pant,” “a relaxed jean,” “a
sophisticated sunglass.” I’ve actually heard sales clerks say that. “These are
cheap jeans.” “That’s a nice pant.” Very sophisticated language.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So anyway, these are a relaxed jean. (Staggering grammatical
implications here.) Button fly. Made in USA. 100% Cotton Denim. Inspected by
#27. Preshrunk. Stonewashed. (<i>Not</i> acid-washed
… remember that heinous 80’s teen indoor mall look?) I am told these jean will
not shrink more than 1/4” unless you routinely dry them on high heat, in which
case they will shrink up to 1/2” over the months. The price? Well . . . $58.00.
Ouch. But cheaper than Levi’s in Holland, right? Oh, wait . . . that’s not the
sale price. The sale price was a mere $39. Sure, you can get jeans for less—but
not a jean! Significant savings. But you know, that apparently wasn’t enough to
move these cursed improperly sized jean, for a second sale tag, overlapping the
original just slightly, listed the price at an even lower $29.99! Okay, now
we’re talking! That’s almost half price! So I’m certain you’ll agree that such
a fine jean are well worth $30.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But you know, even with the “34/34” sticker firmly placed
over the godforsaken “34L,” the second sale price <i>still</i> wasn’t enough to get these things off the floor and into the
wardrobes of San Francisco. Nothing less than a <i>third</i> tag brought the price down <i>even further</i>, all the way down to $19.99! Now, you can’t even get
Sears Toughskins for that. For that price, maybe you could do a cheesy pair
of off-brand seconds at Ross Dress for Less, stamped “IMPERFECT,” with the
crotch sewn in backwards or something like that. But no, we’re talking the
Ranch Hand Relaxed Jean. Amazing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So I’ll send them out. If anybody out there in Holland
questions the rich American heritage of Banana Republican, or in any way
insinuates that Levi’s are cooler, just say something like, “Well, yeah, sure,
Levi’s are great jeans . . . but these are a pant.” (Is your Dutch good enough
to communicate such subtleties?)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>May 10, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, it’s 10:00pm and I still have to ride. The weather’s
been crappy so I’ve been riding my Blackburn <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/03/advice-to-friend-on-choosing-trainer.html" target="_blank">Mag Turbo trainer</a>. I got a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/04/10-fascinating-facts-about-inner-tubes.html" target="_blank">flat tire</a> on it last night. Go figure. Then, when I was hunting for a spare tube in my
toolbox, I suffered a freak accident. Remember the trophy from <a href="https://albertnet.us/2009/11/from-archives-burrito-worlds.html" target="_blank">my Burrito Eating World Championship</a>? It had this giant wooden base with an engraved brass plaque, with my name and
everything, and then a giant spring-type shock absorber with the shimmering
silver burrito atop it. Well, I don’t know if you ever learned what sad fate
befell that trophy, so I’ll tell you. Months after the big burrito race,
throughout which time the trophy had enjoyed prominent placement on our apartment’s
coffee table, I had a fit of pique (unrelated to the trophy, probably over some
girl or something) and suddenly grabbed the trophy, jumped up from the sofa, ran out the front door
to the railing overlooking our parking lot, and threw the trophy over the edge.
The shock absorber exploded on impact, if memory serves (though this is exactly
the kind of detail I’d embellish, I confess). My roommate C— cheered wildly
because he’d gotten sick of looking at the trophy. Well, I regretted my
recklessness immediately, but of course there was nothing to be done for the
trophy. I did pry off the engraved plaque, though, and kept it as, well, a
trophy I guess you could say. Anyway, last night (as I was starting to tell you
before that grand diversion) I was rifling through my toolbox, on a shelf in a
closet, and dislodged the trophy plaque, which fell from a height of four feet
or so. It hit my bare leg just above the ankle, causing a huge gash which bled
profusely. So what do you think … was this karmic retribution?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>December 23, 1996</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mom’s down here for Christmas, which is nice. It’s been
raining like crazy here, but today it went from cloudy to a clear blue sky in a
span of like five minutes. So E—, Mom & I decided to go for a walk, and
popped into various shops to poke around. We found this neat bowl at a place
just down the street from our apartment, at a little shop called Jade Snow
Wong. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jade_Snow_Wong" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Jade Snow Wong</a> is the name of the owner; she’s also a creator of ceramics and a writer of
nonfiction, and Mom read one of her books when she was in high school! Anyway,
this bowl is just the perfect shape. It’s weird, but holding it, cupping it in
your palms, brings about a really soothing feeling. So we bought it; it was
like $6. We walked all around Chinatown and bought some really weird stuff.
Like this really fancy soap, in a colored paper wrapper with a gold seal and
everything, the kind of soap that would cost like $5 a bar in our neighborhood; four for a dollar there. We also bought this really strange Ginseng chewing gum.
It smells, and tastes, like over-sweetened dirt. I’d thought it might give me a
buzz, but no dice. Remember that bean drink we bought once in Chinatown, that
was so sickeningly cloyingly sweet, and how the cashier laughed and laughed
when we drank it because we couldn’t keep from making faces?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, we eventually ended up at <a href="https://www.houseofnankingsf.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">House of Nanking</a>, and had a typically great meal. The owner, Peter Fang, was there, as usual,
working in every capacity you can imagine from host to waiter to cook. You
remember meeting him, right? He’s always got this boyish smile on his face, and
doesn’t seem in the least bit intimidated by the culture gap, if there still is
one, between himself and his customers. He stopped at the bar where we were
eating and asked if the scallops were delicious. (Of course they were.) Then he
asked, with a slight smirk, if we were going to Macy’s afterwards, and we said
no. He said, feigning surprise, “You’ve already bought everything?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “We did buy some
things,” I laughed. He looked totally interested as I dragged out the bag with
the soap in it, and he watched eagerly as I unwrapped it, then laughed his ass
off when he saw what we bought. “Let me guess, four for a dollar?” he asked. I
said yes. Then I handed him the bowl, but he neglected to cup it properly and
thus fully appreciate it. “Uh, four-fifty,” he guessed. “No, six,” I said. He
giggled and either said, “You got taken” (which I actually kind of doubt) or simply had
the expression that said we got taken. “But we didn’t buy this in Chinatown, we
bought it in Russian Hill,” E— explained. “Oh, oh,” he nodded, understanding
completely.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We also had their chow mein, which has even ropier noodles
than the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/06/ask-dr-pasta.html" target="_blank">Gondolier in Boulder</a>, but is great (and <i>cheap</i>, $3.30!).
Perhaps the most exciting thing we ate was this Eggplant Szechwan Style, which
had the normal green pea pods but also this brilliant, I mean absolutely
electric, purple eggplant, of course in a spicy sauce with lots of garlic. It
was the loudest looking Chinese dish I’ve ever ordered, and delicious. I asked
if it was made from a special eggplant. It was a “young Chinese” eggplant, Mr.
Fang said. When they get older they lose some of their quality, he explained,
and become less tender. It dawned on me that you can eat the young eggplant
without any of the guilt you may feel when eating veal.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-46620076228547430522023-12-31T23:04:00.000-08:002024-01-01T20:16:40.443-08:00Overlooked Posts of 2023<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This evening I’ve been casting about for a post that would
tie together the events of 2023 and kind of put this long and tiresome year to
bed. In the process I discovered <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/29/briefing/overlooked-stories-from-2023.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this fun article</a> in the <i>New York Times </i>listing stories from this past year that their editors felt didn’t reach as many readers as they should have. That
inspired me, and in this post I’ll go one better: I’ll not only list my
least-viewed posts from 2023 but explain <i>why </i>you
shouldn’t have missed them. (And if you did read these, this is your chance to
feel all smug and validated.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgno-HbFl2a6uWgBIDX3a5JOIVcgWfzyZHS86ytv2skvo5tADEWwfV2BoTbjM1h_76MadDr-Wx7964dak8GpUU6QBPDWx2DX-S_I2chbqs0zfxDd8Y8WBICQOzUENk4rA_Glzsz7W71QlQYwV1S1XnJANwzJPc_8wpD_A1m8p-9Cdi4Ooc7jfn41_osEKAd/s837/KeepCalmForget2023.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="837" data-original-width="595" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgno-HbFl2a6uWgBIDX3a5JOIVcgWfzyZHS86ytv2skvo5tADEWwfV2BoTbjM1h_76MadDr-Wx7964dak8GpUU6QBPDWx2DX-S_I2chbqs0zfxDd8Y8WBICQOzUENk4rA_Glzsz7W71QlQYwV1S1XnJANwzJPc_8wpD_A1m8p-9Cdi4Ooc7jfn41_osEKAd/w284-h400/KeepCalmForget2023.JPG" width="284" /></a></i></div><i><br />January</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/01/ask-fitness-dweeb.html" target="_blank">Ask a Fitness Dweeb</a>”
has so far received the fewest pageviews for January 2023. In fact, by my
rough math, if I had ads turned on for this blog, this post wouldn’t have even
earned me enough for a cup of coffee. And yet, doesn’t a fitness-themed post
seem perfectly timely as readers ponder their <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/01/the-dumb-approach-to-new-years.html" target="_blank">New Year’s Resolutions</a>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe it’s the “Dweeb” part. That was my daughter’s idea.
Don’t worry, my persona in this post is no dweebier than ever. This (albeit
contrived) advice column is particularly worthy if you check out the bit about
gamification, and my description of the international training contest I run
every year that is super easy, fun, and effective. (The Q4 contest just wrapped
up today with, amazingly, a tie for first place!)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitojlxHjDYsW7DUYo9kXPb7XTGl764dqC6aANiag-ncCu_jZTWQBsNrW3sp_1QEpf_9WGoBMP-ZVTSzi9x_3Z4PTl3bVT2rtuk-QUrk6jEA_LOZDmDkBYu3ZrkuJCGYwrZviGyyFbdWC-EhtNpnYaONumfysII_deCudirB2_UKflqTxIQg8m8cfp4WS8O/s1307/TrainingSpreadsheetSnapshot.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="796" data-original-width="1307" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitojlxHjDYsW7DUYo9kXPb7XTGl764dqC6aANiag-ncCu_jZTWQBsNrW3sp_1QEpf_9WGoBMP-ZVTSzi9x_3Z4PTl3bVT2rtuk-QUrk6jEA_LOZDmDkBYu3ZrkuJCGYwrZviGyyFbdWC-EhtNpnYaONumfysII_deCudirB2_UKflqTxIQg8m8cfp4WS8O/w400-h244/TrainingSpreadsheetSnapshot.JPG" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />February</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For this month, the most neglected post was “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/02/what-we-should-and-will-be-embarrassed.html " target="_blank">What We Should (and Will) Be Embarrassed By</a>.” Ask yourself: has it ever seemed like people are more shameless than ever? Well,
this post can be a useful guide for avoiding that. If you’re tired of the
phrase “lean in,” and/or the promotion of cannabis as a “wellness” aid rather
than what it is (i.e., a hedonistic drug that dudes like Jeff Spicoli use
because they’re young and irresponsible and like to party), and/or you think
Vitamin Water should be called “Stupid Water,” this post is for you.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>March</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was pleased to see, in February, how well my (harsh) critiques
of ChatGPT did. My two-part series, “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/02/ai-smackdown-english-major-vs-chatgpt.html" target="_blank">A.I. Smackdown – English Major vs. ChatGPT</a>,” garnered gobs of pageviews. I was a bit bothered, though, by a sense that
the posts were slightly passive-aggressive, given that I was showcasing A.I.’s
failings without exploring the potential upside. This led to curiosity about
how ChatGPT would do if I tried to formally teach it, which I tried doing. This
was, for me, a fairly fascinating exercise, though also tedious as ChatGPT
apologized constantly for its repeated errors. What I discovered is that (as it
eventually admitted) it cannot learn in any formal way, by taking instruction
from a knowledgeable person. It can only train itself by ingesting vast troves
of data from across the Internet.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure why this post didn’t do as well as the other ones
on this topic. Perhaps three posts in fairly rapid succession was just too much.
Suffice to say, if you enjoyed the first two, you should definitely check this
one out.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>April</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The loss-leader for this month was “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/04/errata.html" target="_blank">Errata</a>.” My jumping-off point was the policy of the <i>Times </i>copping to its various errors over time. Perhaps readers
skipped this post because they don’t overmuch care to see my errors corrected, being
more laid-back than that. But that would be missing the point: this is just a
humor piece. Here’s an excerpt:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote>In “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/03/everything-you-wanted-to-know-about.html" target="_blank">Everything You Wanted to Know About Getting a Vasectomy - But Were Afraid To Ask</a>,” I wrote, “The nurse arranged towels around my groin until the entire area was
reduced to the pink-red scrotum shrouded in white, like a sunburned toad poking
out of a field of freshly fallen snow.” Upon reflection I realize that my
freshly-shaved scrotum more closely resembled a frog than a toad.</blockquote><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Who doesn’t need a good laugh or two? Check it out!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>May</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Speaking of a good laugh, the post “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/05/more-tom-swifties.html" target="_blank">More Tom Swifties</a>” was my most unpopular for May (even though my <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/04/tom-swifties.html " target="_blank">original “Tom Swifties</a>” post
has done quite well). This post offers dozens of easy one-liners that ought
to be a pleasant diversion for anyone. For example:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><blockquote>“Man, you really stink!” Tom fumed.<br />“I’ll just give my boss the finger,” Tom said flippantly.<br />“How do you feel about gay couples?” Tom queried.</blockquote><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In case you’re looking for something a little more
sophisticated, this post also puts ChatGPT through its paces creating A.I. Tom
Swifties. Spoiler: ChatGPT crashes and burns horribly; for example, “‘I’m
terrible at baseball,’” Tom said bat-terly.” Huh?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>June</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why did “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/06/impromptu-commencement-address.html" target="_blank">Impromptu Commencement Address</a>” do so poorly? Beats me. The premise—what speech would you give a college
graduating class if given only twenty minutes to prepare?—seemed like a good
one, and I’m frankly pleased with the result. I make fun of myself, of college
grads, and of all the hand-wringing and anxiety saturating our culture these
days. If nothing else this speech has some good stage directions (e.g., “[Wait
for applause or maybe mostly silence, or the generalized murmur of people who
have tuned out completely and are chattering away amongst themselves, and/or
one or more people yelling things like ‘Get off the stage!’].” I also explore
one of the pressing questions of our day: is it true the future is female?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>July</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Historically, my bike ride reports do quite well; for
example, “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/09/ride-report-mount-baker-wa-with-brother.html">Mount Baker (WA) with Brother & Nephew</a>” has garnered over 2,000 pageviews. So why did “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/06/ride-report-gravel-riding-in-rockies.html" target="_blank">Gravel Riding in the Rockies</a>”
fizzle? It had the usual attractions: food descriptions, breathtaking
landscape photos, and schadenfreude (e.g., “My rented helmet was designed,
apparently, for Ernie, from ‘Sesame Street,’ but my head is evidently shaped
more like Bert’s, so the helmet slid forward during the bumpy descents, mashing
my sunglasses into the bridge of my nose, unless I tightened the bonnet hard
enough to threaten a gradual concussion and/or some sanded-off forehead
flesh”). So, if you’ve enjoyed my other ride reports, get over to this one and see
what you think.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>August</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, this next one isn’t just my biggest disappointment of
the month, popularity-wise, but of the entire year: “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/08/if-william-wordsworth-were-writing-today.html" target="_blank">If William Wordsworth Were Writing Today</a>.” I get that Wordsworth is a moldy old British poet, and has likely been
labeled “problematic” by modern scholars because he was white, male, etc. But
trust me, this post is anything but stuffy. It presents a hypothetical instant-messaging
dialogue that might take place if the great poet submitted a new work for
review to a modern, sales-obsessed editor. It’s breezy, fun, and one of my
shortest posts ever. Check it out!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>September</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I wasn’t able to cover the Vuelta a España on albertnet, but
I wrote a special post, “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/2023-vuelta-jumbo-visma-kuss-conundrum.html" target="_blank">Jumbo-Visma & the Kuss Conundrum</a>,” about perhaps the most exciting thing in the race: an
American, Sepp Kuss, had a couple of amazing days in the mountains and moved
into first place overall, only to have his biggest challenge come from two of
his own teammates. This was a major soap opera for anyone following the sport,
and though I was perhaps a day or so late covering it, I was surprised how
little traction this post got. To this day, YouTube is constantly offering me
up more videos on the whole affair, even though I didn’t even use YouTube for
my research.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This post advances ten theories on why a professional team
would hamper their own star rider when he’s winning for them. My theories range
from the quite plausible to the mildly facetious to the outright bogus, all in
keeping with my primary goal, which is to entertain. Rereading it now, I think
it’s held up well, long after the race itself has been decided.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>October</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I guess it’s not really fair to pick on one post in
particular for October, since all four of them were on the same topic, that
being my weeklong cycling trip in the French Alps. But the last installment,
“<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-vi.html" target="_blank">Epic Trans Alps Cycling Trip – Part VI</a>” has the fewest pageviews and doesn’t seem to be catching up. I guess six
posts on the same topic might have pushed my readers’ patience. But if you
missed this before, it’s a good one: lots of photos, with the best scenery of my
entire trip, and perhaps the most potent Schadenfreude as I completely melted
down on the legendary Alpe-d’Huez climb. Give it a whirl!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq35_JL4i_ae2zhkRwtfGXHFXkLmYsP2tCsnlIpw6j5vtaPhS1HOv13RkaOda4ARNmviIw5MuTTNKnrpUNsy7FpUjpX32uUlzK5USoCcp1l7eanH7JLM8YA9a-ZAaydTsAylqZpN-i4lU74VMQR347_4ghOo8Kq21peGw7znVNFi-XcNeYeDx1pbfxPoxi/s1613/IanCraigSarenne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq35_JL4i_ae2zhkRwtfGXHFXkLmYsP2tCsnlIpw6j5vtaPhS1HOv13RkaOda4ARNmviIw5MuTTNKnrpUNsy7FpUjpX32uUlzK5USoCcp1l7eanH7JLM8YA9a-ZAaydTsAylqZpN-i4lU74VMQR347_4ghOo8Kq21peGw7znVNFi-XcNeYeDx1pbfxPoxi/w400-h225/IanCraigSarenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><i>November</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am frankly offended by the notion that human beings don’t
have free will. You can well imagine, therefore, that I’d be super annoyed when
a vainglorious douchebag from Stanford, with a big dumb Karl Marx beard and
long hair in ringlets, throws together a crappy book that pretends to prove,
via neuroscience, that we don’t have free will. To make matters worse, the book
is selling well, and a surprising number of intellectual types are apparently
stroking their goatees and saying, “Yes, yes, this is all very compelling.” I
bent over backwards with my critique, “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/11/douchebag-critique-of-book-about-life.html" target="_blank">Undeterred - A Critique of a Book About Life Without Free Will</a>,” and even got my daughter to do a wonderful drawing of the douchebag in question,
the bloviating, preening Robert Sapolksy. Naturally I’m disappointed more
people didn’t read this post. Even if you never considered reading Sapolsky’s
book, you should read this as a cautionary tale about academic types getting
drunk on their own bathwater.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>December</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, I’ll grant that it’s a little early to tell which post
from this month is underperforming. It’s not like my posts open like Hollywood
blockbusters. But I suppose I can feel a bit disappointed that “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/12/cycling-smackdown-small-cog-tale.html" target="_blank">Cycling Smackdown – Small Cog Tale</a>” hasn’t already gone viral and made me an overnight Internet celebrity, or at
least racked up a really solid number of pageviews. This is a ripping yarn
about an all-out cycling sprint on a cold, dark, rainy evening, depicting a
classic confrontation between robust teenagers and a seasoned but middle-aged coach.
I suffered horribly to produce this tale so you might as well honor that with a
quick read.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>See you next year!</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thank you for visiting albertnet. I look forward to another
year of writing about, well, <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/11/because-it-amuses-me-albertnet-subhead.html" target="_blank">anything that amuses me</a>, and I hope you’ll enjoy it too.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-56577111976754365592023-12-23T23:49:00.000-08:002023-12-24T10:13:16.779-08:002023 Last-Minute Online Holiday Gift Guide!<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thank goodness you found this post: if you forgot to shop
for Christmas and need a surefire gift idea (and fast!), you’ve come to the
right place. If you can order something featured here in the next hour or so,
you’ll be fine (though you may need to get Santa to deliver it for you). Now, if
you’re reading this even a day or two after I posted it, obviously you’re too
late, but you know what? Maybe you should start thinking about next year! Plan
ahead for once in your life!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I would like to point out that I have not received any free
products or other remuneration for showcasing these gifts. Also, I haven’t
seen, tried, tasted, or tested them. <i>Caveat
emptor! </i>(That’s Klingon for “Don’t let these items hit you in the ass on
the way out.”)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Heated hammock - $250</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Winter is tough, innit? Perhaps the hardest part is that
you’re stuck indoors with your husband 24x7 and, because he’s
restless and over-caffeinated, you have to listen to him chatter away and/or
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/02/is-it-really-mansplaining.html" target="_blank">mansplain</a> stuff to you whenever there’s no game on. You miss the days of summer when
he’d go pass out in his hammock in the backyard. Well, help is on the way with
this <a href="https://www.sharperimage.com/view/product/Heated+Hammock/208873" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">electrically heated hammock</a>! Just charge the battery, hang it up, and send him packing, no matter the
weather!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQJ3Ow9mzSIx7ABXB4WqSq7sY0E2rS7qt714wscZHw_TkEVMZ1dEwxPuLm9cV4DUntjYEvhFAdEK47A8lJKn-zenF9AHcnj5k01Y37EAxoISMUOIJNTg5YkfZ89jqCkTxciqWF_iNGVxzdzO8JCHJEiVemL4mo-Pz92jrsM3HUZlQpK-yWANbG8WAYdA9/s1386/HeatedHammock.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1386" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQJ3Ow9mzSIx7ABXB4WqSq7sY0E2rS7qt714wscZHw_TkEVMZ1dEwxPuLm9cV4DUntjYEvhFAdEK47A8lJKn-zenF9AHcnj5k01Y37EAxoISMUOIJNTg5YkfZ89jqCkTxciqWF_iNGVxzdzO8JCHJEiVemL4mo-Pz92jrsM3HUZlQpK-yWANbG8WAYdA9/w320-h166/HeatedHammock.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Best of all, it has three different temperature zones (head,
middle, feet) and at least one of them is bound to short out, giving him
something to troubleshoot. It’s a win-win!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Handholding mittens -
$38</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Who among us hasn’t had that insufferable friend or sibling
who was so happily in love he threw it in everyone’s faces, with blatant
displays of affection, snogging in public like it was going out of
style and talking incessantly about how happy he is? And then that vaunted
relationship crashed and burned, and you had to hear your friend moan and groan
incessantly about being heartbroken? Well, this is the ultimate revenge gift:
<a href="https://www.uncommongoods.com/product/couples-handholding-mittens" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">couples handholding mittens</a>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGprms8tEnJJZkjRZkd8XmxHDIOGuG9pssyqDBDnHDCMQ077CsB7C-MlMsWdjaQZLcknFMwaFHp-ORcMbMNeLyc_zF_XV8ISh7xUpblIRQMa2T31LzWrOoQWAKvZYFXLRfmrITxSpVaSZbnueESbsj9N_DPyIWO8Qy-dIPKjm-l8u292aj_6iVw5Nhfz6R/s915/CouplesHandholdingMittens.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="915" data-original-width="913" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGprms8tEnJJZkjRZkd8XmxHDIOGuG9pssyqDBDnHDCMQ077CsB7C-MlMsWdjaQZLcknFMwaFHp-ORcMbMNeLyc_zF_XV8ISh7xUpblIRQMa2T31LzWrOoQWAKvZYFXLRfmrITxSpVaSZbnueESbsj9N_DPyIWO8Qy-dIPKjm-l8u292aj_6iVw5Nhfz6R/w399-h400/CouplesHandholdingMittens.JPG" width="399" /></a></div><br />There are two ways to enjoy this gift. One, you give it to
your spouse/other and the two of you parade around wearing these goofy mittens in front
of the fool-for-love, and even suggest that the three of you go for a walk or
hike together in the brisk air. Speak at length about how warm that hand is,
even (size permitting) making a big show of switching the mittens around so one
hand doesn’t “get jealous” of the other, etc. Payback’s a bitch, eh? The other
option is that if your annoying friend is still single, give him or her the
gift and say, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find someone soon, and then you’ll
be ready!” You might even suggest he mention the handholding mittens on his <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/01/fiction-game-changing-dating-website.html" target="_blank">online dating profile</a>. Your friend will <i>hate </i>you! It’s
brilliant!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>My Life Story: So Far
- $35</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have to admit, at first I didn’t see the point of this
item. At first blush, it’s a <a href="https://www.uncommongoods.com/product/my-life-story-so-far" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">journal with various prompts</a> to write your
memoirs; kind of like an extension of those <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/09/from-archives-journal-for-my-daughter.html" target="_blank">baby books</a> that well-meaning new parents dutifully fill out for the first day or two of
their newborn’s life. But this journal goes all the way through adulthood, like
a template for an entire autobiography. Kind of pointless, right? I mean, if
you’re gonna tell your life story, you already know the important bits, right?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But then I looked at some of the sample pages, and suddenly grasped
the real point:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlxQmLL2NjNlI3xPP5ZD2gUxRH1mZ7JfqpYv_SP8Wj1RP_IQ9eAOPw25qlzU6ev_P0ytPT_4IUQagtWSbW11I7yS3DwrZP3J2SEMSTZiqSrl-3bL6-GB3X694H1SZBZ0uBbQQjQ5sDioHvJcYnumO5wD0ZvxxfU8nQYpd9t3b6ag61xCLuhYg7uSQAaJo/s661/LifeStorySoFar.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="645" data-original-width="661" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlxQmLL2NjNlI3xPP5ZD2gUxRH1mZ7JfqpYv_SP8Wj1RP_IQ9eAOPw25qlzU6ev_P0ytPT_4IUQagtWSbW11I7yS3DwrZP3J2SEMSTZiqSrl-3bL6-GB3X694H1SZBZ0uBbQQjQ5sDioHvJcYnumO5wD0ZvxxfU8nQYpd9t3b6ag61xCLuhYg7uSQAaJo/w400-h390/LifeStorySoFar.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />It turns out this is for an old person who realizes he or
she is starting to become senile. This journal is really more like a cheat
sheet, but a socially acceptable one. Imagine if you just used post-its or
something to jot down notes of, like, your kids’ names … how mortifying it
would be if someone were to find those? Instead, you give your spouse this
journal and encourage him or her to fill it out … he or she is just <i>feeding </i>you the answers to embarrassing
questions you’re afraid to ask, like “What’s your name again?”<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Shower Affirmation Set
- $28</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This <a href="https://www.uncommongoods.com/product/shower-affirmation-set" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">shower affirmation set</a> is another gift
idea that initially had me scratching my head. It’s just a set of little cards
with encouraging platitudes like, “I am creating a life of passion and
purpose,” and “I live in a universe where I am loved and supported.” What makes
this gift unique is that these cards are waterproof and stick to the wall of
your shower.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAm0JiX54_CcQ9t-cng_wUQkpkw6yTAufi0XRAq2qa_uMB2gDLXOsy4zg9ZHd3RijEkdOxSuu7f8RTzaaTcz615OMMxbNGSiclYGLY_A0SIbDMk0Y8A9uXQmXqqpf2uHchSuIBuxCldbpL40xMAq-WDGxRERN25-MP6HlXI6LWsIDUgoni9tskLznQD5h/s839/ShowerAffirmationSet.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="683" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAm0JiX54_CcQ9t-cng_wUQkpkw6yTAufi0XRAq2qa_uMB2gDLXOsy4zg9ZHd3RijEkdOxSuu7f8RTzaaTcz615OMMxbNGSiclYGLY_A0SIbDMk0Y8A9uXQmXqqpf2uHchSuIBuxCldbpL40xMAq-WDGxRERN25-MP6HlXI6LWsIDUgoni9tskLznQD5h/w326-h400/ShowerAffirmationSet.JPG" width="326" /></a></div><br />I couldn’t understand their purpose, since the world is
replete with such messaging and a novel format didn’t seem necessary. And then
it hit me: the affirmation isn’t the point, the <i>shower </i>is the point. This is just a ruse to get your slovenly
teenager to shower once in awhile! All that praise will actually lure him or
her to do a little self-care … brilliant!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Food indecision dice -
$14</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Anniversary-Newlyweds-Boyfriend-Girlfriend-Valentines/dp/B0CFTMG1XT/ref=sr_1_79?crid=1XR9KJNOJROAX" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">dining dice</a> help an indecisive couple decide what to make (or order) for dinner. One die
covers the ethnicity, the other the food. I know this sounds pretty boring at
first, with predictable outcomes like Mexican fast food and seafood…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSSZf02k8_Sg4N4I2lFwamnECAdVTnkKgmshowl-Lzi48_ch_ObUjQf2Nud7-tmYKzE8yaAJfSJU-zqjC2k43rEn1hZ2pwKDFQpak-pcvxL-X3vIKlsXFGCloFUb_pqL9Jghb68nAEdBLPkPjUm-XzfnJ55dQaGKk5WAFnv9koCrIlFIX-1OaClaw1Moeg/s712/FoodDice.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="712" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSSZf02k8_Sg4N4I2lFwamnECAdVTnkKgmshowl-Lzi48_ch_ObUjQf2Nud7-tmYKzE8yaAJfSJU-zqjC2k43rEn1hZ2pwKDFQpak-pcvxL-X3vIKlsXFGCloFUb_pqL9Jghb68nAEdBLPkPjUm-XzfnJ55dQaGKk5WAFnv9koCrIlFIX-1OaClaw1Moeg/w400-h229/FoodDice.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />But it’s when you get the weirder combos like Chinese pizza,
Italian sushi, and Indian steak that this gift shines … you and your partner
are going to become true innovators in the kitchen, taking fusion to new
heights. Get this right and you might become celebrity chefs!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Bathtime essentials wine holder - $38</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you have a friend or loved one with a drinking problem,
the last thing they want on Christmas is your judgment and condemnation. Why
not just give them <a href="https://www.uncommongoods.com/product/bathtime-essentials-wine-holder" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">the gift</a> that says, “I love you and I want you to be happy,
even if that means <a href="https://www.uncommongoods.com/product/bathtime-essentials-wine-holder" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">drinking in the shower</a>”? Sure, you’re
technically being an enabler here, but what the hell, it’s the holidays.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_Gdwt2c5uFxIm6Uu4ycBdV9gwbLXu3obt3ejOvkqLgTbg_kvaecesdYJRQ-qR9EQPW9kJNAZzdvWCNWlPk10ECn3N-9xHgFR32sL6weM9nbmDaibaLW6333W-0oGTQMKcDw-nKKwFCMREmp-XbZ8ZBm0MOEiEK-J_ToGwasMN0w3qtpOZQYkZ46wiO-Y/s663/BathtimeWineHolder.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="454" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_Gdwt2c5uFxIm6Uu4ycBdV9gwbLXu3obt3ejOvkqLgTbg_kvaecesdYJRQ-qR9EQPW9kJNAZzdvWCNWlPk10ECn3N-9xHgFR32sL6weM9nbmDaibaLW6333W-0oGTQMKcDw-nKKwFCMREmp-XbZ8ZBm0MOEiEK-J_ToGwasMN0w3qtpOZQYkZ46wiO-Y/w274-h400/BathtimeWineHolder.JPG" width="274" /></a></div><br />This item would pair nicely with the shower affirmation set,
wouldn’t it? Maybe you could even get some custom printed cards, like “It’s
okay, Winston Churchill drank, too” and “Hey, you’re just taking the edge off.”
Now, if you’re still hung up on that whole alcoholic-complicity thing, consider
that eventually the plastic wine glass will get lost (over the edge of the back
deck, or deep within the sofa cushions), and then your loved one will use a
real glass, and once it shatters on the floor of the shower where shards are
sure to draw blood, perhaps this person will realize he or she has finally hit
rock bottom. Thanks, bathtime essentials wine holder!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Personalized rubber
spatula set - $40</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let’s suppose <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/11/rubber-spatulas.html" target="_blank">rubber spatulas</a>, or “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/12/family-shibboleths-glossary-of-albert.html" target="_blank">splaulas</a>” as you call them, are a really big deal in your family. Suppose when your
daughter <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/10/ask-college-dad.html" target="_blank">went off to college</a> you bought her like six beautiful wooden-handled rubber splaulas, and she was
so happy to have a bit of home there with her, and then her ridiculous
roommates <i>threw them all out </i>without
asking, because the splaulas “didn’t match the décor” of the apartment (which is a joke
because it was a fricking dive to begin
with). Now it’s time to replace those splaulas … so why not with <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/900467879/personalized-spatula-custom-spatula" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">these</a>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmK3fd1RG7XJCVZsFUhtpJElXv3oQvk6hhDUM7jgvzRk0EB3AjW60J208VGyCfs9IoAWo-8m8tx3Of41Ap489Vq8hcir4wHr07RQuf13Do7K1kF9YacJKq8VuM8avkTQIKPVaCWLbRZHXK5KH7rSAyzi6OKNvnBvW7yJB1a4GyQInMyMf_lpqWWnK2_IT/s727/PersonalizedSpatulas.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="671" data-original-width="727" height="369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmK3fd1RG7XJCVZsFUhtpJElXv3oQvk6hhDUM7jgvzRk0EB3AjW60J208VGyCfs9IoAWo-8m8tx3Of41Ap489Vq8hcir4wHr07RQuf13Do7K1kF9YacJKq8VuM8avkTQIKPVaCWLbRZHXK5KH7rSAyzi6OKNvnBvW7yJB1a4GyQInMyMf_lpqWWnK2_IT/w400-h369/PersonalizedSpatulas.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />Very nicely made, super attractive. And the best part is,
these splaulas can be personalized, so buy three of them with engraving as
follows:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>[Name]’s personal property</li><li>Mess with these & </li><li>I will fucking kill you</li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your daughter can tell her roommates, “You might think
that’s a joke but my dad is literally a psycho. And he’s visiting over MLK
weekend.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Faceless portrait -
$13</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You know what’s really romantic? A portrait of you and your
significant other. But you know what ruins it? When one or both of you just
isn’t that attractive. This can be particularly bad if only one of you “has a
face for radio.” Ugliness can kind of ruin the whole look of whatever room you
hang the picture in. Well, faceless portrait to the rescue!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMkSetTgA8sKTHrPbA415FXurTpEt8-Y7tQ7KPwLVBedcjdDORE4faktmRDsoSi2noqnr4FRAcRPz0LCWKzeGGQpwmvSNoqcxf_2kS0CpPdQucc8ayN_oflC19X2bFTbGa-LJXMoPY1qXggseFWC0E9emgq_e1vzTJTE8VWt0d9bqV3-nhlonVRJrf2k5/s795/FacelessCouplePortrait.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="583" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMkSetTgA8sKTHrPbA415FXurTpEt8-Y7tQ7KPwLVBedcjdDORE4faktmRDsoSi2noqnr4FRAcRPz0LCWKzeGGQpwmvSNoqcxf_2kS0CpPdQucc8ayN_oflC19X2bFTbGa-LJXMoPY1qXggseFWC0E9emgq_e1vzTJTE8VWt0d9bqV3-nhlonVRJrf2k5/w294-h400/FacelessCouplePortrait.JPG" width="294" /></a></div><br />It’s stylized! It’s idealized! Squinty eyes, weak chin, huge
nose? Gone! And even if somebody declares the portrait is totally creepy, you
can plausibly deny it’s even of <i>you!</i>
Problem solved … and on the cheap!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Evening primrose soap
- $23</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gift giving is hard. How many times have you found the
perfect item for someone, only to learn that he or she already bought it? Or
that there’s some valid reason they don’t already own it? Often the best gift
is the incredibly unusual item they never knew existed. I think this <a href="https://www.uncommongoods.com/product/evening-primrose-soap" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">evening primrose soap</a> would check that
box for just about anybody.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7VF5y9W4fslSifxDV7WYiZAjCrNquM5yOTPT3je-ls3UM-hPl3wD7IWuIYyq4lmdGpKNYKYyl8pIf-yZ0N2f82QBgzcGlPIwve_G8T-qFB19IhfEKAVVIRGIJ2TRsD9c65q5g-jmJSNnbVnGmOhXBjO8Neg2Pi7eli6UbF3GCScdWIXwt4L4dPOuVYqH/s575/EveningPrimroseSoap1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="575" data-original-width="447" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7VF5y9W4fslSifxDV7WYiZAjCrNquM5yOTPT3je-ls3UM-hPl3wD7IWuIYyq4lmdGpKNYKYyl8pIf-yZ0N2f82QBgzcGlPIwve_G8T-qFB19IhfEKAVVIRGIJ2TRsD9c65q5g-jmJSNnbVnGmOhXBjO8Neg2Pi7eli6UbF3GCScdWIXwt4L4dPOuVYqH/w311-h400/EveningPrimroseSoap1.JPG" width="311" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFkIGK2EwYe-z-pVsPRkWNBbftEXOD3Sw7mBMqWXQk0CkkDocJDyaq_PFeTZPxLmt3nFj8VmqjlEge6LP5X90iS90qIim32_9XeaJ1T7ZitvTM2USmXmbOb2Nd0vrMEWszxLRoa7rjfCCRqt53CSxrbgiszs_0pz2bizi16WV9ttBNnIYL1O1Pcw3X7eC/s513/EveningPrimroseSoap2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="435" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFkIGK2EwYe-z-pVsPRkWNBbftEXOD3Sw7mBMqWXQk0CkkDocJDyaq_PFeTZPxLmt3nFj8VmqjlEge6LP5X90iS90qIim32_9XeaJ1T7ZitvTM2USmXmbOb2Nd0vrMEWszxLRoa7rjfCCRqt53CSxrbgiszs_0pz2bizi16WV9ttBNnIYL1O1Pcw3X7eC/w339-h400/EveningPrimroseSoap2.JPG" width="339" /></a></div><br />I showed this to my younger daughter and she said, “Oh my
god, that is so <a href="https://www.humboldt.edu/student-life/student-life" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Humboldt</a>. It’s just so … Earth goddess lesbian / psychedelic
woodsy.” I’m not sure I’m qualified to confirm or deny that assessment, but
there’s no question this thing is compelling. It’s both provocatively shapely
and … a warty toadstool. What will it look like after it’s been used in the
shower for a week? Will the curvaceous buttocks part be totally worn down, and
the toadstool end practically untouched? Well, your lucky recipient is about to
find out … am I right?<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Beer shotgun funnel -
$20</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Do you have a friend with all the telltale signs of arrested
development? Like, he thinks video gaming is still a good way for a
50-something to spend his time, and still has a miniature basketball hoop
suction-cupped to his fridge, and still thinks parties should be called
“ragers” and that everyone should play drinking games? Has he failed in
particular to scale back his drinking in accordance with responsible adult
behavior? Well, you can’t exactly give somebody an intervention as a Christmas
gift, and that never works anyway, so you might as well roll with it. Won’t he
be delighted by <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Krakin-2-0-Built-Bachelorette-Snowboarding/dp/B0BR694XVS/ref=sr_1_30?crid=3K9TFVTL53RJT&th=1" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this gift</a>, which says “Of
course it makes perfect sense for you to be shotgunning beers but you should be
doing it more safely”?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIEjNfmnrYejBlmFPhPX2D28vRtyQx8sOHAY_TykoxNtWWxIa3qcYgupuVGX9cj6snVHeaJKkuOYcDPtvuxhVGZFswtIMg2e51zrx9CH_ErBhu6yaIdvRUU51UUAKJTv4mhnM7yaVSJCRA4vRTmUDE72-_9UTKQP1PlgDmc2onGjeriKUSjmpoP682iP-/s680/Krak'in2BeerTool.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="680" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIEjNfmnrYejBlmFPhPX2D28vRtyQx8sOHAY_TykoxNtWWxIa3qcYgupuVGX9cj6snVHeaJKkuOYcDPtvuxhVGZFswtIMg2e51zrx9CH_ErBhu6yaIdvRUU51UUAKJTv4mhnM7yaVSJCRA4vRTmUDE72-_9UTKQP1PlgDmc2onGjeriKUSjmpoP682iP-/s320/Krak'in2BeerTool.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />This thing just makes sense. I mean, when you’ve already
been drinking, so your motor skills are shot, and then you puncture a beer can
with a screwdriver or a key, and then put your mouth up to that ragged aperture—all
of this with extreme haste because everyone around you is chanting, “CHUG …
CHUG … CHUG!”—you’re likely at risk of cutting your mouth. (At least, I should
think so … I’ve never actually tried this and only just learned the process via
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wr69bnB86d0" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this charming YouTube video</a> which my wife overheard and seemed skeptical about until I told her, “I’m
doing <i>research</i>, for my <i>blog!</i>”)<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, as with the bathtime essentials wine holder, you might
feel morally conflicted about seeming to endorse this chugalug activity—even to
point of modernizing it with a purpose-built accoutrement. Well, get off your
high horse … shouldn’t we give our loved ones something they <i>want</i>, vs. what <i>we </i>think they need? Besides, your friend will surely put this on
his keychain and eventually it’ll make a hole in his pocket and he’ll lose his
keys and have to retrace his pub crawl steps, growing ever more frantic at each
stop, and when he gets to telling his woeful lost-keys story for the fourth
time, to the fourth barmaid, whose pity is plain to see, perhaps he’ll realize
he’s hit rock-bottom and it’s time to make a change … and you’ll have helped
him get there!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Author clock - $199</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A couple of years back, my albertnet gift guide described
the <a href="https://store.moma.org/products/albert-clock" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Albert clock</a> that gives you a math problem to solve instead of just telling you the time.
I’m not a fan of the concept, which is why I declared it the perfect revenge gift.
Well, this year I stumbled across another clock, <a href="https://www.authorclock.com/shop" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this one</a>, that beats around the bush;
this time, it quotes a passage from literature that happens to include the
time:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPcLd51h7-VIeVclDYCy8taZ1QDysv-Im9OeFcjr60_B_L_ukjqZD-a_ciR0OvPtxyWAY01azcqatQ4wZrkufB7Sblu86R6FFHYBhTyoFVKmq91RxSn2TaC7Ecv8evzsq6_l_UXIqr9UYjus2NmBJEFLtvxQnSw1OawuVOHi-Kf2N8aPmP31BiDRyPz7U_/s871/AuthorClock.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="871" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPcLd51h7-VIeVclDYCy8taZ1QDysv-Im9OeFcjr60_B_L_ukjqZD-a_ciR0OvPtxyWAY01azcqatQ4wZrkufB7Sblu86R6FFHYBhTyoFVKmq91RxSn2TaC7Ecv8evzsq6_l_UXIqr9UYjus2NmBJEFLtvxQnSw1OawuVOHi-Kf2N8aPmP31BiDRyPz7U_/w400-h260/AuthorClock.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />Damn it all, I wish I could figure out something snarky to
say about this <a href="https://www.authorclock.com/shop" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Author Clock</a>, but the more I
look at it the more I think this thing is actually pretty cool. Granted, I like
to look at big hands on a wall clock, or little hands on my <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/03/expensive-wristwatches.html" target="_blank">wristwatch</a>, but I also love books and reading and why does this thing have to be so freaking expensive?<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Electric salt &
pepper shakers - $36</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s kind of the curse of middle age: we’ve finally
developed sophisticated tastes—for example, we’ll no longer settle for
pre-ground pepper or even pre-ground salt—and yet we’re starting to develop
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/06/case-for-dvorak.html" target="_blank">repetitive stress injuries</a> from traditional peppermills and really need to take care of ourselves. Well,
your friends and/or siblings are in luck: check out <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Litpggy-Electric-Salt-Pepper-Shakers/dp/B0CM9FY283/ref=sr_1_14?crid=3K9TFVTL53RJT" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this ingenious product</a>!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlC354lV0BxIhULfEbfalnYo4qCB-P5Tbzh0cM1Pyoimdq8-AVU9pCXJEB7uUqBM4yf0AuBGkNpJ147rOrw95mbpRE4g4Ai66c4o-UwgmxJvLEmxyQPeSZZNjF6k0XbCQdAvSPspu7A3W8S26x7616xUMKDEQmdvJJ8DKSH_kne0qt93gYdvvnHi48INY/s683/ElectricSalt&PepperShakers.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="509" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlC354lV0BxIhULfEbfalnYo4qCB-P5Tbzh0cM1Pyoimdq8-AVU9pCXJEB7uUqBM4yf0AuBGkNpJ147rOrw95mbpRE4g4Ai66c4o-UwgmxJvLEmxyQPeSZZNjF6k0XbCQdAvSPspu7A3W8S26x7616xUMKDEQmdvJJ8DKSH_kne0qt93gYdvvnHi48INY/w298-h400/ElectricSalt&PepperShakers.JPG" width="298" /></a></div><br />Now, it’s not your friends’ first rodeo so you can expect a
furrowed brow as they unpackage these bad boys. “Don’t worry,” you’re (ideally)
there to tell them, “the manufacturer has relocated the battery compartment to
the top, so you won’t get the salt powder corrosion your last set had. And
they’ve switched to lighter weight AAA batteries so you won’t hurt yourself
hefting them.” Now your friend is starting to get excited … but you haven’t
even told him the best part. “Each has a built-in flashlight,” you declare
triumphantly, “so you can totally use them camping!” Now your friend is
grinning from ear to ear. It won’t even occur to him that these should
logically be designed to sync with an app on his <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/05/smartphone.html" target="_blank">smartphone</a>, and really ought to have built-in Bluetooth speakers. So you’re all set for
Version 3.0, which will surely be available by this time next year!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Something for the blogger?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With all this talk of gifts, I’ll bet you’re already
thinking about what to get me, the tireless blogger who has tried all year to
amuse and enlighten you. Normally I would assure you I don’t need anything, or
would suggest you perform, on my behalf, an interpretive dance on TikTok that
will make this blog go viral. But this year I’m shifting gears: would somebody
please buy me that <a href="https://store.moma.org/products/albert-clock" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Author Clock</a>? Click <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a> for
shipping details.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Other albertnet holiday posts</i></p>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/12/2022-last-minute-online-holiday-gift.html" target="_blank">2022 albertnet Last-Minute Online Holiday Gift Guide</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/12/2021-online-holiday-gift-guide.html" target="_blank">2021 albertnet Online Holiday Gift Guide</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/12/last-minute-online-holiday-gift-guide.html" target="_blank">2020 albertnet Last-Minute Online Holiday Gift Guide</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/12/online-holiday-gift-guide.html" target="_blank">The 2019 albertnet Online Holiday Gift Guide</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/12/interview-with-santa-claus.html" target="_blank">Interview With Santa Claus</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/12/the-best-of-christmas.html" target="_blank">The 2018 albertnet Christmas Guide</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/12/santa-lance-armstrong-and-christmas-eve.html" target="_blank">The Christmas Eve Doldrums</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/12/a-cure-for-holiday-consumerist-bloat.html" target="_blank">A Cure for Holiday Consumerist Bloat</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/12/the-black-friday-that-wasnt.html" target="_blank">The Black Friday That Wasn’t</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/01/santa-denial-and-how-lance-armstrong.html" target="_blank">Santa Denial, and How Lance Armstrong Taught Me to Lie</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/12/fiction-happiest-christmas-story-i-know.html" target="_blank">Fiction – The Happiest Christmas Story I Know</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/12/2010-holiday-newsletter.html" target="_blank">My 2012 Holiday Newsletter: the Cat’s POV</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/01/from-archives-holiday-newsletter-about.html" target="_blank">My 2011 Holiday Newsletter – Head Lice!</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/12/2010-holiday-newsletter.html" target="_blank">My 2010 Holiday Newsletter – Importance of Santa Mythology</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/12/lotion-sniper.html" target="_blank">Holiday
Mall Report: the Lotion Sniper</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/12/2009-holiday-newsletter.html" target="_blank">My 2009 Holiday Newsletter – Retail in the UK</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/12/the-suppressed-holiday-newsletter.html" target="_blank">The Suppressed 2008 Holiday Newsletter</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/12/from-archives-descent-into-chaos-my.html" target="_blank">Descent Into Chaos: My 2005 Holiday Newsletter</a></li>
</ul><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-25497352960962010882023-12-16T12:47:00.000-08:002023-12-27T07:58:37.214-08:00Cycling Smackdown - Small Cog Tale<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Introduction<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m an <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/01/fiction-things-they-carried-biking.htmlhttps://www.albertnet.us/2019/01/fiction-things-they-carried-biking.html" target="_blank">assistant coach</a> for the Albany High School Cougars mountain biking team. As described in a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/05/cycling-smackdown-middle-ring-tale.html" target="_blank">previous smackdown post</a>, my bike—with its triple crankset—seems, to the Cougars, as antiquated as I
am. (More on gearing later—I’ll bet you can’t wait!) Part of my role as coach
is to inspire these kids, so I need to convey, through actions alone, that I’m
not actually obsolete. This can mean giving them a run for their money which, as
you can imagine, gets harder every year. Read on for a white-knuckled (or at
least old-knuckled) account of my latest endeavor.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i></i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaaO28M6mIqA_Rrnz2jLzkfm0uHbM21Oxm2qNWbw-7q_yh6l1nSdTSNM_7O5GktU4ja5RI8DaEuWUTbd7JjZESH3GR8jIIcl54atrFJm6l4xEHjSsC4ZsQ8sjwRCu3UJEf72g1T8HunC-2qBnjU6ArL30Ik77zH81_CIBExl2NTyhJ7fcxDf6zs5SAta5/s2672/11toothCog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="2672" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaaO28M6mIqA_Rrnz2jLzkfm0uHbM21Oxm2qNWbw-7q_yh6l1nSdTSNM_7O5GktU4ja5RI8DaEuWUTbd7JjZESH3GR8jIIcl54atrFJm6l4xEHjSsC4ZsQ8sjwRCu3UJEf72g1T8HunC-2qBnjU6ArL30Ik77zH81_CIBExl2NTyhJ7fcxDf6zs5SAta5/w400-h340/11toothCog.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i><br />Small cog tale</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The weather looked iffy but none of the forecasts matched,
so although it had rained all morning, the ride was on. Coach M—, our fastest,
was MIA so I got put with the fastest group. As we set out and headed up Thousand Oaks Blvd, I noted that C—, our top rider, was rocking his NorCal League
Champion jersey from last season, with the California flag on it. I said to him,
“Nice jersey! Where can I get one?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">C— said to S—, “Where’s Coach M—, our fearless leader?”(or
something to that effect). S—, who looks like a Pixar superhero, and who almost
beat me in two all-out sprints last week, said, “Actually, Coach M— is 0
for 2 this season.” C— asked, “Who’d he lose to?” S— gestured in my direction
and said, “Coach Dana.” C— replied, “Oh, shit!” He was surely thinking about
the final sprint of the ride, a tradition that, several years ago, was oddly
named “VO2.” It’s contested along the final stretch of Wildcat Canyon Road,
which descends at 1-2% and winds around like a serpent. The finish line is the
intersection with Grizzly Peak Blvd, near the <a href="https://maps.app.goo.gl/mFHY9yJVhysHLHYJ8" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Summit Reservoir</a> where the Cougar ride groups (and those of other teams) tend to congregate
before the final (controlled-pace) descent to the high school.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the end of the first climb a wind had picked up, big dark
clouds had rolled in, and the temperature was dropping. We regrouped at the reservoir and then I dragged everyone along Wildcat Canyon Road, heading east. Several times I
gestured with a flick of the elbow for somebody to pull through but either I haven’t
successfully taught that signal to the riders, or they just didn’t want to
help. I was hoping for a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/07/from-archives-national-championships.html" target="_blank">team time trial</a> type of group effort, but when I pointedly pulled off and looked at C—, he launched
a devastating attack. He totally soloed and S— dropped me too. I overhauled S—
on the short downhill toward the Botanical Garden, before the climbing resumed,
but never caught C—. We regrouped at <a href="https://maps.app.goo.gl/NVpjToQMxPKxfy1r6" target="_blank">Inspiration Point</a> and as the rest of the kids (and the other coach) trickled in, it started to
rain.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I decided to lead everyone down Wildcat to where it hits <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/06/ode-to-lomas-cantadas.html" target="_blank">El Toyonal</a>, and back up. Several kids protested but only pro forma … I think we were all
electrified by the rain, which increased as I drilled it down Wildcat. Before
the ride I’d put a new clear lens in my sunglasses and it worked great deflecting
the spray off the road. I could actually (basically) see, though the ridge of
hills and all the trees had effectively hastened the sunset. I reached <a href="https://maps.app.goo.gl/U6gmTw9bVDXUVr6J7" target="_blank">the junction with El Toyonal</a> and turned around. We’d agreed to regroup again at Inspiration Point again after
the climb, so I didn’t wait for anyone … they’d be along soon enough.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">True to form, C— blew by me with S— dying on his wheel. S—
came off and I managed to stay with him to the top. When we arrived C— was
jumping up and down to stay warm as he had no jacket and no body fat.
Eventually the others arrived, and we turned on our lights and put on all the
gear we had as the rain was pounding down now. I loaned C— a spare pair of arm
warmers but his arms were too wet and he lost patience pulling them on and
chucked them back to me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A— was still futzing with his gloves when a number of
riders rolled out. I yelled at them to hold up. They ignored me—a mutiny!—and ramped
up the speed. The cowards! Apparently certain Cougars didn’t want me around to
contest VO2. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for cunning tactics, but this didn’t
seem very sporting.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Annoyed, I hammered to catch up, moving
through our group like in a racecar video game, but it was pretty hopeless.
Three of the kids were way off the front, taking turns pulling, fighting the wind together,
and I was only one guy. Still, on the downhill toward the <a href="https://maps.app.goo.gl/gqKL49Ngfhdid8b57" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Regional Parks Botanical Garden</a> I
felt I could close the gap a bit since I’m bigger than these kids and punch
through the wind better. But my progress was incremental and not enough.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was ready to just call it a day—I mean, who cares,
really?—when I remembered my mantra: “I … WILL … NOT … LOSE … EVER.” I guess
it’s not really <i>my </i>mantra in the
sense that I came up with it or anything; I stole it from some rap song. Plus,
it’s kind of disingenuous because I actually lose all the time. But “I … LOSE …
ALL … THE … TIME” is not a suitable mantra, and when I’m slaying myself on the
bike in a dim rainstorm with possibly toxic levels of adrenaline coursing
through my system, I sometimes become pleasantly delusional and can pretend I never lose. But how could I possibly manage to prevail now, when
already so far off the back?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ah, I thought. There’s always the “I hate pain” hill.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The “I hate pain” hill is the short, somewhat steep (perhaps
9%) climb between the <a href="https://maps.app.goo.gl/gqKL49Ngfhdid8b57" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Botanical Garden</a> and the <a href="https://maps.app.goo.gl/fgT1wfGztCwsQQHt9" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Brazil Building</a>. My wife gave this hill its name, back when we were first
dating. She rode over it and said, “I just learned something about myself. I
hate pain!” I can usually do this one in the big ring, after getting up as much
speed as possible on the downhill before. For some reason, the mountain bike
team always goes around it, via <a href="https://maps.app.goo.gl/oFZaZ6EL8bJTxcXs9" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Anza View Road</a>, even though they’re young and strong and fearless. Probably the coaches set
the standard ages ago and nobody ever thought to change it up. Well, on a
previous showdown, during a ride with <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/350475670494/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">my road team</a> that a former Cougar had attended, I’d had a chance to do a little A/B test.
He’d dropped our entire group including me and, not knowing any better, went
around the hill while I, in desperate pursuit, went over it and discovered that
up-and-over is actually faster. So now I figured that maybe, just maybe, I
could make up enough time to get back in contention.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, it worked perfectly. I came over the top, and as the
road dipped down again I could just see the top three riders <a href="https://maps.app.goo.gl/43b4DF61ZEH5rTMM8" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">rejoining the road</a> ahead. I gave it full gas and managed to claw my way across and
latch on to the back. I hung out there for a bit, recovering, and before long
the last of the three, G—, looked back and saw me there. Haha! Surely they’d
looked back several times and confirmed I was nowhere in sight. It must have
seemed like I came out of nowhere.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">C— was on the front driving a furious pace. I was getting a
pretty good draft off G— (who must have grown three inches since last season)
but he was dying and letting little gaps open, so riding behind him was unwise,
like getting too close to a drowning victim. To G—’s credit, it took me a few tries
to take S—’s wheel away from him. As I’ve taught the riders, you look at the
wheel you want, not at the rider who’s on it, and you just have to kind of
insinuate yourself onto the wheel. Eventually I had S—’s wheel but he’s not
such a good draft. I was bent way over the bars, but I’ve got this giant
Camelbak stuffed with the tool set, the first aid kit, every size of inner
tube, extra clothes, and <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/01/fiction-things-they-carried-biking.html" target="_blank">other bulky stuff</a> so I wasn’t very aero.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The pace was relentless, and pedaling was even harder than usual because my
shoes, being absolutely soaked, seemed to weigh about five pounds each. The
chamois in my shorts was also sodden and droopy … is this what it’s like having
a full diaper? I sensed S— starting to tire … so it was time to move into second. He
didn’t seem to mind when I came past him; he knew he’d get a sweet draft off of
me and have plenty of time to recover, so he could try to come past at the last
second. (He’d come so very close to pulling it off last week, after all.) So
now I was right on C—’s wheel and he’s just as lithe and wiry as a greyhound, blocking
the wind even less than S—. It was absolutely brutal staying in that draft at
that searing pace. C—’s rear tire sprayed up a rooster tail of water right in
my face, but my clear goggles protected my eyes, and the water hitting my mouth,
though befouled with grit, was almost refreshing. Meanwhile, C—’s unrelenting
verve was inspirational, and as I clung to his wheel for dear life I tried to conjure
up a plot to defeat him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This kid had been pulling ever since I’d caught up, and probably almost the whole way from Inspiration Point. Sure, he’s the League
Champ, but he’s not invincible … possibly I could come off his wheel with like
100 meters to go and punch his ticket. I was actually more worried about S—, who
was just sitting perfectly in position behind me, and who’d have a pretty good
idea of when I’d launch my sprint. I decided I had to go early, for the element
of surprise.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There’s a spot maybe 300 meters from the end where the road
curves around and the downhill gets just a bit steeper, from like 1% to 1.5%. It’s
subtle, but the perfect moment to take advantage of my 11-tooth cog. I guess
that’s not really such a tiny cog by modern standards—after all, my daughter’s
bike has a 10—but that’s because most kids are running the so called “one-by”
setup, with only one chainring, which is typically a measly 32-tooth. My triple
crankset has a 42-tooth big ring, giving me a 20-30% higher gear than they
have, and at a high enough speed, it’s like having nitro or something (if only my
legs can manage to push hard enough).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Needless to say what you’re reading here isn’t technically a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2011/01/from-archives-big-ring-tale.html" target="_blank">Big Ring Tale</a>, because we’d all already been in our big rings, and/or our highest gears, for
several minutes before the denouement of our battle began. For me, the battle came down to the cog. All last season I couldn’t use my smallest rear cog because it was
worn out and skipped like crazy. This season I finally got around to addressing
it—but I couldn’t find the new cassette I thought I had somewhere. I ended up
finding some random, lone 11-tooth cog floating around in my big bin of extra
parts. I had no idea where it came from or what kind of shape it was in,
but to my delight it works great—no skipping
at all. So instead of setting up the climax of this yarn with the standard convention of “I threw ‘er in the big ring,” this is the
part of the story where I get to tell you “I dropped ‘er in the small cog.” (Who
knows, perhaps with the growing popularity of these one-by setups, and mountain
biking vs. road, the term “big ring tale” will become obsolete, and “small cog
tale” will take its place.) Now, full disclosure, I might well have already been in
the small cog, but that’s immaterial … the point is, now I launched the big
move that <i>demanded</i> the 42x11 gear. I was going to spin that gear all the way up
or die trying.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, the good news is, I did succeed in taking both kids by
surprise and quickly got a good gap. The bad news is, with the rain and the
dark and my somewhat fogged-up goggles I’d totally misjudged where we were; maybe it was wishful thinking that we were finally close to
the end. I’d gone several curves too early! No wonder my sudden move had been
so effective: you’d have to be a fool to
go from that far out! O my god, what had I done? But there was no way to change my
plan now … if I let up at all, both kids would fly by and that would be the end
of me. There was nothing to do but try to make the move stick. I had that 42x11
turning pretty well now. (Having gone back and done the math, I can tell you my
cadence was just under 100 rpm, which isn’t so fast for a track racer, but
pretty much perfect for a mosher like me.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I died over and over again with every pedal stroke, and the
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/05/self-talk-in-action.html" target="_blank">wimp in my brain</a> was chanting its usual defeatist litany, notions like “It’s over, you went
too early, you’re doomed, just sit up, these kids are in their prime, S— looks
like a Pixar superhero, C— is the reigning League Champ, there’s no shame, you
gave them a good run for it.” Fortunately the song in my head (<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/01/voices-in-my-head.html" target="_blank">there’s always a song in my head</a>), which was “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFN5DveQH0o" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">King of Pain</a>” by the Police, was drowning out the inner voice. Going
early had not been the plan, of course, and yet I seemed to be following
a familiar script. There seemed something so inevitable about the excruciating
suffering I was going through once again: the blood-taste in my mouth, the
turbine-like whoosh-whine of my breathing, the white-hot burn in my legs. It
could be no other way and I wasn’t going to let up for a second until I’d won
or lost. No looking back, either—I cannot fathom why pro racers in solo breakaways
so often look back; it’s like the kiss of death. Just face forward, face the
music: “<i>I will always be King of Pain!</i>”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was around the final curve, out of the saddle now,
thrashing, feeling like I had a bear trap clamped to each leg. This twisty road
with the tall trees around it, and the dark and gloom, with sometimes even a
bat or two, have often made me think of <i>The
Legend of Sleepy Hollow</i>, and now I felt very much like Ichabod Crane
dashing madly toward the final bridge, the Headless Horseman hot on my tail.
The end in sight, I flogged myself like it mattered, and less than 50 meters
from the finish still no kid had flashed by. With 25 meters to go I finally
looked back. C— was there, of course, but well behind me, not even in my draft, and S—
was nowhere to be seen. I’d pulled it off! Something like a wicked laugh
fluttered to life deep within me but couldn’t make it anywhere close to my
mouth, not with all that sucking wind and other respiratory havoc. But the
feeling that flickered there was real and joyful. Can you imagine it? Actual
joy, at <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/11/ask-middle-aged-guy.html" target="_blank">my advanced age</a>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Needless to say my triumph, for all the thrill of the moment,
was actually meaningless, a matter of pure trivia, something to be forgotten
almost instantly (were it not for the stubborn persistence of this text). Surely
C— didn’t much care. It’s just one more sprint of many, and like every coach
I’m just a stepping stone on the kid’s way to greater things, if even that. But
hey, that’s what I’m here for … my glory days were over thirty years ago and
the point here is the current crop, the Cougars. When, some weeks from now, an
actual race—a sanctioned NorCal mountain bike race—comes down to a final sprint,
and C— wins it through timing, tactics, and grit, I will be stoked to have
played any role at all in helping him reach that level. As for myself, I’m just
glad to still be in the mix.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span> </p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-69261790974137233082023-12-08T23:07:00.000-08:002024-02-10T16:19:40.347-08:00From the Archives - Careergate<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I recently came across a letter to my brother from 1995,
recalling a shameful episode from my past, dating back to first grade. This
being a slow news day, I figured I’d post it here. I’ve fleshed it about a bit,
from memory. Believe me: I remember this ordeal all too well.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i></i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJUnYqtnCSL18ZDoAwX_fRrKPUGzYEHhZ7wmZADr6x8dKYNHUjMm-L_188kxhnUFmVJd8iBII6LSi3qSDOQrGOY4PasfA1rJ2ghbAyttrCIN4hfVetvRk64lKJhSc6m9qJfN9NzyYARV9jWFXlU-_ef8F4jhPTWW8J7XNuKjB-IArCO8VN7Yv0cqsruEb/s914/TVsalesman.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="715" data-original-width="914" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJUnYqtnCSL18ZDoAwX_fRrKPUGzYEHhZ7wmZADr6x8dKYNHUjMm-L_188kxhnUFmVJd8iBII6LSi3qSDOQrGOY4PasfA1rJ2ghbAyttrCIN4hfVetvRk64lKJhSc6m9qJfN9NzyYARV9jWFXlU-_ef8F4jhPTWW8J7XNuKjB-IArCO8VN7Yv0cqsruEb/w400-h313/TVsalesman.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i><br />Careergate </i>— <i>July 9, 1995</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In first grade, we did a big unit on careers. First we
watched some film loops (remember those?) about various careers including
middle manager, quality control technician, and comptroller. Naw, just kidding,
it was the normal assortment of clichéd vocations like doctor, nurse, construction
worker, teacher, farmer … the stuff it’s easy to imagine and picture, even if it
represents only a sliver of the wide variety of actual careers out there.
Various parents came in to talk about their careers as well, though I didn’t
pay much attention. The only one I remember well was a long-haul truck driver.
He described, in great detail, the methamphetamine regimen that kept him awake
at the wheel, along with its various side effects. (Okay, fine, I made that
part up.) Then we kids had to decide what we were going to be when we grew up,
and make a big poster showing ourselves on the job. The year before, my brother
Max had chosen “ambulance driver,” mainly (I believed then, and continue to
believe) because he thought he could draw a pretty cool picture of an ambulance.
My parents were pleased at his choice and made a nice fuss over him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I didn’t put much thought into deciding on my career. I
believed at the time, naïve as I was, that I would have a chance to revisit
this decision later. I had no idea that this initial stab at a career plan
would forever cement my reputation among my peers, my teacher, and my parents.
So I thought about the project for about thirty seconds before deciding I could
probably draw a TV set, and that it would be fun to draw a TV showroom with not
only a few TVs in it, but also a big picture window, through which you could
see the street and a cyclist riding by. I thought it would be a nice challenge
to draw this well enough for the window not just to look like another TV. So I
chose the career goal of TV salesman.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is probably the case that Mrs. M— explained how the
posters would be put on prominent display for all to see, including the parents
who, on Parent Teacher night, would be pleased as punch at how Bear Creek
Elementary, and Mrs. M— in particular, were grooming their children for highly
successful and prestigious lives. But I wasn’t paying attention and thought
this was another pointless project that would be soon forgotten. That is, I didn’t
realize I was about to shame myself and my entire family, as I was too engrossed
in the task at hand to see the big picture. I thought my drawing came out fairly
well. It showed a man at a counter taking some money, and the happy customer
with his hand on the TV set. In the background was a window: if you looked
closely, you saw, through this window, a bicyclist riding by. I was most proud
of that scene through the window. I felt it embodied happenstance—a little
snapshot of life, caught by random, totally unrelated to the sales transaction.
Naturally, I didn’t think these things in these words, but the feeling was
there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I find it noteworthy that I undertook the project without so
much as a glance at what my classmates were doing. I was accustomed to being unorthodox,
since I was raised if not by wolves, at least by slightly odd parents who in some ways diverged from mainstream society: we didn’t watch much TV, certainly didn’t follow sports (I mean, we didn’t even know the basic rules of football or baseball), used good grammar, were often ignorant of pop culture, and were put on the swim team instead of in Little League. I so
often felt lost in the world that I’d just learned to accept this feeling and
went through life in a fog, long pondering a great many mysteries but never
thinking to ask anyone about them. For example, I couldn’t understand the
<a href="https://www.oddballfilms.com/clip/13160_13324_snickers2" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Snickers ad</a> showing a candy bar being sliced up to show off the peanuts and peanut butter
nougat, and ending with the words, “No matter how you slice it, it comes up
peanuts.” I’d never heard the expression “no matter how you slice it,” so the
entire ad was a mystery. Who, I wondered, goes around slicing up Snickers bars,
and why?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And, when I listened to the Carole King album “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Really_Rosie" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Really Rosie</a>,”
and its title song, I couldn’t fathom the point of the lyric “I’m really
Rosie and I’m the most/ Beat that drum, make that toast.” I mean, okay, beating a drum to celebrate someone, sure … but making <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/08/three-toasters.html" target="_blank">toast</a>? “Wow,
you’re really the most, let me make you some toast. Whole wheat or white?” I
had no idea people clinked together glasses of wine or champagne while wishing
each other well … I’d never seen such a thing. In my family we drank powdered
milk from plastic cups and never offered up good tidings.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, when I finished my career poster and happened to glance
at what my classmates had done, I think I actually felt smug at how hackneyed
their career plans were, compared to mine. All the boys in my class chose
fireman, doctor, policeman, or U.S. President, and the girls chose actress,
nurse, or nun, maybe even saint. You’d think Mrs. M— would kind of snicker at
the utter predictability of it all, but she fawned all over them like they were
child geniuses. When she got to my poster she kind of turned her nose up.
“Where did you get this idea, TV salesman?” she asked, with a distinct note of
contempt in her voice. “We didn’t have any parent presentation on this. It
wasn’t in the film loops. You wanna sell <i>TVs?</i>”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I just shrugged. I had long before written Mrs. M— off
completely. She had lost my respect by tearing masking tape with her teeth, while
telling <i>us</i> not to do it; by chewing
me out for wiping my nose on my sleeve, which I knew full well was an
unassailable privilege of childhood; and by holding a special meeting with my mom
to discuss my poor attention span. (My mom described to me the entire
encounter. She’d been unconcerned, either because she didn’t see my daydreaming
as a problem at my young age. Confronted with the negative report, Mom
replied, “I’m sure he’ll come around eventually.” Mrs. M— slammed her fist down
on the table and retorted, “That time has got to be <i>now!</i>”)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, I wasn’t about to reassess my career goals: the
picture was already drawn. I asked Mrs. M— what she thought of the bicyclist in
my poster, seen through the window, frozen in time. Isn’t that cool? A lone rider
trapped forever in a two-dimensional depiction of life itself? Pedaling, and
yet going nowhere? Caught in the act of existence? Alas, it would take someone
with a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/05/ask-english-major.html" target="_blank">college degree in literature</a> to assemble the body of <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/03/from-archives-stem-vs-rhetoric.html" target="_blank">rhetoric</a> necessary to defend my picture, and I was just a dumb kid. I pointed at the
bicyclist, and said, “Look at him! He’s not on TV, he’s really there, through
the window!” Mrs. M— just rolled her eyes and moved on, freshly flabbergasted
by my idiocy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Even after this icy reception of my poster, I was kind of
proud of it, hanging right there on the wall with all the firemen, presidents,
nurses, and doctors. I remember feeling a strange kind of pride: nobody else
had a window in their pictures. And besides, Chris Phillips’ fireman looked
exactly like David Brown’s. Same ladder, same fire hose, same burning home in
the background, everything. Moreover, what I saw were a lot of hats. Fireman’s
hat (well, helmet), policeman’s hat, nurse’s hat. Like on “Sesame Street,” with
its “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gIjEdCootY" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">These are the people in your neighborhood” song</a>. Such simple, foolproof choices. Nobody had even <i>attempted</i> to capture the essence of simultaneity: the skew paths of
the featured persons (salesman, customer) vs. this unimportant background
character, who is unaware of the brazen, undiscriminating promiscuity of
existence, like a nameless renter in a giant apartment building who’s unacquainted
with the neighboring tenants. If nothing else, I derived a peculiar pleasure
from being the only future TV salesman in my whole class.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, I hadn’t heard the end of it yet. I guess it was one
thing for my mom to shrug off Mrs. M—’s criticism of me in a private
conference, but to have her kid’s utter lack of ambition showcased there in front
of all the others at Parent Teacher Night didn’t go down too well. Perhaps she was oppressed by all the proud parents there, all of them giddy in the
anticipation of their children’s futures, entranced by the obvious nobility
represented by their career goals. Firemen saving homes and families! Nurses
helping doctors! Doctors saving lives! And what was her kid planning? To
facilitate mass brain erasure by selling televisions?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When she got home Mom gave me a hard time about
it. She seemed disappointed, and possibly embarrassed. I could no longer be
cavalier about it… I had to face the evil of my ways. I took a hard look at
myself, and I didn’t like what I saw. A TV salesman … it <i>was</i> disgraceful. I hadn’t been brought up to sell TVs; our dad didn’t even <i>allow</i> us to watch TV! Since he was so seldom home to police this, he had
removed the knobs from the TV set so we couldn’t operate it, forcing us kids to
reach in with needle-nose pliers and endure powerful electric shocks! Officially at least, TV was beneath
our family’s intellect. So where had I gone wrong? How could I so breezily
trash my personal brand among my fellow students, not to mention with my
family? Was this what I stood for: a livelihood based on brainless
transactions, selling boob-tubes to people so ravenous for simple entertainment,
all I had to do was basically collect the money, like some schmuck working a
toll-booth?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My mom’s criticism was like catnip to my eavesdropping
brothers, who treated this like a major scandal, like I’d murdered somebody’s
pet or something. They endlessly mocked me for it, to the point that our dad
overheard (or had my mom actually told him?) and now he was all sore, too. Looking
back, it was kind of an amazing academic performance on my part: I’d made an
entire family feel bad. I was miffed at my parents for making such a big fuss,
angry at my brothers for teasing me, and felt bad about myself for having so
little ambition. My brothers, though delighted at the dustup, surely lost (even
more) respect for me; my parents felt bad about me, of course, and also about themselves, and perhaps about
my school. Perhaps my mom even wondered if my TV salesman ambition was rooted
in some kind of rebellion, lashing out against my dad’s prohibition of TV in
our household, in which case this shameful episode may have increased her
animosity toward him. As for <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/11/famous-last-words-part-ii.html" target="_blank">my dad</a>, who knew full well that he himself was perfect, any defect in us kids was
surely my mom’s fault, so he was probably almost as miffed at her as at me. I
think it takes a pretty special school project to do all that.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One thing was certain: all of this could have been avoided
if I’d just toed the line and gone the conventional path, deciding to be a cop
or fireman or doctor, instead of following my fancy. It’s a good thing I was an
arrogant little bastard and mostly uneducable, or I might have taken a bad
lesson from Careergate. Instead, I just kept muddling on in my clueless way,
shaken by the incident but not stirred to any action, such as trying to do
better. Story of my life, I guess.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
<p></p>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-7190204482980462482023-11-30T20:55:00.000-08:002023-11-30T20:55:16.315-08:00Because It Amuses Me: the albertnet Subhead<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My wife is starting a business, and recently read up on how
to build a good website. This has given her some ideas for albertnet, one of
which is to have some kind of subheading, beneath the masthead, that conveys the
nature of this blog. I guess the subhead is meant to be kind of a slogan, or a
mini-mission-statement. It should ideally answer the question of why the
business exists: i.e., what is the point?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Having been thus encouraged to apply this idea to my blog,
I’ve had to do some head-scratching. One result of this is the subhead you see
above. At least, you <i>should</i> see it
above, if I updated the template properly. In any case, you can see it below:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidSXI0icc18NChZugGTWUrR4YRK3xFr_fZTwy7GidFrylv9JF1DjysKpq0WjLwGNTMq8_XIejF3QwaoejPF1gPdBqmCwZ9P1Wk9F1QtqYHffW8f9qRquz_mtuO3ZfO_pW3kz7jZsugOKxWH-Lb_4jF3solkaX1ut53dwT0OXm1HLIs5iQUjhgi3F6kTT9n/s2403/New%20masthead%20for%20albertnet%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="671" data-original-width="2403" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidSXI0icc18NChZugGTWUrR4YRK3xFr_fZTwy7GidFrylv9JF1DjysKpq0WjLwGNTMq8_XIejF3QwaoejPF1gPdBqmCwZ9P1Wk9F1QtqYHffW8f9qRquz_mtuO3ZfO_pW3kz7jZsugOKxWH-Lb_4jF3solkaX1ut53dwT0OXm1HLIs5iQUjhgi3F6kTT9n/w400-h111/New%20masthead%20for%20albertnet%20.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />My thought process, including further examination of the
question “why albertnet,” follows below. If you’ve ever wondered what the hell
this blog is even about, this is your chance to (maybe kind of) find out.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Not a business</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First and foremost, albertnet is not a business. Since I pay
for web server storage and for <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/08/whats-in-domain-name.html" target="_blank">my domain names</a>, but receive zero revenue because I refuse to turn on <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/02/adnonsense.html" target="_blank">AdSense advertising</a>, this blog is actually a cost center for me. This means the answer to “why?”
can’t simply be “because money.” Meanwhile, I can’t call this is a non-profit,
pro bono type of business, because I have no way to tell if it’s actually
benefitting anybody. To date, this blog has had about 890,000 page views, which
pales in comparison to a great many blogs (though in absolute terms it strikes me
as a somewhat large number). I’ve posted over 700 times over a period of about
14½ years, so 890,000 views is not a lot of bang for the buck. I also don’t
know whether a page view represents somebody reading an entire post or just
glancing at it and deciding it’s not the Google result he was looking for, and
closing the page. So to assume I’m serving some market and satisfying readers
would be pure guesswork.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Does that mean I shouldn’t bother trying to promote my blog?
Not necessarily; after all, what writer doesn’t want to attract an audience? But
that doesn’t mean I have the time or patience to work much at it. After all,
technical tricks like search engine optimization and content marketing are not
nearly as interesting to me as, say, writing. So <i>what</i> if I double my page views? From the financial perspective, two
times zero is still zero. From the “actual reader” perspective, leading people
here does not make them read.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>What do readers want?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;">For <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/11/how-to-succeed-at-blogging.html" target="_blank">a blogger</a>—that is, the kind of writer who can’t simply look at book sales to see if he
or she is successful—page view counts might seem very valuable. Data mining is
certainly a popular practice in corporate America; I recall a big boss once
advising me, “Metrics are important in this space.” (Man, I think I actually
bruised my eye sockets at that moment, so forcefully did my eyes roll.) Another
time my director was counseling my boss and me on a tough decision we had to
make: “Go with your gut,” he said, and then—seeming to suddenly remember the
business <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/03/the-autocomplete-zeitgeist.html" target="_blank">zeitgeist</a> of the time— he quickly added, “but make sure it’s data-driven.” Um … okay.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;">Okay, fine, I’m poking fun at puffed-up
pronouncements here, not the data behind them; what does page view data actually
have to say? Could I use blog post popularity data like a mini-focus-group? Well,
consider that my most popular post of all time, as of today, is “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/09/spelling-focus-is-it-kindergartner-or.html" target="_blank">Spelling Focus: Is It ‘Kindergartner’ or ‘Kindergartener’?</a>” which has racked up over 11,000 views. Should I conclude that this the kind
of post albertnet readers love, and do more posts like it?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;">Well, not so fast. I think when
companies make data-driven determinations like this, they’re using the feedback
to try to react quickly to the market. But if this “Kindegart(e)ner” post were
a TV show, it’d have been canceled immediately, because it was initially
stillborn and generated practically zero page views for the first two years it
was up:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUhvb6wrvuQV1kTPDG2xsAolRm9hAisxQhPqOL4rLblJRoDaM_iX1sHaoGBm27V4DaTlG_BTwfO8V2nBHxx4o_R4duKzzrGgF7BP03aPb_wmQ8HeW_DjZCsDpH1zIjFRPemfPlDe74ohv2y9aiJebofunqDiyAxtcVzNuN3rAqBP4qeAcPOjCKp5Fhtw0/s1487/Kingergart(e)ner%20page%20views.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="1487" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUhvb6wrvuQV1kTPDG2xsAolRm9hAisxQhPqOL4rLblJRoDaM_iX1sHaoGBm27V4DaTlG_BTwfO8V2nBHxx4o_R4duKzzrGgF7BP03aPb_wmQ8HeW_DjZCsDpH1zIjFRPemfPlDe74ohv2y9aiJebofunqDiyAxtcVzNuN3rAqBP4qeAcPOjCKp5Fhtw0/w400-h209/Kingergart(e)ner%20page%20views.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />This isn’t an isolated
phenomenon: my most popular post of the past month (though it’s only so far
climbed to fifteenth overall), “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/04/selecting-bicycle-wheels-part-i.html" target="_blank">Selecting Bicycle Wheels – Part I</a>,” was largely dormant for over <i>nine years
</i>before suddenly gaining traction about six months ago. It’s been going
strong ever since, getting almost 1,700 page views (about 60% of its total over
time) in the last three months alone:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNDZ7lPAnFyFsZuLQpCY327PFdThrB_yezFKBuLge6oW4UtjiL-5ucy_Hey7dDNVT73boJeOirw6t62DVOOAVHntXJgLMZ2Gl1fUttDkui4usy27CgYUqSbwsljrlwhax2t0i5u-xMRakXmsucWfXQD3iVmP5lNbfBojg-5Gjj8U_U2A1d-bZL44ZA6jk/s1554/BikeWheelsPart1%20page%20views.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="784" data-original-width="1554" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNDZ7lPAnFyFsZuLQpCY327PFdThrB_yezFKBuLge6oW4UtjiL-5ucy_Hey7dDNVT73boJeOirw6t62DVOOAVHntXJgLMZ2Gl1fUttDkui4usy27CgYUqSbwsljrlwhax2t0i5u-xMRakXmsucWfXQD3iVmP5lNbfBojg-5Gjj8U_U2A1d-bZL44ZA6jk/w400-h201/BikeWheelsPart1%20page%20views.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />I see this again and again with
albertnet posts: “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/09/everest-challenge-pep-talk.html" target="_blank">Everest Challenge ‘Pep Talk’</a>” took six and a half years to go anywhere and is now my tenth most popular
ever; “The Problem With Soccer,” my eighth most popular, malingered for almost
a decade before building any momentum. So why should I put any stock in page
view stats, knowing that <i>any </i>of my
700+ posts could, theoretically, suddenly tip? All I can really glean from the
data is that albertnet posts are not timely. But then, I knew that.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;">Now, it’s tempting to think I
could set the numbers and timelines aside for a moment and simply look at the
topics of my most popular posts and try to figure out what they have in common.
Here are my top five of all time (as of today):</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2GcLsy18h4lEY68Y9KqkvXOluvEa4plzOBkhZ6BHMCsV931CzIfEmSDfWQojTKKIYssGMAexDj_0oC4V_FxQgjseu8UM3W6j_O3bnQkXLkleQF4SPzN510GRT6Dpbn49NIlvs7LX-YAOnpV7LOuXuBnsv5tCqKspm9gzEOxQs6rHBJo6eoM09o8cTzns/s1200/albertnetTop5posts.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="1200" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2GcLsy18h4lEY68Y9KqkvXOluvEa4plzOBkhZ6BHMCsV931CzIfEmSDfWQojTKKIYssGMAexDj_0oC4V_FxQgjseu8UM3W6j_O3bnQkXLkleQF4SPzN510GRT6Dpbn49NIlvs7LX-YAOnpV7LOuXuBnsv5tCqKspm9gzEOxQs6rHBJo6eoM09o8cTzns/w400-h161/albertnetTop5posts.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />Hmmm. No single theme is
jumping out at me. The top post is about <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/09/spelling-focus-is-it-kindergartner-or.html" target="_blank">spelling</a>. Second most popular is a news story about a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/08/new-cycling-world-record-set-in-berkeley.html" target="_blank">cyclist setting a world record</a>. In third place is an essay about <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/03/highbrow-vs-lowbrow.html" target="_blank">whether highbrow entertainment is actually superior to lowbrow</a>. Fourth goes to a harrowing personal history about <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/03/everything-you-wanted-to-know-about.html" target="_blank">having my balls shaved and
my <i>vas deferens</i> snipped</a>. And the fifth most popular is a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/04/corn-cob.html" target="_blank">poem about bicycle gearing</a>. In terms of topic, these posts almost couldn’t be more different.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;">Could it be some other
characteristic they share, that makes them popular? Well, I guess they’re all arguably
funny—but then, I try to find humor in everything I write about, and these
posts aren’t necessarily standouts in that regard. The one about the cycling
world record, for example, has a few decent gags but isn’t nearly as funny as,
say, “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/01/just-bunch-of-fart-jokes.html" target="_blank">From Farting Liberally to Liberal Arts: the Flatulence Files</a>,” which has performed dismally, with under 600 posts total over nine years.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;"><i>Should I </i>care<i> what readers
want?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;">When I look over those top five
albertnet posts, I can remember how each of them came about—and in every case, worrying
about whether the topic would attract readers never crossed my mind:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/04/corn-cob.html" target="_blank">corn cob post</a> was a result of a cycling teammate of mine ribbing me about the randomness of
my blog topics. As I wrote in the post’s introduction, he said, “You could
write an essay about each cog, or better yet, you could write a sonnet, an ode
to the corn cob!”</li><li>The <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/03/everything-you-wanted-to-know-about.html" target="_blank">vasectomy post</a> was simply a great yarn that demanded to be told; from the shaving of my
scrotum, to the mysterious ConMed Hyfrecator machine, to the mid-procedure power
outage, to the doctor declaring ominously, “I’ve got your vas,” the confluence
of events was practically literary entrapment</li><li>The “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/03/highbrow-vs-lowbrow.html" target="_blank">Highbrow vs. Lowbrow</a>” post came about because I’d wasted a bunch of money at a museum and wanted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i> to show for it, if only an
essay</li><li>The <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/08/new-cycling-world-record-set-in-berkeley.html" target="_blank">cycling world record post</a> almost didn’t happen … it seemed like an interesting opportunity to actually
report on some breaking news, but I was feeling lazy, and prevaricated before
finally deciding, what the hell, I’d go ride <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/04/ode-to-south-park.html" target="_blank">South Park Drive</a> a bunch of times with a wannabe world record holder</li><li>The “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/09/spelling-focus-is-it-kindergartner-or.html" target="_blank">Kindergart(e)ner”post</a> was simply to help out a curious friend, who puzzled over the spelling but
wasn’t as keen as I to dive down rabbit holes after arcane knowledge</li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 209.75pt;">The common thread you can discern
about those posts is that the likelihood of an enthusiastic audience wasn’t the
point. And why should it be? Writing for me is simply a <i>hobby</i>, and how many hobbies are measured by some worldly notion of success?
Does the fly fisherman care how many fish he catches (particularly if he always
releases them, as many do)? Does the bird watcher mainly do it for the bragging
rights? Does the Netflix binger hope his encyclopedic knowledge of “The Crown”
will bring him glory at the office water cooler? No … we do these activities simply
because we enjoy them.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The joy of not caring<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the end of the day, many if not <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/11/how-to-succeed-at-blogging.html" target="_blank">most bloggers are amateurs</a>. Many of us have probably considered writing for a living, but that means
pleasing our publisher and editor and getting worked up about what critics have
to say, and how well we’re selling. That sure seems like it could take the fun
out of the activity. If I always write with some potential readership in mind,
then I’m really doing this for <i>them</i>.
But since this is my hobby, why shouldn’t it be about <i>me? </i>And if others happen to find my stuff useful, funny, or insightful,
why not just consider that a bonus?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So if you’ve ever come to the end of an albertnet post—perhaps
this very one!—and thought, “Man, that really didn’t do it for me,” don’t be disappointed. This blog was never about you. It’s about me, and more specifically,
whatever I think it’d be fun to write about. And thus the answer to “why
albertnet?” is a simple one: “because it amuses me.” (I hope it happens to amuse
you, too.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-66164302782093216332023-11-22T23:58:00.000-08:002023-11-23T11:24:52.966-08:00Undeterred: A Critique of a Book About Life Without Free Will<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Is it responsible to review a book you haven’t even fully read?
Well, here’s a thought experiment: suppose somebody came out with a new book
about UFOs and in the introduction mentioned casually, “I never go UFO hunting
without dropping acid first.” You’d have a pretty good justification to dismiss
the book without even going out and buying it, right? Of course, bothering to
review it would seem beside the point … but what if it were an “instant <i>New</i> <i>York
Times</i> bestseller”? And what if you had reason to believe that thousands of
otherwise appropriately skeptical people might somehow embrace the book? What
if your family members decided that the denial of UFOs was a NASA conspiracy,
and resolved to start dropping acid regularly? Wouldn’t you want to weigh in?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Something kind of like this happened a dozen years ago with
Amy Chua’s irresponsible and stupid book, <i>Battle
Hymn of the Tiger Mother</i>. I wrote a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2011/02/battle-cluck-of-rooster-father.html" target="_blank">blog post criticizing her book</a> without having read it—but I did read the excerpt of it
in the <i>New York Times</i> which I felt
was enough. If Chua’s own distillation has enough wrong with it to fundamentally
undermine her argument, do we need to read the full book? (To make an analogy,
if you’re at a restaurant and your appetizer has a cockroach in it, do you need
to stay through the entrée and dessert to conclude the restaurant has a
problem?) Bestselling books in this vein have a way of smearing their overall
message across the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2018/03/the-autocomplete-zeitgeist.html" target="_blank">zeitgeist</a>, whether or not people engage with the source material. For example, my wife,
who also didn’t read Chua’s book, was somewhat swept up in the chatter around
it and started wondering aloud if we needed to start getting all tiger mother
on our kids’ asses. At that point I felt the need to stand up and say
something.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m feeling that again now about Robert Sapolsky’s new “instant
bestseller,” <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Determined-Science-Life-without-Free/dp/0525560971/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Determined: A Science of Life Without Free Will</a></i>. I read two profiles of Sapolsky,
which struck a nerve, and then I waded through enough of his book to take its
measure. The book is total drivel, and yet it’s clearly making a splash …
almost as though people are taking Sapolsky seriously.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In this post, I will delve into my issues with the book: not
just that it’s poorly written and reasoned, but why I disagree with its very
ambition. This examination will involve a lot of logic (something Sapolsky
occasionally dabbles in between bouts of self indulgent blathering). But first,
just as a warm-up and for your amusement, I’ll start with an irresponsible ad
hominem attack against him, since this blog prioritizes entertainment over
utility.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFIRXAMWB-v_Yf3IglImT_c2pxLfAzIuBKAVnVRbwHnPgVzvyOU4qZlfiFUKFgE8bCqrSkHw7blTMoueNfO2XOh4LXhBNTuZp80kiifYOcMPxrN8ShJgCJEAhIBDxuR9D4-7RihFbJG4RQEqZvs1NDoOByt-eMIiwL7thi5P-VeP17xKKvQioyojgLBxu/s1572/SapolskyByLindsay.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1572" data-original-width="1292" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFIRXAMWB-v_Yf3IglImT_c2pxLfAzIuBKAVnVRbwHnPgVzvyOU4qZlfiFUKFgE8bCqrSkHw7blTMoueNfO2XOh4LXhBNTuZp80kiifYOcMPxrN8ShJgCJEAhIBDxuR9D4-7RihFbJG4RQEqZvs1NDoOByt-eMIiwL7thi5P-VeP17xKKvQioyojgLBxu/w329-h400/SapolskyByLindsay.jpg" width="329" /></a></i></div><i><br />Irresponsible ad
hominem attack</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just look at that picture above, a drawing my daughter did of
the photo accompanying the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/16/science/free-will-sapolsky.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Sapolsky profile in the <i>New York Times</i></a>. Can’t you just imagine this guy
cornering you at a cocktail party and holding forth? I wonder how that beard came
to be. It could be he just has a weak chin, which would make his beard a better
idea than his new book, but probably the superabundant facial hair is more
about the intellectual air he hopes to achieve. I can picture him looking in
the mirror thinking, “Would I look more like a guru if I had a big, fluffy grey
beard? Or would I just look like Santa? How can I look more like Karl Marx?”
Maybe that’s why he also has the really long hair. Now, let me be clear, I
think long hair on a dude is totally fine, <i>when he’s young</i>. But an ageing adult needs to have a little
decorum. I mean, he’s got fricking <i>ringlets!
</i>Doe he use product in his hair? And check out the odd difference in
coloration between his beard and his hair … makes me wonder if he actually dyes
it. If so, how vain!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Also note his wise, world-weary expression … does he always
look like that, or only when he’s posing for a photo that will appear in the <i>New York Times</i>? Of course, it could be
the photographer saying, “Okay, that’s good, but could you try to look more
contemplative, maybe a little world-weary? Could we get, you know, a little
more <i>guru </i>going here?” In that case
Sapolsky shouldn’t have gone along with it. He should have just smiled
naturally, because he gets to be in the <i>Times</i>
and that’s a pretty big deal. But of course he needs to present this <i>persona</i>, so he stares gloomily and
intellectually off into the distance, little realizing that he does not, <i>cannot </i>convey an air of gravitas when
he’s wearing plastic clogs. With white socks. Sure, I have flip-flops I wear
around the house, but for the <i>Times</i> I
would dress up a bit, show a little respect. Look, Sapolsky, you might hang
around college kids but that doesn’t make you hip or cool. You’re trying to
shape widespread public perception of deep philosophical matters … try to be a
grown-up, would you please?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>One more heads-up</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Full disclosure: I hold free will to be a capacity people
should cherish, and to deny or even doubt its existence is to threaten our
ability to seize it. That is to say, anybody’s effort to discredit the
existence of free will invokes my ire on principle. (As I describe <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/06/ode-to-lomas-cantadas.html" target="_blank">here</a>, I frequently bring unnecessary physical suffering upon myself simply to <i>prove</i>,<i> </i>to myself, that I have free will.) So to be perfectly candid,
Sapolsky’s very intent (combined with his douche-y beard, vainglorious long
hair, and Stanford pedigree) made we want to hate him right off. Nevertheless,
as somebody truly interested in this topic (having read a number of books on
existential philosophy), I was willing to read what Sapolsky has to say, even
after reading the profile of him in the <i>New
York Times</i> and a <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/11/13/determined-a-science-of-life-without-free-will-robert-sapolsky-book-review" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">critique of his book in the <i>New Yorker</i></a>, both of which only deepened my sense
that he’s a tool.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alas, his book is really popular <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/03/welcome-to-albany-california.html" target="_blank">around here</a> so I couldn’t get it from the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/12/life-hacks.html" target="_blank">library</a>. (There are 35 holds ahead of me.) I don’t like to <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2011/02/death-of-bookstore.html" target="_blank">buy a book</a> unless I’m pretty convinced it’ll be good. Sometimes all this takes is a
paragraph ... if the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Cry-Me-River-T-R-Pearson/dp/1520413297?asin=1520413297&revisionId=&format=4&depth=1" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">opening to a book</a> is good enough, I will take a gamble on that alone. If a book doesn’t start off great, but I
still think it may have promise, I’ll read a few of the free sample pages
Amazon serves up. In the case of <i>Determined</i>,<i> </i>Amazon was unusually generous, and for
the first time ever I found myself longing for the end of the free pages. The excerpt
of this poorly written, poorly reasoned tract just went on and on, until—32
excruciating pages in—Amazon finally cut me off. Now, based on the two profiles
and the pages I’ve read, I’m prepared to say I’ve revised my initial opinion (that
Sarposky is a tool) to more precisely and accurately state that I find him a
self-indulgent, glib, preening old fool whose brazen dismissal of a vast body
of thought going back hundreds of years is the height of arrogance. There’s no
point trying to pretend this blog post is an exploration … it’s a take-down.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">(Note that I’m not being ageist here. I wrote “preening old
fool” because it’s sad how foolish Sapolsky still is despite the many years he’s
had available to him to have gained wisdom … years that he has apparently
squandered.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Thirty-two
excruciating pages</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Right off the bat, I have an issue with the title: <i>Determined: A Science of Life Without Free
Will</i>. What’s with “<i>a </i>science”? Science
isn’t supposed to be a realm where everybody gets to have his own version, his
own private belief system. It’s about building consensus, and improving our
understanding in this way. A scientist investigates, builds a hypothesis, proves
it in the lab, and then other scientists attempt to recreate the experiment and
either confirm or deny the findings. That’s why the normal phrase is “<i>the</i> science of,” not “<i>a</i> science of.” Contrast this to Robert
Pirsig’s <i>Zen and the Art of Motorcycle
Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values</i>. “An inquiry” makes more sense: you
would never have “<i>the</i> inquiry” since
the number of inquiries into a realm as general and squishy as “values” is
infinite. But science is supposed to be the leading edge of the best effort of
scientists to build a <i>common,</i> tangible
understanding of how the world works, based on experiments that produce data, which
describe and predict behaviors and other demonstrable phenomena. The phrase “a
science” suggests that Sapolsky doesn’t fully support the collaborative mission
that science is supposed to have.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rather than illustrating any specific line of scientific
examination, Sapolsky seems to use his reputation and authority as a biologist
and neuroscientist as a flag that he waves. His grand assertions really beg the
question. For example: “Once you work with the notion that every aspect of
behavior has deterministic, prior causes, you observe a behavior and can answer
why it occurred: as just noted, because of the action of neurons in this or
that part of your brain in the preceding second.” Here he includes a footnote
directing the reader to an introduction to neuroscience that he includes as an appendix
(which presumably we’ll ignore other than as a rubber stamp of his authority,
or else it wouldn’t be an appendix) and to another book he wrote on
neuroscience that he warns us is “agonizingly long.” It’s as though he’s saying,
“Yeah, there’s all this science behind understanding behavior but it’s really
complicated, so just take my word for it.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But even beyond how complex this science might be, let’s
back up a second: he’s asserting that we can explain <i>any</i> behavior in terms of deterministic, prior causes having to do
with brain neurons in the preceding second. Seriously? We could actually
catalog and describe all these neural events leading to the behavior? How could
we possibly chase them all down? But it gets worse: he goes on to say that
those neurons were activated in the minutes before the behavior, and that the
behavior was also influenced by hormones from hours to days before that, and
that the function of those neurons was influenced by experience and environment
in the preceding months to years, and by the person’s development in the womb
and what his or her pregnant mother was going through, and further by culture
that has evolved over decades, even centuries. So really, there’s no way we’re
actually “answering why the behavior occurred,” because who has data going back
that far? It’s only a theoretical explanation.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In terms of tying a behavior to past events, neurological
and circumstantial, I can suggest a simple scenario that defies the idea. Have
you ever been on the fence about an action you had to take, and decided to flip
a coin in order to decide? I think plenty of people do this, from time to time.
Our willingness to base an action on the outcome of a flipped coin flies in the
face of determinism. We have decided in advance to act based on the random
outcome of this coin-flip, thus the behavior that follows this flip cannot be
predetermined because until that coin is flipped, there is/are no predictive,
deterministic preceding event(s). Since the result of the coin flip is random, one
can’t go back and trace the resulting behavior to anything except the decision
of the coin-flipper to base his or her next decision on heads vs. tails. How is
that not freedom?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sapolksy doesn’t seem to begin with data and use it to lead
us towards a conclusion; rather, he starts with an attractive notion to get our
buy-in, so that perhaps so we’ll go easy on him when he builds his case. At the end
of his first chapter he asks us to imagine a college graduation ceremony
with all the happy students and their proud families milling about, and then
draws our attention to a (hypothetical) garbage collector in the back. He asks
us to consider the background of this garbage collector compared to that of the
graduates. He declares, “Trade every factor over which they had no control, and
you will switch who would be in the graduation robe and who would be hauling
garbage cans. This is what I mean by determinism.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What a smarmy, smurfy load of shit. Yeah, being born to
college graduates in a wholesome community surely <i>helps </i>a person’s educational prospects, but it doesn’t <i>determine</i> how far they get. It just
changes the odds a bit. Both my parents went to Berkeley; my dad earned a
Ph.D.; one of my brothers—though lucky enough to grow up in one of the best school
districts in the nation—dropped out of high school. Meanwhile, the rapper <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/01/workout-megamix-liner-notes-part-ii.html" target="_blank">Lil Wayne</a> (as he describes
in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/shorts/N94tw_wqXlA" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">this interview</a>) was raised in a school district so dangerous that his mom, upon seeing him packing
a gun in his backpack before heading to class, implored him to drop out, which
he then did. And yet, Lil Wayne (despite the distraction of a platinum-selling
music career) earned his GED and <a href="https://freepresshouston.com/the-significance-of-lil-wayne-graduating-from-university-of-houston/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">later enrolled at the University of Houston</a>. So there are two counterexamples, right off the top of my head. Sapolsky’s
little anecdote doesn’t effectively convey the gist of determinism. It’s
sentimental, simplistic, and twee.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This backwards-looking attempt at establishing causality
breaks down <i>so</i> easily upon close
inspection. How is it not free will that my brother Geoff moved to the
Netherlands? Is it fair to say that, having been born to the parents that he
was, with the genes that he had, developing as a fetus in the natal environment
that he did, growing up in the community that he did, and attending the college
that he did, there was no other possible outcome than relocating to Europe?
What about his identical twin brother, who—despite having the same parents, the
same genes, the same fetal environment, the same community, the same friends, and
the same (initial) college—stayed on this continent? Shouldn’t these two have
been deterministically pushed into the same inevitable decision about where to put
down roots?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But let’s assume that a person’s behavior <i>could</i> be tied to a pattern of neuron
activity and historical factors. How would the scientist determine, much less prove,
causality that is so airtight as to deny the possibility of free will? The
perfect test would be if the scientist could then use his understanding of the
precise mechanism of that behavior to make predictions about future behaviors
as well. If we’re confident we understand exactly why that man pulled that
trigger, shouldn’t we know his next move?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The last time I checked, biologists haven’t proven to be great
prognosticators of human behavior. (Business people have done okay here, in
terms of understanding basic principles such as are used in advertising, but
they don’t pretend to be scientists.) Doesn’t it seem like Sapolsky is overestimating
what science can do for his thesis? To put it another way, if Sapolsky really
thinks there is a solid scientific basis to his refutation of free will, why
shouldn’t his scientific findings be subject to peer review instead of just
published to a lay audience as a general interest book?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Actually, from what I can tell, Sapolsky didn’t even do much
of his own research for this book; it’s more of a survey of the existing stuff.
Well … <i>some</i> of it. Which brings us to
an overarching failure of logic in Sapolsky’s approach. He declares in his
first chapter that to accomplish his goal of convincing the reader there is no
free will, he’ll “look at the way smart, nuanced thinkers argue <i>for</i> free will, from the perspectives of
philosophy, legal thought, psychology, and neuroscience. I’ll be trying to
present their views to the best of my ability, and to then explain why I think
they are all mistaken.” Um ... what? He’s going to discredit <i>everyone</i> who disagrees with him? Sure,
his book is 528 pages long, but how is he going to evaluate even a moderately
representative sample of the existing literature across these four gigantic
fields? To be more honest he’d have to write, “I’m going to look at the way a
VANISHINGLY SMALL PROPORTION of smart, nuanced (BUT NOT TOO SMART OR NUANCED
SINCE I’VE CHOSEN TO INCLUDE ONLY THE ONES I THINK ARE WRONG) thinkers to
explain why I think THIS TINY SAMPLING of them are all mistaken.” His approach
only makes sense if he could refute all the great thinkers who’ve studied this
question, which is of course impossible: it’s like proving a negative.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, he digs himself in pretty deep with his stated intention
to base his argument on a glancing review of these four realms while pretending
that’s sufficient. Then, although he acknowledges that individual scientific
studies can’t disprove free will, he goes on to say, “But—and this is the
incredibly important point—<i>put all the
scientific results together, from all the relevant scientific disciplines</i>,
and there’s no room for free will” (italics his). Is he really purporting to
have done this? He sure hasn’t presented the findings of such a comprehensive
effort, which is no surprise because it would be simply impossible. ALL? ALL
SCIENTIFIC RESULTS? There’s no way. Again, what he’s really asserting is more
hypothetical; it’s like he’s saying, “I’ll bet if you looked at all the
scientific results you’d find they’d collectively deny free will. In fact I’m
sure of it. Just take my word for it.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If it seems like I’m accusing Sapolsky of essentially
cherry-picking his evidence: yes, I am. Consider that, as he willingly admits (in
both profiles I’ve read of him), he has denied the existence of free will since
he was thirteen years old: that is, since before he was educated and before his
brain had even fully formed. So although he’s using biology and neurology to
bolster his decades-old belief, he’s not doing so in the responsible manner of
a scientist exploring the matter—he began his research with his mind already
made up. It looks to me like a classic example of confirmation bias.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After his first chapter, which defines a lot of terms and
explains his approach, Sapolsky’s book gets increasingly boring and pointless.
He starts his second chapter with an exposition of one of the methodological approaches
scientists have taken, through various studies, to evaluate the existence of
free will. After a brief outline of this approach, Sapolsky concludes, “I think
that at the end of the day, these studies are irrelevant.” Why, then, does he
spend the next <i>ten pages </i>(well, at <i>least</i> ten—at this point the Amazon
sample mercifully ran out) describing one such study in excruciating detail?
How does simply knocking down other people’s work support his own improbable
conclusion? (It’s like two economists discrediting a typewriter keyboard layout
by basing their findings on a single previous study conducted about it, as I
describe <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/06/defendants-i-type-lot.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) I’m aghast at what passes for scholarship, and that this book is popular.
Perhaps it’s just like the <i>Tiger Mother </i>book
… it’ll be something to talk about at cocktail parties for a while because it’s
timely, and then it will sink out of sight forever.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Beyond his poor
execution</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As described above, one of Sapolsky’s stated goals is “to convince
you that there is no free will.” His second stated goal is “to take seriously
all the implications of there being no free will.” With this second goal he
seems to focus on whether or not we can hold people morally responsible for
their behavior in the absence of free will. He says free-will skeptics (like
himself) are “less punitive and more forgiving.” This seems to be at the heart
of why, and perhaps how, he was able to publish this book: he’s positioning
himself and his mission as a way to be a kinder and more liberal person, and as
readers we can (choose to!) join him. Don’t hate the guy who broke into your
car, he implies, because it wasn’t really <i>him</i>,
he didn’t <i>mean </i>to do it, it was just
the desperate position society put him in. So we’re sort of coaxed (or bullied)
into accepting Sapolsky’s position so we don’t come off like the heartless old-school
moralists who would throw a homeless man in prison for stealing loaf of bread.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The trouble is, such sentimental appeals cannot and should
not stand in place of actual intellectual rigor. The <i>New Yorker</i> writer Nikhil Krishnan, in <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/11/13/determined-a-science-of-life-without-free-will-robert-sapolsky-book-review" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">his review of <i>Determined</i></a>, questions Sapolsky’s assertion that free-will skeptics are less punitive
and more forgiving:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote>But he can’t really have meant that... If free-will
skepticism means never having to say you’re sorry, then it also means never
being forgiven. Forgiveness is, as much as vengeance, a concept that can be
applied only from within the first-person point of view. Sapolsky’s ethic of
forgiveness demands that we retain something of our old-fashioned belief in holding
one another responsible.</blockquote><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ah, but I’m delving again into the failure of Sapolsky’s
argument (because it’s just so easy!) when I’ve been trying to get into
something else: the ramifications of accepting his ideas and putting them into
practice.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My biggest issue with Sapolsky’s book is that if we truly
embrace his goals of 1) agreeing there is no free will, and 2) living according
to this belief, we are denying the possibility of making better choices. And
yet isn’t making better choices the noble purpose of some of our most important
human behaviors? Think of education, counseling, coaching, even self-reflection.
If our every move has already been decided, what’s the point in trying to be
better, by trying to choose better?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If we want to advance the argument that humans are slaves to
our brain chemistry, it seems like nicotine addiction would be the ideal poster
child. <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2946180/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">This NIH report</a>, describing how nicotine activates reward centers, and how it rewires the
brain of the addict, should be right up any neuroscientist’s alley:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote>Nicotine causes the release of dopamine in the mesolimbic
area, the corpus striatum, and the frontal cortex. Of particular importance are
the dopaminergic neurons in the ventral tegmental area of the midbrain, and the
release of dopamine in the shell of the nucleus accumbens, as this pathway
appears to be critical in drug-induced reward… Likewise, nicotine withdrawal is
associated with significant increases in intracranial self-stimulation reward
threshold, consistent with deficient dopamine release and reduced reward. The
decrease in brain reward function experienced during nicotine withdrawal is an
essential component of nicotine addiction and a key barrier to abstinence.</blockquote><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The nicotine addict, then, would seem to be a classic case
of somebody with no free will. As the same NIH report states, “Approximately
80% of smokers who attempt to quit on their own relapse within the first month
of abstinence, and only approximately 3% remain abstinent at six months.” And
yet, my brother—who had smoked for over forty years—decided exactly a year ago
that he had to quit, and he did. For this to happen, he had to <i>believe </i>that he could … that he could
fly in the face of statistics and his own fraught history with tobacco. But in
Sapolsky’s view, my brother doesn’t get any credit for his resolve and tenacity—that
is, for <i>deciding</i> enough was enough.
Are we to believe Sapolsky that for my brother to quit smoking was <i>predetermined</i> somehow, just like taking
up the nasty habit in the first place (even though he had the same parents I
did, and grew up in the same health-crazed community)? So my brother’s behavior
was all preordained, from the forty-year chemical addiction to the bold refusal
to put up with even one more day of it? Seriously?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What if Sapolsky’s book had come out a year ago and my
brother read it, decided he had no free will, decided to be more compassionate
with himself because it wasn’t his <i>fault </i>he
was a smoker, that he had no say in the matter, and that his lungs were already
doomed based on neurons, environment, and history? Would he have taken that
huge step of deciding (or, fine, <i>pretending</i>
to decide) to quit?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sapolsky seems to be trying to couch his worldview in being
fairer: in not holding criminals responsible for their crime, and in not
praising this or that lucky guy for his achievement. But we don’t <i>need</i> to deny the existence of free will
to be more fair. We can acknowledge that a person choosing between hunger and
theft was dealt, by society and history, a worse hand than the guy choosing
between a savings account and a mutual fund. The world isn’t fair … we get it. But
why not focus more on what all of us humans <i>can
</i>choose (or seem to choose) to do, like taking better care of our bodies,
our minds, our families? Why not behave as though we can improve, even if—worst
case and unbeknownst to us—our free will is just a placebo? I mean, who cares …
besides the preening, self-aggrandizing academic who needs to publish?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt; line-height: 115%;">. For
a complete index of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-68749522274040734122023-11-15T22:35:00.000-08:002023-11-18T13:52:42.736-08:00Thanksgiving Invitation Template & FAQ<p><a name="m_-4541913637603674990__MailEndCompose"><u>Introduction</u></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I
know how it is: you decide to host Thanksgiving, and next thing you know you’re
on pins and needles wondering who will actually deign to show up, since nobody
RSVPs anymore. (Or is that just my family?) Well, I know this may be a little late,
but help is on the way in the form of this handy template for the official
Thanksgiving invitation. This is useful even after you’ve issued the verbal
offer and the save-the-date, in case your people need a reminder or a little
prompting.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of
course you’ll want to tweak this a bit for your particular family situation;
for example, if you’re all football fans but backing opposing teams, you can
start the trash-talk early. Or, if all of your family get-togethers devolve
into ruthless character assassination, you can make light of that. Here are
some guiding principles for all invitations, before you proceed to the
template:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="mso-bookmark: m_-4541913637603674990__MailEndCompose;">Brand
it – this is more than a meal, more than a holiday, it’s an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">event<o:p></o:p></i></span></li><li><span style="mso-bookmark: m_-4541913637603674990__MailEndCompose;">Keep
it light – for example, don’t make too much fun of the vegans</span></li><li><span style="mso-bookmark: m_-4541913637603674990__MailEndCompose;">Make
it sassy – there will be plenty of cloying, sentimental speeches on the day
itself so there’s no need to start now</span></li><li><span style="mso-bookmark: m_-4541913637603674990__MailEndCompose;">Make
it firm – if you come off as too beseeching, you just look pathetic</span></li><li><span style="mso-bookmark: m_-4541913637603674990__MailEndCompose;">Provide
actual information – even if this goes against everything you stand for</span></li></ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYU_ZcOnKILFN-eM9sdxDSVhVvlECvYquyM2oBttgZeXuKkq8b4AXkV-OapvRJFp-tUGG6snySMP5MLYyAxZr2_OIJystc6BbiiID0uaGL06jnlGVC9_uem-NC2l5Hh4XAgNywdsLI_QXHfFpbpOSrY5e-s9aJeDDSEHqUebTVnK1IRjeJDcje7govE24/s2351/T'Giving.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1520" data-original-width="2351" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYU_ZcOnKILFN-eM9sdxDSVhVvlECvYquyM2oBttgZeXuKkq8b4AXkV-OapvRJFp-tUGG6snySMP5MLYyAxZr2_OIJystc6BbiiID0uaGL06jnlGVC9_uem-NC2l5Hh4XAgNywdsLI_QXHfFpbpOSrY5e-s9aJeDDSEHqUebTVnK1IRjeJDcje7govE24/w400-h259/T'Giving.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><u>Thanksgiving
invitation template</u></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hello
all you <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/12/family-shibboleths-glossary-of-albert.html" target="_blank">family</a> people,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know this is really late in the game (though I don’t know
what the game is, exactly) but anyhow, consider this your official invitation
to TGV’23 at the Albert Headquarters in <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/03/welcome-to-albany-california.html" target="_blank">Albany</a>! Please print out this email summons and bring it to
show at the door. (If you can turn this guest authentication concept into a
QR-code-driven thing, so much the better. Get your IT folks together with mine
and they’ll set it up.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As no other organizing principle presents itself I’ll make
the rest of this invitation an FAQ.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Shouldn’t it be called
TVG’23?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No, that was Uncle B—’s idea. I think he was referring to
“TV Guide” though I can’t imagine why he thought that made sense. TGV’23 is not
really an acronym, as all acronyms are passé.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>What do you hosts need
to know from me as you plan for TGV’23?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We need to know who
all is coming (including plus-ones) and who is bringing the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/11/bells-seasoning-key-to-thanksgiving.html" target="_blank">Bell’s seasoning</a>. So far we think we have [list of invited
guests goes here]. If anyone in that list is having second thoughts, dismiss
them immediately.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Has the turkey been
ordered?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, which means
nobody is allowed to <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2011/04/flakage.html" target="_blank">flake</a>.
We ordered a very special turkey. We reserved it, in fact, before it was born.
It was still in the egg. We met its parents. Since then we’ve supervised every
step of its lifecycle, from its incubation (the mother and father taking
turns), its early life (on a real grassy field, none of this fake plastic green
grass like with an Easter basket), to its entirely hormone-free organic-grain-fed
upbringing with plenty of opportunity to socialize. It is local, organic,
fair-trade, and hopefully large enough.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Is lodging included in
this deal?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">L— gets dibs on the guest room (which she may still
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/08/ask-empty-nester.html" target="_blank">anachronistically</a> refer to as “her” “bedroom”) and its magnificent new
king-sized guest bed. If you’re nice she might invite you to a slumber party
there. Other guests can fight over the legendary Bed of Sand down in the home
office. Beyond that, we have a reasonable amount of floor space and two large
sofas for those interested in the college-esque <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-ix.html" target="_blank">party-‘til-dawn experience</a>, and
if there are adventurous souls fancying a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/04/easy-camping-recipes.html" target="_blank">campout</a>, we have flat (albeit stone) surfaces in the
backyard and a large tent available. We would not be offended if one or more
parties were to seek a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/03/fiction-howard-johnsons-motel.html" target="_blank">motel</a>/hotel/AirBNB/VRBO, especially given the relatively
small number of bathrooms here (i.e., one).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I heard a rumor that
the men are encouraged to </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/10/from-archives-urination-poetry.html" target="_blank"><i>pee</i></a><i> in the backyard.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, but only in the planting beds and the fountain. And
please keep your micturition discreet so as not to scandalize the neighbors.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Does your new guest
bed have a name?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, we call it the Pound Cake Bed because the mattress is
so much like pound cake, it’s tempting to take a bite.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Is there plenty of
free parking?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, we have a remarkable abundance of street parking. If
your car is currently dripping oil, please notify us in advance and we will
provide carpet swatches.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>My car is a beautiful
Dodge Charger Super Bee and its exterior paint has been polished, waxed,
clear-coated, and festooned with glitter. Can I park it in your garage?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our garage was designed around a 1927 Model-T Ford and can
only accommodate a sub-compact car, and only then if we were to remove eight or
nine bicycles. So, no.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Have all the Albany Alberts
been </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/09/can-covid-anti-vaxxers-be-reasoned-with.html" target="_blank"><i>vaccinated</i></a><i>?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Triple-vaxxed against <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/01/covid-19-helping-teens-cope.html" target="_blank">COVID</a>, flu-shots up to date, shingles vaccines complete,
and screened monthly for cooties. No wonder we’re all practically autistic.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>When should we arrive?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wednesday seems reasonable. If anybody is flying, and the
airfares are lower earlier in the week or something, well then come earlier!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>When should we leave?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I reckon either on Sunday, or right after you break
something but before the breakage is discovered, or earlier if you have to, or
later if airfares go down or whatever. Just wing it, there are no wrong
answers.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I am kind of new to
this family and when you all get together, I can’t understand half the stuff
you’re saying. What gives?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fear not: I have put together <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/12/family-shibboleths-glossary-of-albert.html" target="_blank">this handy glossary</a> of Albert-isms.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Will there be </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/11/from-archives-thanksgiving-tales.html" target="_blank"><i>gravy</i></a><i>?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Look, there are <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/11/from-archives-thanksgiving-tales.html" target="_blank">some things</a> we just don’t joke about, okay?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Do you miss us, and
are you super-pumped about this, and will there be lots of baking (e.g.,
pumpkin pie, apple pandowdy), and should Uncle B— bring his biking gear (<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/09/cycling-shoes.html" target="_blank">cleaks</a>, </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/04/ok-calling-bike-clothes-kit.html" target="_blank"><i>angry biker costume</i></a><i>, and </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2011/01/bike-helmets.html" target="_blank"><i>helmet</i></a><i>), and will there be long hikes, and can people pursue their own
activities as desired, and will there be leftovers?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and maybe.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Will there be dad
jokes?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Does the pope wear a funny hat?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Was that a dad joke?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No. That was a cinematic reference. A dad <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/01/just-bunch-of-fart-jokes.html" target="_blank">joke</a> would be more along the lines of “Two peanuts
were walking down the street and one of them was assaulted.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I heard you have a </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/08/adopting-kitten-in-modern-era.html"><i>cat</i></a><i>. Was it genetically modified to be hypoallergenic?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No, <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/02/ode-to-cat.html" target="_blank">Freya</a> was
conceived the old fashioned way by a couple of strays. However, she has a
subcutaneous RFID transmitter in case she gets lost, and because we added our
credit card number to her online profile, we can use her as a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/11/alternative-payment-methods.html" target="_blank">mobile wallet</a>. Ask for a demo! (As for anyone with a cat
allergy, Benadryl is on us!)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Why do you use so many
exclamation points?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because I’m so doggone excited about TGV’23!!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>If I’m honest, half the reason I’m even coming is so I can
visit San Francisco with my plus-one. Is it a reasonable drive, and will my car
get broken into?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If your car is a Prius, its catalytic converter <i>will </i>be
stolen, even if you only park it out front of our house. But you’re in luck
because with the local <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/04/from-archives-bart-opinion-card.html" target="_blank">BART</a> train system you can reach San Francisco in just
25 minutes, and the city is totally walk-able. You’ll have a blast!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>How soon do you need
to know we’re coming?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh, we already ordered the turkey, so you’re coming. You’re
definitely coming. You better. But we don’t need any official total. It’s not
like we have to pull permits or something.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Do you have any glue
sticks?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As far as you know, no. We don’t need a repeat of what
happened <i>last </i>year.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Will there be any
strange, nonstandard </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/10/easy-recipes-for-college-kids.html" target="_blank"><i>dishes</i></a><i> that will make me feel uneasy?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You mean like those weird tiny onions in the saliva-like
sauce your ex-stepmother served? You bet! (Kidding! I never asked for the
recipe, needless to say.) We’re sticking to the classics, mostly, though we’ll
roast a couple of chickens (just to be “disruptive”).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Can we plan to burn
off </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/12/quasi-south-beach-diet-for-morons.html" target="_blank"><i>all those calories</i></a><i> by hitting the malls on </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/12/the-black-friday-that-wasnt.html" target="_blank"><i>Black Friday</i></a><i>?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Only if you really love window shopping. You probably
wouldn’t enjoy actually buying anything here in <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/03/welcome-to-albany-california.html" target="_blank">Albany</a> because have we some of the highest sales tax
in the nation. (But it’s all good … I voted for that tax hike, and countless
others.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Isn’t the name,
TGV’23, designed to summon the spirit of Train
à Grande Vitesse since you love </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/08/why-train-travel-is-better.html" target="_blank"><i>high-speed rail</i></a><i>, </i><a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip.html" target="_blank"><i>France</i></a><i>, and so forth?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Aha, you got me!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, I guess that pretty much <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/10/teaching-multiplication-to-kids.html" target="_blank">sums it up</a>. Please let us know if you’re coming, etc. and
if you have any questions I didn’t think of.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Love,<br />Evil Uncle Dana</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Email
me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">. For a complete index
of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
<p></p>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-9984809926599298842023-11-08T22:49:00.000-08:002023-11-08T22:49:04.068-08:00From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume X<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Introduction</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the tenth
installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I
is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/12/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-i.html" target="_blank"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">here</span></a>, Volume II is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/01/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-ii.html" target="_blank"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">here</span></a>, Volume III is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/02/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-iii.html" target="_blank"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">here</span></a>, Volume IV is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/04/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-iv.html" target="_blank"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">here</span></a>, Volume V is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/11/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-v.html" target="_blank"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">here</span></a>, Volume VI is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/02/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-vi.html" target="_blank"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">here</span></a>, Volume VII is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/06/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-vii.html" target="_blank"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">here</span></a>, Volume XIII is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/07/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-viii.html" target="_blank"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">here</span></a>, and Volume IX is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/from-archives-bits-bobs-volume-ix.html" target="_blank">here</a>. (The different volumes have little
or nothing to do with one another.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As with the last few
installments, these are taken from ancient emails, back when I archived them as
simple text files in the mistaken belief I’d be able to keep up with the
practice. It didn’t last long, but has yielded some fun finds from a bygone
era. I wrote all these when I was living in San Francisco, before moving to the
burbs and becoming a parent.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2kFHlSV-turhnX3cFO8q7fg2IPB-fe8CedcDWoexxgVa6076P_LxdUfIj1sKDhotdQwFiGdwjLFCt11x_AziYICsP9VsovToxXFWEEUN-K8bdIQKgM2GcKPqkfaLg5jCMDzryc_F5PTOU-DbEVRT1vt0XXj1G79-GrunDYlTSSauIMx5OO7W4UZRVo41/s2886/DanaMaxApt2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2033" data-original-width="2886" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2kFHlSV-turhnX3cFO8q7fg2IPB-fe8CedcDWoexxgVa6076P_LxdUfIj1sKDhotdQwFiGdwjLFCt11x_AziYICsP9VsovToxXFWEEUN-K8bdIQKgM2GcKPqkfaLg5jCMDzryc_F5PTOU-DbEVRT1vt0XXj1G79-GrunDYlTSSauIMx5OO7W4UZRVo41/w400-h281/DanaMaxApt2.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />December 26, 1994</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">[Having recently
finished a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/08/from-archives-bike-tour-journal.html" target="_blank">9-month bike tour</a>] I’m still <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/from-archives-techcorp-files-part-i.html" target="_blank">interviewing for a proper corporate-type job</a>. In the meantime I’ve been working odd shifts at the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/07/from-archives-bike-shop-wheelchair.html" target="_blank">bike shop in Berkeley</a>,
just to feel like I’m not a totally hopeless unemployed person. It’s a pretty
ridiculous commute, first biking up and over California Street which has got to
be at least a 15% grade, and then all the way under the bay on the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/04/from-archives-bart-opinion-card.html" target="_blank">Bart</a>, for the typically paltry pay you get at a
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/09/myth-of-angry-bike-mechanic.html" target="_blank">bike shop</a>. Still, it’s diverting and often fun. For
example, on Christmas Eve, a bike builder named Daniel, who has been on
suspension without pay until further notice for sloppy work, brought in a
12-pack of Heineken, probably as a brown-nosing move. We threw it in the
fridge, and brainstormed ways to get the owner, M—, to let us drink them
on the job. M— was in a holiday mood, which was good; earlier, I’d “reminded”
him of a policy of always buying lunch for members of the staff who wore staff
t-shirts on Christmas Eve, and he went along with it. Well, by mid-afternoon
the mad Christmas crowds were getting to me and the boys, and I proposed to M—
the idea of discreet alcohol consumption to carry us through. M— said, “What,
there’s beers!? Cool, gimme one.” Alas, it appeared we’d have no way to open
them, lacking a bottle opener, but I grabbed a Maillard Helicomatic lock-ring
tool and it worked great. In fact, it soon dawned on me that one half of the
tool does the lock-ring, and the other is in fact nothing else but a bottle
opener. You gotta love the French. Well, M— proceeded to walk out on the
sales floor, beer in hand, and sell a bike. Needless to say it was a
free-for-all after that.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>January 1, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I guess I forgot to
give you my (kinda) new street address: it’s below. I had some fun moving in
here. Our street is fairly flat, but our-cross street, Filbert, is crazy steep.
They don’t call our neighborhood Russian Hill for nothing; our hills are as
oppressive as Russia herself. Trucks and tour buses are prohibited on Filbert but
that didn’t stop me from driving up it in the 14-foot U-Haul I rented. Its
diesel engine was taxed to the limit, and I had this breathtaking, terrifying,
yet oddly giddy feeling of impending doom. Halfway up—and too late to turn
around—my inner ear started giving me (non-verbal) warning messages that the
truck was about to pitch over backwards and tumble down the hill, end over end.
It was such a fearsome feat that I almost got an erection. I held my breath and
reassured myself with the fact that <i>this</i>
time, I’d bought the full insurance. Anyhow, I made it over, down the other
side on compression (the engine shrieking like it was gonna throw a rod), and
then, as a final flourish, proceeded to parallel-park that baby in one of the
toughest neighborhoods for parking in the entire city.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 58.8pt;"><i>March 13, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 58.8pt;">I am very gratified to get your response. The kind of honesty I
indulged in via my letter to you, calling you out as I did, was admittedly dangerous—the
recipient of such a letter can either take the painful, self-effacing route
(which you did), or delude himself and continue to hide behind the falsity of his social veneer. This latter type, like a blindfolded tyke who has yet to
learn object permanence, will assume that because he can’t see the truth, that
it can’t see him. Of course such behavior is completely pathological. Right now
I’m thinking of J— S—, whose insatiable desire to be cooler than me back in
high school took the form of dissing me, like some kind of human sacrifice to
the gods of cool. I thought to myself, “J—, can’t you do better than that? It’s
not hard to be cooler than <i>me</i>—why
don’t you try to be cooler than somebody who actually <i>is </i>cool? Like the Fonz? I mean, seriously … cooler than <i>me?</i> What kind of ambition is that?” I
was originally drawn to J— as a friend, back in elementary school, because he
was such a bold, unapologetic nerd. Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. Through
what he probably thought was a social apotheosis from lowly dork into
“happening dude” (his favorite phrase), I witnessed the slow, cancerous death
of a personality.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 58.8pt;"><i>May 2, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 58.8pt;">Thanks for the
warning about the virus! I’ve always wondered whether those anti-virus programs can detect viruses that come over e-mail.
Fortunately, almost all my e-mail comes from trusted friends and relatives
anyway. I did, however, receive a “junk mail” message at work. I guess business
solicitations are frowned upon on the Internet, but on CompuServe [how I get
and send e-mail], who knows, maybe anything goes. Anyway, I forwarded your warning message to everybody in my e-mail list (about 20 people).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, yeah, e-mail sure is cool. It’s been wonderful to be able to write
my brother Geoff without waiting for the normal three weeks or so it takes the
postal service to carry physical mail to the Netherlands. Maybe I’ll get a
sound card for my PC and record my actual voice, and send the recording as a
binary file; Geoff could hear a reasonable computer facsimile of my voice on
the other end! Of course that would be more of a parlor trick than anything
useful. You know, the strangest thing about e-mail is that my dad, who by all
means ought to be a master of this technology, has not actually joined up. And
yet he has the computer, and the mind, for it. Bizarre.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 58.8pt;"><i>August 6, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 58.8pt;">You know what? Every time I make my Mexican rice, I think of the time I
made it at your place in NYC, and scorched it. The horror! I am certain that
you threw away the leftover rice, because it was, well, inedible. I only hope
you didn’t have to throw away the pot since I’d blackened it so badly. I keep
thinking about what a disaster that was. I say all this to my shame. I guess
what I’m saying is, you should really come out to San Francisco so that I can
try again with the rice, and show you that it really is good when the right
ingredients and familiar kitchen equipment are on hand. I could send you back
with a new pot, even. So if you get the chance, please come. Until then, I
suppose you can just curse my name.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 58.8pt;"><i>October 24, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 58.8pt;">Using the formula <i>f=mgh</i>, and my stopwatch and altimeter data, I have
calculated my power output for the climbs I biked up today: over a period of
16:30, I averaged 0.37 horsepower. But what does that mean? Does it mean I have
a third of the strength of a horse? Well, not really; I don’t think horsepower
applies to horses in the real world. But we do use horsepower to describe
certain things. For example, my output was .0037 times the horsepower of a 1985
Volkswagen Jetta, I happen to know. And it would be more than enough to power a Hoover
Mighty Might vacuum cleaner. If that’s not interesting to you, consider that
0.37 horsepower translates into 272 watts. That tells us my output is enough to
power one of our chandeliers <i>and</i> a
desk lamp.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>November 1, 1995</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why yes, I’ve been
to House of Nanking many times, and thanks for asking. I guess I can’t really
recall what my favorite dishes are there, as I try to mix it up each time.
Until recently, my strategy was to spend my time in line asking everybody else
what they usually get. But the last time, I was in the mood for chow fun and
asked the waiter, who is also the owner, if they had it. (In my experience, you
can ask for just about anything, including chili mac, at a Chinese restaurant
and they’ll have it, even if it’s not on the menu. Not that I have ever
actually asked for chili mac. I’m <i>just
sayin’</i>.) Well, the owner looked at me as if I were some kind of uncultured
rube (which I may well be). “No, chow fun is white-man food!” he laughed. “This your
first time here?” I said, “Uh … no.” He nodded and said, “I’ll set you up.”
What then transpired you can well imagine, as you described your own Nanking
dining experience so well in your last epistle … I need say nothing more. I
love that place. It’s always worth the wait. I like the strange vegetables that
they use—yams, for example. Totally unique (plus I normally hate yams). As far
as the place being greasy, sure, it’s greasy, as Chinese food tends to be, but
compared to most places, it goes down (and stays down) pretty darn well. Man.
Now I can’t get that place off my mind.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMh74aTdVos4hpilhJSZMpITgDhV9SipVgkgUN_28yeUvItTN57qvxxLIkz5Ljr-ckM7Fft1nLKNwc7IUSy1YXnH-Zr8rydVvz-1KDcGEtQwM3ZkYafOR8o85LtZGcKtDMMMGRvdKiCWEWj-CCEnVxXCj2m5uCNjETlzHP_WLN2Rm3_SiDFVSA0BqFC5uF/s640/BrothersNanking.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMh74aTdVos4hpilhJSZMpITgDhV9SipVgkgUN_28yeUvItTN57qvxxLIkz5Ljr-ckM7Fft1nLKNwc7IUSy1YXnH-Zr8rydVvz-1KDcGEtQwM3ZkYafOR8o85LtZGcKtDMMMGRvdKiCWEWj-CCEnVxXCj2m5uCNjETlzHP_WLN2Rm3_SiDFVSA0BqFC5uF/w300-h400/BrothersNanking.JPG" width="300" /></a></i></div><i><br />August 27, 1996</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">How cool, I just
figured out how to hook the CD-ROM in my computer into my boom box. It works
great—so it looks like I bought computer speakers for nothing. Oh well. Now I
can play CDs, which I never could before. Only problem is, I only own two CDs
and they were both freebies that E— got from her work. I guess I could check
out CDs from the library and tape them. Or of course I could do like everyone
else and just go to the record store and buy music, but E— and I are trying to
save up for a house one day, which is no easy feat in this area. We looked at a
2-bedroom condo a few doors down and it’s $250,000! There are 1-bedroom condos
on top of Russian Hill for $1 million … as if! Sausalito is probably only
slightly cheaper than San Francisco, and we’d have to pay $3 a day to commute
in over the Golden Gate Bridge (not to mention fighting the traffic … no thanks).
So we have to be pretty frugal while we figure out where, one day, we might be
able to afford a place.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>December 2, 1996</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just had the stomach
flu. As if in some awful parody of the three-squares-a-day rule, I deposited my
Thanksgiving dinner, in three installments, into the toilet (out the front
end). Damn!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>December 23, 1996</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In reply to your
question:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">>>You’re set
in Internet EtheReal Estate, hottest property going <br />>>(the new frontier).
But still one question: where do you put <br />>>the relatives when they come to
visit?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, it’s really
pretty BASIC. First, I should say that my family members aren’t exactly queuing
up to visit me. But when one or two of these characters feels the need to
offload, I’m happy to let them nest in any free partition in my home. I help
download their luggage (we have a little cache to store any valuables they
might have). If they stay the night, I have a strange kind of cot I fashioned out of a kind of braided fiber (a web, you might say) that I’ve
stretched over a mainframe. I have a nice spreadsheet for the cot, and some
other soft wares, to make guests as comfortable as possible. Usually I keep the
bedding compressed, but sometimes I set it up just for CIX and floppy down on it
myself.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’d really like to
keep my domain open, but I normally limit it to friends and family. I mean,
entertaining is a real effort for me—I guess I’m just not a natural-born
server. Multi-tasking is hard for me so I just
can’t monitor everyone all the time. I struggle to be a good host sometimes, and some guests I don’t like the slightest bit. Most are basically OK, but many just don’t observe the proper protocol. I can handle it if they’re not PC, but I won’t
tolerate bad language. In fact, the next time I get a cursor, he’d better be ready to run, because I swear I’ll boot him!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Email
me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">. For a complete index
of albertnet posts, click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIoTfJk7ConX2u-1p-lbSse8dVYyXGPi8ATpzQSiscI91Uy7xgFun2K7-VHueFm_-eIs7JGpafAunb8p4m79Ba39mIJoDIyH6NeFTKZF1h-HGIW_Yt4IcNb-hVoQLO7Zl4JHkioOM4l09bC3f9HdV-rKw7gi1en9YuOhQ5rD4hQ-Nsmd-4uGZf2typVsyx/s851/About%20the%20author%2011-08-2023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="851" data-original-width="449" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIoTfJk7ConX2u-1p-lbSse8dVYyXGPi8ATpzQSiscI91Uy7xgFun2K7-VHueFm_-eIs7JGpafAunb8p4m79Ba39mIJoDIyH6NeFTKZF1h-HGIW_Yt4IcNb-hVoQLO7Zl4JHkioOM4l09bC3f9HdV-rKw7gi1en9YuOhQ5rD4hQ-Nsmd-4uGZf2typVsyx/w338-h640/About%20the%20author%2011-08-2023.JPG" width="338" /></a></div>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-46131167196483898622023-10-31T23:27:00.001-07:002023-11-01T10:19:13.577-07:00Epic Trans Alps Cycling Trip - Part VI<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ll bet I know just what you’re thinking: “Damn it, Dana,
stop living in the <i>past!</i>” And it’s
true, I can’t seem to stop blogging about a week in France that ended over a
month ago. The cycling legend Eddy Merckx once said, “Compared to cycling, life
is much easier,” and he might as well have added “though less interesting.”
Frankly, nothing I’ve done since my Epic Trans Alps trip has been nearly as
blog-able as this, so here I go again. But I promise this is the last lap. Here
I tell the tale of the final day of the tour, and my unspectacular meltdown on
Alpe d’Huez.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">(If you’ve somehow missed the rest of this series, Part I is
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Part II is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip_30.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Part III is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-iii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Part IV is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-iv.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and Part V is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-day-v.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Breakfast</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is only because breakfast is so good at a fine French
hotel that I would ever bother to write (home or here) about it. But it was a
big deal for me, especially on Day 7 of this tour, because I was pretty
convinced the rest of the day would be a fairly miserable slog through the cold
and wet. The forecast was for persistent rain and drizzle, and I was pretty
well knackered from the previous six days. I went into this meal figuring it
would be the highlight of my day. Here’s the view out my window that morning:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCY2it8-c6zr3ghdVbJpom0HmRQBcGJlYCXdfwqKwvPTI3MWqncd6e_ytYtbffyUj0CJWlzt7kCeBpm9s5xsnzLz_EksgWb1W23tJrwDuxMnxTwQog1tS88j_F27A8HdSNJISUqsPaGP5YukdHhZNdL7ym6hAxMHi75FmuhawamJyaICJYCJVaLA6eDip/s1613/WetMorning.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1613" data-original-width="907" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCY2it8-c6zr3ghdVbJpom0HmRQBcGJlYCXdfwqKwvPTI3MWqncd6e_ytYtbffyUj0CJWlzt7kCeBpm9s5xsnzLz_EksgWb1W23tJrwDuxMnxTwQog1tS88j_F27A8HdSNJISUqsPaGP5YukdHhZNdL7ym6hAxMHi75FmuhawamJyaICJYCJVaLA6eDip/w225-h400/WetMorning.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />This time there was no hi-tech coffee machine; a guy at the
bar asked what I’d like. This is a bit like a barber asking me <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/10/from-archives-haircut-gone-wrong.html" target="_blank">how I want my hair cut: the answer is, “I don’t fricking know, okay</a>? You’re the professional, <i>you </i>figure
it out!” <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip.html" target="_blank">As I blogged before</a>, coffee in France mystifies me. I wanted to ask for an Americano but
apparently only Americans know what that is. I think I asked for a latte but
who cares, when the pastries are really the point? The problem was, for the
first time all week, there weren’t any. I was about to panic when one of the
hotel folks said, perhaps in French, that the patisserie hadn’t yet delivered
them. This is about like saying, “Soon, you can look forward to your happiness
quotient doubling.” So I created this basic plate just to tie me over until the
pastries.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsc4pr3mHUBAtC6ZMpqIfpjHHAYESq8k8uL8gRQn_3uVqlfO80qwl2FswcbdVWRb2BgCyPn4B13z2XPsC-XYeCdofOG8BTqusq5VupLykEypvgkmI3SrzVcL4kCJX9f2d-NMhMlxROHFeGq9UfVa7fnjAmcM9H2vUHfuQHOmyJRg7jH61vs7u_K0guCg9x/s1318/Brekies1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1318" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsc4pr3mHUBAtC6ZMpqIfpjHHAYESq8k8uL8gRQn_3uVqlfO80qwl2FswcbdVWRb2BgCyPn4B13z2XPsC-XYeCdofOG8BTqusq5VupLykEypvgkmI3SrzVcL4kCJX9f2d-NMhMlxROHFeGq9UfVa7fnjAmcM9H2vUHfuQHOmyJRg7jH61vs7u_K0guCg9x/w400-h275/Brekies1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Pretty tasty for just the opening act! I thought that little
wrapped “Président” item would be cheese, but it was butter—the first butter
I’d had for my bread all week. The meat was sufficiently tasty that I didn’t
feel jaded, despite having eaten cured meats two to three times a day all week.
And the bread: well, just look at it … glorious. And then, after a few minutes,
the pastries arrived. There was a bit of a stampede for the basket but there
was plenty to go around. I’ve never had such fresh pastry and it was as good as
it looks. I could have roared with pleasure.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNL0po1uyeZKT0DmaNAyqo1Bd3rtlrcYTLly2ivZNdo6gcbLZXLSI1-QBdpK1MBBAsZTCF_pp4ku5SIrpDgbqkZ_5zU0fQ9yh7iaGX6Yp8R8b8D8VbE0d9yo8yggSTTvRKz5V86FRL4UkHvOEtGDnzLl1S71P0gBOsVYPI2TO0NOC99lwsIAXeyo-hRuUn/s1276/Brekies2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1276" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNL0po1uyeZKT0DmaNAyqo1Bd3rtlrcYTLly2ivZNdo6gcbLZXLSI1-QBdpK1MBBAsZTCF_pp4ku5SIrpDgbqkZ_5zU0fQ9yh7iaGX6Yp8R8b8D8VbE0d9yo8yggSTTvRKz5V86FRL4UkHvOEtGDnzLl1S71P0gBOsVYPI2TO0NOC99lwsIAXeyo-hRuUn/w400-h284/Brekies2.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Col de Lautaret</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A couple thousand calories later, it was time to face the
music. Leg warmers, arm warmers, thermal base layer, long-sleeve jersey, and my
big black Stay-Puft Marshmallow Jacket … it all came out. Fortunately I was in
good company: true to their word, Craig and Ian hung back with me as we set out
on this (albeit only Category 1) climb, the Col du Lautaret. The evening before, upon hearing the
weather forecast, I’d considered dropping back to the Trans B group that only
does two climbs instead of three, but my pals promised to ride with me to
provide moral support, no matter how feeble my pace.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We were surprised to see that several peaks which hadn’t had
snow on them the day before now did.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoN2_V6HZ7VO_LtjUow1ZjBlZoeqMdcQ_wIhf6Nwnf6MMKC0g7_nsYWqf1UR3trKECyVM4IM8-XO4cPnLZ2e0j8tJR3LMx08SacsMhJyX_jDN99QpUX6gySeAx5Xg856mYkm8SiNR3I4CcZyTCifEhbR4-_q1pOPmj3LLVJIpMi6PmtkyYGkNeavjIcxSu/s1613/SnowyPeaksLautaret.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoN2_V6HZ7VO_LtjUow1ZjBlZoeqMdcQ_wIhf6Nwnf6MMKC0g7_nsYWqf1UR3trKECyVM4IM8-XO4cPnLZ2e0j8tJR3LMx08SacsMhJyX_jDN99QpUX6gySeAx5Xg856mYkm8SiNR3I4CcZyTCifEhbR4-_q1pOPmj3LLVJIpMi6PmtkyYGkNeavjIcxSu/w400-h225/SnowyPeaksLautaret.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The Col de Lautaret, from this direction, honestly isn’t that
big a deal. It’s only 4%, albeit for over seven miles. A bit of a slog, of
course, but we enjoyed the view. Here, you can see that Ian’s knickers aren’t
even in a twist.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVImLf7ndxTYn7q4pKPCaA3Ye78nyi_lWP-zV-x3jGc8E3UOpHloC7t5OKLEOfjfD1ZdbIF8CVq2BiirXcIYJ46wh26SELeSwv7RoQOuhZZwMyk2_svoxteQfkX_oUf1mLuFNDtALKVQqlY-scANDWxuNfXrwSq_pNZ9EE8BkWEssV6WV-nKV3RnQxHMV4/s907/IanDanaLautaret.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="862" data-original-width="907" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVImLf7ndxTYn7q4pKPCaA3Ye78nyi_lWP-zV-x3jGc8E3UOpHloC7t5OKLEOfjfD1ZdbIF8CVq2BiirXcIYJ46wh26SELeSwv7RoQOuhZZwMyk2_svoxteQfkX_oUf1mLuFNDtALKVQqlY-scANDWxuNfXrwSq_pNZ9EE8BkWEssV6WV-nKV3RnQxHMV4/w400-h380/IanDanaLautaret.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Why do cyclists wear knickers? What’s the point in not
taking the fabric all the way to the ankle? Is it to save weight? Or is it to
create a cold patch on your leg to help you appreciate that you’re not just in
shorts?<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, fine, I’ll try to speed up the report or we’ll be here
all day. Eventually we reached the Lautaret summit, where it meets the turnoff
to the fearsome <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-day-v.html" target="_blank">Col du Galibier we’d braved the day before</a>. I guess all the stickers on that sign are what passes for graffiti in
France. (In much of the American West, the sign would be full of bullet holes.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDdBpR6xtVirxg18djy9B5g25B5ubXYpvnresXJgZgjPJsl77FBd2_hnxzRXmzEFs5q7R0OtYMIEj2EHKqbWZjb7cwr9uCgalpA4OIM1shEAbvdRtsE9rcobCQrurXnSHjkpY5Uwz6efzoP4rdjvUsDdDXT6qYPNu08z3dI5GabH8NidKAqfBHVy0bSkaU/s1492/SummitLautaret.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="1492" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDdBpR6xtVirxg18djy9B5g25B5ubXYpvnresXJgZgjPJsl77FBd2_hnxzRXmzEFs5q7R0OtYMIEj2EHKqbWZjb7cwr9uCgalpA4OIM1shEAbvdRtsE9rcobCQrurXnSHjkpY5Uwz6efzoP4rdjvUsDdDXT6qYPNu08z3dI5GabH8NidKAqfBHVy0bSkaU/w400-h238/SummitLautaret.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We set off on a fairly long descent … another fun one,
except for the long, poorly lit tunnels. It’s odd … when I raced here in <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/08/from-archives-riding-la-marmotte-part-ii.html" target="_blank">2003</a>
and <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/11/from-archives-return-to-la-marmotte_29.html" target="_blank">2006</a>, I really enjoyed the tunnels and didn’t remember finding them frightening.
This time around all I could think of was running over a rock, crashing, and
getting run over.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCO3dilClwkeg6dbrfot-1teYRBgk8-9wIceRbEMPVVm8MVEcqgQ2DT7_-adIyQZ9iqr2xxklpy2Epwgztqq4nvLcYNFh4Xxk-0SeMEDsEO7LwYuOY4K_kDu6desJXkgDRZHdju43xxFmv0jDZL9DhdaUO1C_jAUZAOZAs6G2a2UOZHHFtRmIi8u7SQjb0/s1613/LautaretDescent.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCO3dilClwkeg6dbrfot-1teYRBgk8-9wIceRbEMPVVm8MVEcqgQ2DT7_-adIyQZ9iqr2xxklpy2Epwgztqq4nvLcYNFh4Xxk-0SeMEDsEO7LwYuOY4K_kDu6desJXkgDRZHdju43xxFmv0jDZL9DhdaUO1C_jAUZAOZAs6G2a2UOZHHFtRmIi8u7SQjb0/w400-h225/LautaretDescent.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Col de Sarenne</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We stopped abruptly at a turnoff, toward the little town of
Mizoen where I’d stayed both times I did <a href="https://marmottegranfondoalpes.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">La Marmotte</a>. This was the base of the Col de Sarenne, an Hors Categorie climb eight miles
long averaging like 7.5%. It starts off pretty harsh, at 12%, but check it out
… the sun managed to come out after all!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRAIs1LaxrsM5I4AZVovubpTwncUm6xFChmvEukl8nuVGcT8TapWm2Sh2Tqu_4Zf6ufLTjw0Gn_aE-31yxL7RRc87NwRuCPId1N543PyN3lppQsJBPNQafGqEftuTXHSB1140-y4eOLC7mTUlCZUcOhUgZkweTwl4hWncyIgQM0PFHPuquyhpf1mXH41S/s1613/StartofSarenne.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRAIs1LaxrsM5I4AZVovubpTwncUm6xFChmvEukl8nuVGcT8TapWm2Sh2Tqu_4Zf6ufLTjw0Gn_aE-31yxL7RRc87NwRuCPId1N543PyN3lppQsJBPNQafGqEftuTXHSB1140-y4eOLC7mTUlCZUcOhUgZkweTwl4hWncyIgQM0PFHPuquyhpf1mXH41S/w400-h225/StartofSarenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Soon enough we passed through Mizoen, which is just as
darling as I’d remembered it.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivy-DIvkbTH2P3jRi5oaAJx0C2uBVvFheYOllFInFEfP-ZRnpAAg2yoTrmo1Y3UNBHd3x7cMfDq7fO3293BWelFnSDMFzRNRDiDbGIx2Zvc11NefIa8qhSKVZ0aM-pjEawLQaq2HVhI2q2gm7BuhiAFGBQUh_tJ5WQBBsrNJOi6HWiLnVoDV8vKd2x3T0M/s1613/Mizoen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivy-DIvkbTH2P3jRi5oaAJx0C2uBVvFheYOllFInFEfP-ZRnpAAg2yoTrmo1Y3UNBHd3x7cMfDq7fO3293BWelFnSDMFzRNRDiDbGIx2Zvc11NefIa8qhSKVZ0aM-pjEawLQaq2HVhI2q2gm7BuhiAFGBQUh_tJ5WQBBsrNJOi6HWiLnVoDV8vKd2x3T0M/w400-h225/Mizoen.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />You know how when something is really ballyhooed, and you
start getting really excited about it, you sometimes start to worry that it
won’t meet up with your expectations? You know, like what just happened with
“Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour,” that left you disconsolate by not totally
rocking your world? Just kidding, of course I know nothing about the Taylor
Swift movie and whether or not it lived up to its hype. I’m just mentioning it
for the halo effect, to draw people to albertnet. Taylor Swift! Taylor Swift!
Taylor Swift!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, so anyway, earlier in the week I had really looked
forward to (and dreaded) the Col de la Loze and the Col de la Madeleine, based
on their reputations, and of course the Galibier had loomed large since I’d been
destroyed by it years ago. But I really hadn’t heard much about the Col de
Sarenne, so it had nothing to live up to. So, what a surprise! It ends up being
the most beautiful climb of the whole week (which is saying something—we did 18
of them). It sure helped that the unexpectedly sunny weather seemed to be
holding up.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ul1OhWYBZNYXRyFH8H1epLtamaMS-IsMUDPszqkxidFR46bqgd-miQxHrq1bxty3_I9ZeWrt2siTUoFqoLxERAjae7yy9AHtqiNdcuLoM9xwLspcZk8Gji9cgj_S_3gO58CBzfSuMlE7gsbgQ67pjj9Ll0t8owvIrO4vUGjNEs7L_nQF4FnFORhQDz5z/s1613/CraigSarenne.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ul1OhWYBZNYXRyFH8H1epLtamaMS-IsMUDPszqkxidFR46bqgd-miQxHrq1bxty3_I9ZeWrt2siTUoFqoLxERAjae7yy9AHtqiNdcuLoM9xwLspcZk8Gji9cgj_S_3gO58CBzfSuMlE7gsbgQ67pjj9Ll0t8owvIrO4vUGjNEs7L_nQF4FnFORhQDz5z/w400-h225/CraigSarenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The three of us had a very pleasant time, chatting merrily
as we pedaled along, not really suffering at all. Craig was bound and
determined to get at least one good photo of Ian and of me, and took several
hundred. I tried to warn him that I’m not photogenic but he didn’t want to
listen. I watched the sky along the summit ridge warily, expecting to see
rainclouds move in, but there was nothing but sunshine. And we had no shortage of fun switchbacks:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnfom1lNR3BJUP9sLGHBrm8pQ2OAQbbmNkIan3WJ2AO5V2_hC1BwzKYfeCcoSEKFURJ6qvyLNvjIq4y6vt12wFea1C8j6NfbRwWXrXGtabZBzQSQ-SS1XnSuIEX7w5CnxSSZ0-s4-Ef-nefTPNBjwhvWCtARQz69kX73cWnUsRQReDVHq8lNGx417OCrR/s1613/IanCraigSarenne.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnfom1lNR3BJUP9sLGHBrm8pQ2OAQbbmNkIan3WJ2AO5V2_hC1BwzKYfeCcoSEKFURJ6qvyLNvjIq4y6vt12wFea1C8j6NfbRwWXrXGtabZBzQSQ-SS1XnSuIEX7w5CnxSSZ0-s4-Ef-nefTPNBjwhvWCtARQz69kX73cWnUsRQReDVHq8lNGx417OCrR/w400-h225/IanCraigSarenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Do I need to say the views were stunning? I do not.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloGggwNnKkGFpy7JTovZoS9LBtjDkr8duL8xwkWSs2chpajyXd5mBdcmYgGBUvHgDLgaCPB84ZZ0yBqMxYfwlrUDJfCg0RCiesX9hRELQVNN0R3kxSeK6vENzu-NR7YcxgZkrcMEEXScOgeTjiOsvqEDYyoCIwWWCQ_8kA04ey9JjBftNv3K_nDqhp24Y/s1613/VistaSarenne.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="962" data-original-width="1613" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloGggwNnKkGFpy7JTovZoS9LBtjDkr8duL8xwkWSs2chpajyXd5mBdcmYgGBUvHgDLgaCPB84ZZ0yBqMxYfwlrUDJfCg0RCiesX9hRELQVNN0R3kxSeK6vENzu-NR7YcxgZkrcMEEXScOgeTjiOsvqEDYyoCIwWWCQ_8kA04ey9JjBftNv3K_nDqhp24Y/w400-h239/VistaSarenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKYhqs66wEs20R3YoLQNWOnNQjyMG71ldFluURIcNiu00-J_t68o2p9xSuULsdBY9P8xcCx7yLtm81mq3ixaz4OaLStgU-KkRtDrNgvq77qS7UAuClYJFSjx7nLOvNZ1CgzGPzODhh66hlFHAzVL4udQm1v0k_Mu4Dg1_MB4n6zPI7yPqf8GVDPzvBg7D/s1411/ViewFromSarenne.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="911" data-original-width="1411" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKYhqs66wEs20R3YoLQNWOnNQjyMG71ldFluURIcNiu00-J_t68o2p9xSuULsdBY9P8xcCx7yLtm81mq3ixaz4OaLStgU-KkRtDrNgvq77qS7UAuClYJFSjx7nLOvNZ1CgzGPzODhh66hlFHAzVL4udQm1v0k_Mu4Dg1_MB4n6zPI7yPqf8GVDPzvBg7D/w400-h259/ViewFromSarenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />All this being said, it’s a hella long climb and a couple
kilometers from the summit I ran out of water, if not steam. This is where it’s
so nice knowing you have a van waiting ahead to replenish you.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1n6jpadi1ecgPCTt_E1nmKFdG0MbxgrPVivna3SjoapKYtz_m_ThtASxYkXqgqT-5c259QpbdE0Wl36eZfRHgGKZK-jj8F3ZNs5RJSBiLtB_87iHDMVx66ATNwiG92CiVc7myngNbYOzeKz9h_Ehtk4Wdm97g9-HqE4PJgbX3Pn_rEjVigrakBeB7894K/s1613/ChugSarenne.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1613" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1n6jpadi1ecgPCTt_E1nmKFdG0MbxgrPVivna3SjoapKYtz_m_ThtASxYkXqgqT-5c259QpbdE0Wl36eZfRHgGKZK-jj8F3ZNs5RJSBiLtB_87iHDMVx66ATNwiG92CiVc7myngNbYOzeKz9h_Ehtk4Wdm97g9-HqE4PJgbX3Pn_rEjVigrakBeB7894K/w400-h265/ChugSarenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />(I will acknowledge that in <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-day-v.html" target="_blank">my last post</a> I bagged on a fellow rider for riding on the wrong side of the road, and here
above I seem to be doing the same thing. The difference is, the Col de Sarenne
is really just one lane anyway, and besides, it was so peaceful and remote up
there, with the visibility so good, this behavior wasn’t exactly reckless.)<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As we neared the summit, the grade got steeper, and more importantly
we had less mountain to shelter us from the wind, which really picked up. I
really had to dig deep to push through it, apparently. I say “apparently”
because only upon viewing the below video did I even recall having to make much
of an effort. I’d just remembered the Sarenne as just a lovely, peaceful climb,
until I saw the footage and thought, oh yeah, that <i>was </i>pretty hard.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KO1vJJPpgDU" width="320" youtube-src-id="KO1vJJPpgDU"></iframe></div><br />I now remember feeling relieved when we finally reached the top.
It’s like until that moment I’d only been pretending the climb was no big deal;
now, surrounded by the majesty of the summit, I felt a tinge of … well, not
menace, exactly, but the great power of nature. There’s a starkness to these
places even when the weather is gorgeous.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_M5u9JQBcfSfFLiSA8nSbzhyHVkoBoq-H5_6eO8IfJMK1uL9gIuMHnGG5a_VF-V4WitUjLM6ebhmkNCQc1FvkvCKfW78T8u-0lawX-yHItbXqu2iJUzAQYPMbW21WfKQXZrMwZQMSiz2nhNlloryUvbE9c63AsD3NIh2hgwjPfQjE4Gdn_ZNl-rtOCSA/s1613/NearSummitSarenne.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_M5u9JQBcfSfFLiSA8nSbzhyHVkoBoq-H5_6eO8IfJMK1uL9gIuMHnGG5a_VF-V4WitUjLM6ebhmkNCQc1FvkvCKfW78T8u-0lawX-yHItbXqu2iJUzAQYPMbW21WfKQXZrMwZQMSiz2nhNlloryUvbE9c63AsD3NIh2hgwjPfQjE4Gdn_ZNl-rtOCSA/w400-h225/NearSummitSarenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Having failed to get a portrait-with-summit-sign since the
Col de Madeleine, I took a moment for this one.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumth7jDRFY00dBL9_XoeRIbtuf6mzWw37N4dnkxHzTEObgt4kXxPRO04kdqEYd1LYvynX4FHf2WMuZGeBFx42DxJZl0Xh6LxbnmJkx5CRRZp1dDG3jt1oj6BXiObT5DCkqjgtEchOk-xFkXpPKiYn4Sp1z9VevfEqFYs2CZSR4tSrcwlSvyo6mIqErsPi/s1489/SummitSarenne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1489" data-original-width="869" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumth7jDRFY00dBL9_XoeRIbtuf6mzWw37N4dnkxHzTEObgt4kXxPRO04kdqEYd1LYvynX4FHf2WMuZGeBFx42DxJZl0Xh6LxbnmJkx5CRRZp1dDG3jt1oj6BXiObT5DCkqjgtEchOk-xFkXpPKiYn4Sp1z9VevfEqFYs2CZSR4tSrcwlSvyo6mIqErsPi/w234-h400/SummitSarenne.jpg" width="234" /></a></div><br />Gosh, look in my eyes there … it really does look like I’d
been suffering. I almost look traumatized. Is it possible my sweet memory of
this climb is all wrong, having been sugar-coated by the camaraderie I’d
enjoyed on the way up? Is that how this works? And do I remember the previous
day’s Col du Granon as having been brutal only because I’d faced it alone? Probably
not, but … possibly?<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Note above that the Sarenne summit is 1,999 meters. It’s not
2,000, and whoever placed this sign felt it important not to round up. No
wonder this climb didn’t seem as hard as the Madeleine … it’s a full meter
lower!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here’s a nice aerial shot Ian got of our picnic site, having
had the energy, somehow, to scamper up a hill to snap it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWheUjQ1GF3GNqJ97g2t0JGOXP6Yg2bWeJZdU2IyPrdvvypsnXmRy7fxCg3GUO2UasDThEBrAtjYhr_5HYAL51KrhScjeGF7Kon15SuCltZa-Bls2n0jraDC1V9jM7LGgu3tl8viDcU-eqgr-O1cmHo65wl7rqLUA5M09vlE8DFcfo2FM5uxxS9GK8i3-r/s1210/AerialViewDeSerenne.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1210" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWheUjQ1GF3GNqJ97g2t0JGOXP6Yg2bWeJZdU2IyPrdvvypsnXmRy7fxCg3GUO2UasDThEBrAtjYhr_5HYAL51KrhScjeGF7Kon15SuCltZa-Bls2n0jraDC1V9jM7LGgu3tl8viDcU-eqgr-O1cmHo65wl7rqLUA5M09vlE8DFcfo2FM5uxxS9GK8i3-r/w400-h300/AerialViewDeSerenne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We descended a bit and then had some rollers to climb over,
which—being unexpected—made for some psychic discomfort. The long road curled around
here and there and eventually brought us to the summit of Alpe d’Huez from the
side you don’t normally see. We even did a little of the descent before peeling
off to add a bunch of unnecessary extra mileage to our day. We got a sneak
preview of what lay ahead.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyK2egNqA_BBfObh6hE9Q_PrquFtCxPaw1ATI9JfNd1-6bGMAD0d1d4oe1mSA5o5QNBm6OLeeNIzzaQeArGmOTUqpYC4-C9Veq-DO4EXfmbbnSwKgqbXHK5KxXa6gL_oq1gTv7-gWbBWGEpmNZWfxfcAbLwQ1ggsns4vBpbgyK1UeShgsnP1p2RKRXgS0/s1024/PostSarenneOverlookIThink.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyK2egNqA_BBfObh6hE9Q_PrquFtCxPaw1ATI9JfNd1-6bGMAD0d1d4oe1mSA5o5QNBm6OLeeNIzzaQeArGmOTUqpYC4-C9Veq-DO4EXfmbbnSwKgqbXHK5KxXa6gL_oq1gTv7-gWbBWGEpmNZWfxfcAbLwQ1ggsns4vBpbgyK1UeShgsnP1p2RKRXgS0/w400-h300/PostSarenneOverlookIThink.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We rolled up and over some uncategorized climb, then had an
oily gravel descent, and then shed some clothing at the van. For the first
time, the day was outright warm. We rode into a headwind along a bike path that
I think was a false flat, maybe 1% uphill. Our leader was hauling ass, and clinging
to his wheel was like motorpacing. Eventually we reached the base of the
dreaded Hors Categorie Alpe d’Huez, a legendary climb that has featured in the
Tour de France 32 times.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Alpe d’Huez</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It had been gradually dawning on me, over the last ten
miles, that my energy was basically all used up. We’d ridden for two hours
since the Col de Sarenne summit, and I was fried. Whereas I’d felt
sucker-punched by the Col du Granon the day before, having failed to imagine how hard it would
be, I was fully dreading this one. Sure, you could say it’d be easier this way,
Alpe d’Huez being the “devil I knew,” but it was still the devil.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Craig and Ian, having fulfilled their promise to ride with
me over the first two climbs, dropped me instantly when this third and final climb
started. Alpe d’Huez is almost nine miles, at an average grade of 7.7%, and it
starts at over 11%. I started to ask myself, “Can I even <i>do</i> this?” but the answer was immediate and obvious: “I <i>have</i> to … our hotel is at the summit.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5lujLgpKrzr12wQxsmz-Kw2Men8DUxbZHT2OjchuZOid7AGJGAZKw9ViZoWaJ2Buz2BRaR6rNzBRlufu-sHhtKImoaaPT-iUyaBaJpefIfUNmjLtjR4_ycZgh98dGzkBFTf3AWemI_eAvT4YEwJ9GNG1YgPLa7WA1wVnb9WmjkZGQ14jArQmiHivCD_l7/s1613/BeginAlpeD'Huez.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5lujLgpKrzr12wQxsmz-Kw2Men8DUxbZHT2OjchuZOid7AGJGAZKw9ViZoWaJ2Buz2BRaR6rNzBRlufu-sHhtKImoaaPT-iUyaBaJpefIfUNmjLtjR4_ycZgh98dGzkBFTf3AWemI_eAvT4YEwJ9GNG1YgPLa7WA1wVnb9WmjkZGQ14jArQmiHivCD_l7/w400-h225/BeginAlpeD'Huez.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />At least the weather was perfect … maybe a little hot, but
that would change with the altitude. The scenery was lovely which made the
unpleasantness of the climb almost confusing. It was like if I were a teenager
again, on a first date, marveling at how beautiful my date is and wondering why
she keeps stabbing me in the belly with a steak knife.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsRv97qqBpnqyGN5Hg1S8nmBdX9pWlqPx_t0qbvwp9yIKmKyYh0s9NSHhy6ybox6qZzOF_m2do9YGraQ7gTwd6vu2Gwecj7fSxuqoghqd7oaPJlXzsPziG-aw8yWTZqQEWal6xSIUDasdDf-diRVkl_I4Tnujljis7-171FwAUJHJBIC5aoNZ88xVmzhM/s1613/ScenicAlpeD'Huez.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsRv97qqBpnqyGN5Hg1S8nmBdX9pWlqPx_t0qbvwp9yIKmKyYh0s9NSHhy6ybox6qZzOF_m2do9YGraQ7gTwd6vu2Gwecj7fSxuqoghqd7oaPJlXzsPziG-aw8yWTZqQEWal6xSIUDasdDf-diRVkl_I4Tnujljis7-171FwAUJHJBIC5aoNZ88xVmzhM/w400-h225/ScenicAlpeD'Huez.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />There are, famously, 21 switchbacks on this climb, so you
can look down at where you were just moments ago, and feel a welcome sense of
progress.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg68_iXIeCD8CbuZphNsXXTC6UnaBtfDojr56s0fjnRYdjXJZ0vkRow-MdLRuxyhM8r7G0q7VVgyemL_AywTKzSMgsx-o341CUrQzinh0QtLJSLCNVqWgCuojas3DXdr5USunQgAE-fRH-GaR9QSGapT1UyTY1pfbgnKOsfIqCf4WTryJ5jLGbSCKwZjHil/s1613/ViewFromAlpeD'Heuz.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg68_iXIeCD8CbuZphNsXXTC6UnaBtfDojr56s0fjnRYdjXJZ0vkRow-MdLRuxyhM8r7G0q7VVgyemL_AywTKzSMgsx-o341CUrQzinh0QtLJSLCNVqWgCuojas3DXdr5USunQgAE-fRH-GaR9QSGapT1UyTY1pfbgnKOsfIqCf4WTryJ5jLGbSCKwZjHil/w400-h225/ViewFromAlpeD'Heuz.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It seemed the good weather would hold up, so I got to enjoy
the impressive clouds (which we don’t really get in California).<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8EJqVmOJeasguGX0clOXplzk63rN3FyPt4myXorVjHrGEGhwqKy2EpExVNlGPWvoCSOa8Lqw1mCDeI8R3oFKmM_GHr3YR_MpbDsG3XzBvImzKDq4FSn41rDtFqSgnJk6XaHzoh07usf8zoEecmKXdhw8GqKqchSmXJszIKpA7aRCEbEA4g-gVt8VX4MdH/s1613/ScenicAlpeD'Huez2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8EJqVmOJeasguGX0clOXplzk63rN3FyPt4myXorVjHrGEGhwqKy2EpExVNlGPWvoCSOa8Lqw1mCDeI8R3oFKmM_GHr3YR_MpbDsG3XzBvImzKDq4FSn41rDtFqSgnJk6XaHzoh07usf8zoEecmKXdhw8GqKqchSmXJszIKpA7aRCEbEA4g-gVt8VX4MdH/w400-h225/ScenicAlpeD'Huez2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />As my power output steadily faltered, the length between
switchbacks seemed to draw out. I began longing for the switchbacks, both
because they indicated progress toward the summit, and because they tended to be a bit
shallower than the straight sections. I gradually nibbled away at the climb.
Think of how sprightly a helium balloon is, and now think of the same balloon
the day after the party, when it’s wilted and shriveled a bit and is dragged toward
the floor by its string. That’s how I felt. Whenever possible I peered over the
side to confirm I was actually getting somewhere.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblFEKmkXPCmn-m8CyE1P-7cl1UEc7PJkc7UqSCFuoPcUDOOhF6Kb6jKV8oT5JtzzsLTLSio752eFfDIXRgkMymGcSygNNE85FVRqw1-St4ZURP8KyZTJajJetTP3Q0cxO61rADaHGvamDkN0few721BuirHnMBR5wHTRHsWAG9Jc3-ote7hL2hvSHsmFn/s1613/OverlookAlpeD'Huez.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblFEKmkXPCmn-m8CyE1P-7cl1UEc7PJkc7UqSCFuoPcUDOOhF6Kb6jKV8oT5JtzzsLTLSio752eFfDIXRgkMymGcSygNNE85FVRqw1-St4ZURP8KyZTJajJetTP3Q0cxO61rADaHGvamDkN0few721BuirHnMBR5wHTRHsWAG9Jc3-ote7hL2hvSHsmFn/w400-h225/OverlookAlpeD'Huez.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The switchbacks on Alpe d’Huez are numbered, in descending
order as you climb, so you can mark your progress, like a countdown. Each number
sign commemorates a past Alpe d’Huez winner. I kept a close eye out for this
one:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLqUBlDs8qaoDCn-fqBlzgYnvk3G5WVwlcsvuwDwl-DGMCP-VbCMYt7yWvR-wVPb_17JSi-GFhyphenhyphenHvmMYO1tbvJ95Ly_WFG31itJ1vHwsbmyWFEmkQu1eyfHSY7tj8odsYLyxYwTqWWI0Ji2tyx3I_5JNVzTuWuP59op-Qc6D5HNLpenwvr4gqG2n6e2f6/s935/AndyAlpeD'Huez.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="935" data-original-width="543" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLqUBlDs8qaoDCn-fqBlzgYnvk3G5WVwlcsvuwDwl-DGMCP-VbCMYt7yWvR-wVPb_17JSi-GFhyphenhyphenHvmMYO1tbvJ95Ly_WFG31itJ1vHwsbmyWFEmkQu1eyfHSY7tj8odsYLyxYwTqWWI0Ji2tyx3I_5JNVzTuWuP59op-Qc6D5HNLpenwvr4gqG2n6e2f6/w373-h640/AndyAlpeD'Huez.jpg" width="373" /></a></div><br />Andy is from my hometown of Boulder, Colorado. He achieved a
stunning solo victory on this mountain back in 1992. Is there any similarity
between his feat here and mine? Yes, actually: though it’s somewhat hard to
tell, and actually even kind of hard to believe, he and I are of the same
species. Yeah, seriously!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, there’s not much more to tell. Eventually, inevitably,
I did make the summit. I have a selfie of how I looked at the finish; it was
one of those accidents where you grab your smartphone and go to activate the outward-facing
camera but instead you see—<i>gasp!—</i>your
own haggard mug. The horror! In this photo I look so deflated and gaunt, it’s
like someone had put a 2x4 on either side of my face and pushed them together
to squeeze all my water out. (Hell no, I’m not posting the photo here—what is
this, Facebook?)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’d have been nice to collapse at this point, and maybe
just sit on the ground for a while, but it was time to remove my saddle,
pedals, and bike computer from the rental bike and return it to the staff. Then
I checked out the picnic table, with its usual assortment of sandwich fixings,
chips, fruit, and drinks, but I just didn’t have the energy to take anything.
Instead I slowly stamped my tired way up the long staircase into the hotel. I
made it to the lobby and was so blown I actually started to hallucinate,
imagining all manner of stuffed sheep in there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9nAN6V_XbvDd6J29nYpHHq_FzBQWmI2ktQGK5TYanNgZWErsTDNPGOnZgGIJPyQOEatjOZqzfGAkNfnb2Hc-zUjSO2vuYXskKMYXgBA5EvbqgX46Oo5K15j6bSTNZgaY251xTSBlgQg17vouNJHjSBkQRSyDz_wOP-9V4j5X9s4yFv-o-CLKCrsSvfZG/s1613/Lobby1AlpeD'Huez.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9nAN6V_XbvDd6J29nYpHHq_FzBQWmI2ktQGK5TYanNgZWErsTDNPGOnZgGIJPyQOEatjOZqzfGAkNfnb2Hc-zUjSO2vuYXskKMYXgBA5EvbqgX46Oo5K15j6bSTNZgaY251xTSBlgQg17vouNJHjSBkQRSyDz_wOP-9V4j5X9s4yFv-o-CLKCrsSvfZG/w400-h225/Lobby1AlpeD'Huez.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />After I found my room, showered, and rested up a bit, I
returned to the lobby and discovered that the sheep were real. Well, not real, exactly.
I mean, they were fake, of course, but weren’t figments of my imagination after
all. Somehow this bizarre lobby made sense in the moment. I hella lounged in a
big furry armchair.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkTegb0zDYfXehscyitSLCcXrU_hI_a8ZlzM7gypVU-t7JAI9ChpHm5B6P1FevoQwrMO3_DP2FTIarRFqdBQwE4rFqnhyj-kv0uMBNODykV3vmylZJUnmZ7sxJZ2fHyi4gvd60P-N7a9o1u_PMNXHvYit3TbFqktaKLpaX1FQuLjlj8fOH8EEWI24M20a/s1613/Lobby2AlpeD'Huez.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkTegb0zDYfXehscyitSLCcXrU_hI_a8ZlzM7gypVU-t7JAI9ChpHm5B6P1FevoQwrMO3_DP2FTIarRFqdBQwE4rFqnhyj-kv0uMBNODykV3vmylZJUnmZ7sxJZ2fHyi4gvd60P-N7a9o1u_PMNXHvYit3TbFqktaKLpaX1FQuLjlj8fOH8EEWI24M20a/w400-h225/Lobby2AlpeD'Huez.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Half an hour later Ian, Craig, and I went for a little walk.
I can’t imagine why, other than it being a nice evening, and the fact of our being
tourists (sshhh!—don’t tell anyone!).<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FvgIsC7zJjWKV4tb6mAQNInPb01nAwy1B2ggJa-Icq5A0AsIOKdn_fOQ9mPpyM97lvt5pm4Q59bX3EKcUuhuLM7gChoeKZeyROs9VpgLqGFWkCve0oegF4tN1qKR7589dn7Z8IbiX5s7PGCC_dHbSJbEw2tAT1a9HJ41jWKImKyc6plBzdvS5LdtPHnl/s1600/CloudsOverAlpeD'Huez.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FvgIsC7zJjWKV4tb6mAQNInPb01nAwy1B2ggJa-Icq5A0AsIOKdn_fOQ9mPpyM97lvt5pm4Q59bX3EKcUuhuLM7gChoeKZeyROs9VpgLqGFWkCve0oegF4tN1qKR7589dn7Z8IbiX5s7PGCC_dHbSJbEw2tAT1a9HJ41jWKImKyc6plBzdvS5LdtPHnl/w400-h300/CloudsOverAlpeD'Huez.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Dinner</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After a beer at the bar we headed to the dining room and
before long were served this diced tomato thing with some white stuff on top
that could have been cream, cheese, butter, or something in between. We didn’t
care; it was delicious whatever it was.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EUe4zw2WpxjocqFYhs8FTFpH2hwccAPnpA3rWeDk4pHSMCjGvGTjkeGM7OQPi9enrBp9iiVDLeMJr8wkmZe5DlMJtQ-DeR6pbhbl45_8gjYTC-Mj7gjL9xryX3AWdf2MFHU6RQpiBPxvFcerKnDjd8BtST4H4vR9QvqIOtac5g7zGv_6QsDAdyjLOshD/s1427/Appetizer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="1427" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EUe4zw2WpxjocqFYhs8FTFpH2hwccAPnpA3rWeDk4pHSMCjGvGTjkeGM7OQPi9enrBp9iiVDLeMJr8wkmZe5DlMJtQ-DeR6pbhbl45_8gjYTC-Mj7gjL9xryX3AWdf2MFHU6RQpiBPxvFcerKnDjd8BtST4H4vR9QvqIOtac5g7zGv_6QsDAdyjLOshD/w400-h215/Appetizer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We were starving and there was some good bread, and word got
out that somebody had managed to procure some olive oil and balsamic vinegar in
little matching decanters. There was much hubbub as adjacent tables started
asking for them. The waiters seemed to want to hush the whole thing up. As at
every dinner we had in France, the staff seemed bent on everyone eating their
(excellent) bread plain.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next course arrived: a beautiful mushroom risotto.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEAsa1CUdA31GvZJpLsXL1gAl_oYY3Al_oWblwUoZVNz-UZ-_YgBppcEpQbKAv74r8kBpkNtoHgEhs8O3O8rOgYPtmMZGRi92uqHxoDyQcDkDe5d1mslDzLHN6ovdM7eR_Kvjb9ZipzuycHAXt6QeqaouvRSM7ZwObtVUngs9gpdv2EccG6YQ6NkzBzl99/s1613/Entree.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEAsa1CUdA31GvZJpLsXL1gAl_oYY3Al_oWblwUoZVNz-UZ-_YgBppcEpQbKAv74r8kBpkNtoHgEhs8O3O8rOgYPtmMZGRi92uqHxoDyQcDkDe5d1mslDzLHN6ovdM7eR_Kvjb9ZipzuycHAXt6QeqaouvRSM7ZwObtVUngs9gpdv2EccG6YQ6NkzBzl99/w400-h225/Entree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I tried to make it last but I was ravenous and it was gone
in like a minute. We all speculated on what the next course would be. Meat, of
course, but what exactly? Maybe a big steak? The night was getting better and
better. And then, to our great shock, dessert was served.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSXZ2yn5RSMx_JNNENwR88G5azwswhzJDQazbwvX2mZuKXu2e699IW7U3MyBg8pqsV_jR7KVFp3M_Uwfl5qC9wf2VJYPYNcaNVIB5puEphwshUzx1eVNUkxNiWRMPxGjUTxKGzWtHRfIUXqkSCxUpL4EvFuKr58UXeD3zLcdxhmudJrMxsnoCP4RQskmO/s1613/Dessert.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSXZ2yn5RSMx_JNNENwR88G5azwswhzJDQazbwvX2mZuKXu2e699IW7U3MyBg8pqsV_jR7KVFp3M_Uwfl5qC9wf2VJYPYNcaNVIB5puEphwshUzx1eVNUkxNiWRMPxGjUTxKGzWtHRfIUXqkSCxUpL4EvFuKr58UXeD3zLcdxhmudJrMxsnoCP4RQskmO/w400-h225/Dessert.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I was incredulous. I mean, yeah, the dessert was artful and
architectural and all, but WTF?! Where was the entrée? Was this meal really
almost over? It was. I suppose the dessert was tasty but I was too distracted
by the void in my stomach to properly enjoy it. Kind of like if somebody told
you a really funny joke but at a funeral.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Breakfast</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, I was a bit miffed but not for long … it’s hard to
hold a grudge at the end of such a beautiful, unforgettable week of biking and
dining across the French Alps. Meanwhile, breakfast the next morning was off
the chain. Everything was just perfect—even the grapefruit juice was fresh
squeezed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElHP0xnp2eY2McNJZd6lqOC6jYglepUE70kU9pNTrkRtJeuGGuz9y2tiWdslOtSebMTLcdYcINSEZTCdKxZcrQ90bJP7lCAyDHqYconpBN0HxRAXBlx9mYI72EABZCrFIDAsHZ6nh-gazAPr1tMxhszVeKwG0rWrsFBJ4m0d265vTuPSxS871qzFEWiCA/s1451/FinalBreakfast.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1451" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElHP0xnp2eY2McNJZd6lqOC6jYglepUE70kU9pNTrkRtJeuGGuz9y2tiWdslOtSebMTLcdYcINSEZTCdKxZcrQ90bJP7lCAyDHqYconpBN0HxRAXBlx9mYI72EABZCrFIDAsHZ6nh-gazAPr1tMxhszVeKwG0rWrsFBJ4m0d265vTuPSxS871qzFEWiCA/w400-h250/FinalBreakfast.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Before we hit the road for the long drive back to Geneva and
the longer flight home, I spent a moment gazing out from my hotel room balcony.
Wow … what a trip.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDlcyemN4Pfehaj8cupscf6BL1D9ESggOzx6S64RlCm8dei2XaQIjeNSuZH1twr74NjCTSxEGqw23Vedkq2bcsh7jutzH38vjVbjJEAWi_RN0VZppRTBBR9E6nak0Z_zWTgaTiZUL8gQ8zLJlnEtgW7mkXPhx8J8cQuZGCZur1GrshMuC0yaCqH8UoY-te/s1613/ViewFromHotelRoom.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDlcyemN4Pfehaj8cupscf6BL1D9ESggOzx6S64RlCm8dei2XaQIjeNSuZH1twr74NjCTSxEGqw23Vedkq2bcsh7jutzH38vjVbjJEAWi_RN0VZppRTBBR9E6nak0Z_zWTgaTiZUL8gQ8zLJlnEtgW7mkXPhx8J8cQuZGCZur1GrshMuC0yaCqH8UoY-te/w400-h225/ViewFromHotelRoom.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">. For a complete index of albertnet posts,
click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-4797859781463147362023-10-22T13:10:00.003-07:002023-10-30T18:13:29.475-07:00Epic Trans Alps Cycling Trip - Part V<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wow, five blog posts in a row on the same topic? Well, yeah,
if that’s the only way to keep my readers from having to wade through a single 15,000-word
post. Look, you’ve had a week now to recover from <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-iv.html" target="_blank">my last report</a>. Besides, what
I recount herein is the tale of the hardest day yet: a route so brutal, it was
used for Stage 11 of the 2022 Tour de France, ending on the very climb where
Tajed Pogacar had his hopes dashed. Did I suffer the same fate as Pogacar?
Well, now, hang on … who said I’d ever had any hope(s)?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">(If you’ve fallen behind, Part I of my French Alps series is
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Part II is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip_30.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Part III is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-iii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and Part IV is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-iv.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7r6zIA0kW9QS5queggLLBOUiVwjBvG1gZZrJ_oxcGWuAs6HicqSSXIkaKo5BD26pWcVuToV54z9onp4hOeD7VPO_05Q7XWwVJdJuUBaUU-U1Aj9xcNykZK7Sp49FuoKULdlvWC-fL9f2TFGIUu4mYjws47dYufMGxmzcrki__d31XmqKLpzmS5E5mEXWf/s1600/EpicTransAlpsDay6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7r6zIA0kW9QS5queggLLBOUiVwjBvG1gZZrJ_oxcGWuAs6HicqSSXIkaKo5BD26pWcVuToV54z9onp4hOeD7VPO_05Q7XWwVJdJuUBaUU-U1Aj9xcNykZK7Sp49FuoKULdlvWC-fL9f2TFGIUu4mYjws47dYufMGxmzcrki__d31XmqKLpzmS5E5mEXWf/w400-h300/EpicTransAlpsDay6.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Breakfast</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">According to the cold cereal industrial complex, breakfast
is the most important meal of the day. Even so, I usually skip it, and in my
reckless youth I’d even do 80-mile rides on an empty stomach. But in France,
breakfast was one of life’s great pleasures and I’d have chowed down even if I
were planning to spend the day at the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/12/life-hacks.html" target="_blank">library</a>. As it turns out, even a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/09/from-archives-three-restaurant-reviews.html" target="_blank">buffet</a> seems impossible for the French to screw up.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not that it didn’t have its quirks. There was still no
butter for the bread, most of the time; there was usually some weird porridge I
didn’t have the guts to try; there were so many types of cured meats I’d have
had a heart attack if I sampled them all (or at least wouldn’t have been able
to mount my bike); and one day Craig went to peel a hard-boiled egg only to
discover, messily, that it was raw!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s right: at a French buffet, they provide raw eggs and
the tools necessary to boil them yourself. Look at the bang-up job K— has done
on his. I mean, it’s perfect. And look how beautiful that bread is. And—WTF!—he
even managed to find butter! I really need to pay more attention when I’m
travelling (and to fire my <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/04/about-author.html" target="_blank">albertnet fact-checker</a>).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfX5tFMSp1OBANA0iJ6UGk0h_tqaWn7sr6gEO0xb2m16lsdl5EbIwXMVO_z5uqz7rwJ2e5UMYqzSwGt17-rLrR4JQ9EJVG2eDmOcAVpT8GzbsEHbfR8YYXIV0yd5syMwJR-TpP9HHhubBmedLLtGPjmkdjOj94lvHPvdrNVTfjyUrakPBz1QJ3v5yPB_W/s1548/Breakies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1548" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfX5tFMSp1OBANA0iJ6UGk0h_tqaWn7sr6gEO0xb2m16lsdl5EbIwXMVO_z5uqz7rwJ2e5UMYqzSwGt17-rLrR4JQ9EJVG2eDmOcAVpT8GzbsEHbfR8YYXIV0yd5syMwJR-TpP9HHhubBmedLLtGPjmkdjOj94lvHPvdrNVTfjyUrakPBz1QJ3v5yPB_W/w400-h234/Breakies.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />The route</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I mentioned before, our route on Day 6 was very similar
to Stage 11 of last year’s Tour de France. (For an awesome 8-minute video recap
of that, click <a href="https://youtu.be/J2DUD1Hsf9g?si=E8gRvEi5ldoaG6v-" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a>.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVI33GjkuPJPKH6gHIy782vLhvaGYQzN5XoRy02uuSQbBkoaKxjtYrW5F5NxOVUUm6B2PJscwAUBLoE5S-zjUFFs-2SAh694gViMDk4Z4P57gD5Y8e8Wp4dlC7RGbCKfjufuo9VYyb7Mn_eXxzNiM7HmZcKDwU0n_ko0xuaUfAoXD2OXIfgj13W6UeBrX9/s1392/TourStage11Map_2022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="1392" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVI33GjkuPJPKH6gHIy782vLhvaGYQzN5XoRy02uuSQbBkoaKxjtYrW5F5NxOVUUm6B2PJscwAUBLoE5S-zjUFFs-2SAh694gViMDk4Z4P57gD5Y8e8Wp4dlC7RGbCKfjufuo9VYyb7Mn_eXxzNiM7HmZcKDwU0n_ko0xuaUfAoXD2OXIfgj13W6UeBrX9/w400-h226/TourStage11Map_2022.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />The only difference was that we actually started out heading
north to the first climb, and after it we headed way back south like the Tour
stage. That’s right, we started out in the <i>opposite</i>
direction of our final destination. Why? Because Lacets de Montvernier. This
civil engineering masterpiece is well worth going out of the way for: it’s a
Category 2 climb, only 2.3 miles long but with an average grade of 10.6%, featuring
18 switchbacks in under two miles. Check out how it looked on the cycling GPS
app on my phone:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_zPO1bBwimNj57Omsqo5KS8MjpGDGqJ1JmRdug1vhOX7EMQkKUDFt5xNZq1QnbYQutp9MYjl3nG_vRgcoNWFf_JNsg1v5m_pSUBY0f0XBhpaj_8gTGXDt0kXJzDMKMoVmbGTQMHFirFFEuBescKuxZ82Uf53QA4DWyVckXThG6qZzTWC9-WXbWxlbbkZj/s998/LacetOnMap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="998" data-original-width="713" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_zPO1bBwimNj57Omsqo5KS8MjpGDGqJ1JmRdug1vhOX7EMQkKUDFt5xNZq1QnbYQutp9MYjl3nG_vRgcoNWFf_JNsg1v5m_pSUBY0f0XBhpaj_8gTGXDt0kXJzDMKMoVmbGTQMHFirFFEuBescKuxZ82Uf53QA4DWyVckXThG6qZzTWC9-WXbWxlbbkZj/w286-h400/LacetOnMap.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><br />The crude display on <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/09/biketronics-ii.html" target="_blank">my bike computer</a> provided an even stranger representation:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bM7Mlyt7g4EjnmAQwd2VLpZAkTspfsobGlRhzw6jpo7eJ0fbml1QQu4AzRNn_YTnMdB2Cm7dR1pgKYSKfNqUYfYjjClmli4VKdLZEyjE5-9yjzCyGLcc1KL1TvkD-CwCDXWwIKlRxcOWdSKfIaX9EjbOcjMScz3TfDQNEtYRLOCMUD5WRGvoDU72HvID/s906/LacetsBikeComputer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="906" data-original-width="580" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bM7Mlyt7g4EjnmAQwd2VLpZAkTspfsobGlRhzw6jpo7eJ0fbml1QQu4AzRNn_YTnMdB2Cm7dR1pgKYSKfNqUYfYjjClmli4VKdLZEyjE5-9yjzCyGLcc1KL1TvkD-CwCDXWwIKlRxcOWdSKfIaX9EjbOcjMScz3TfDQNEtYRLOCMUD5WRGvoDU72HvID/w256-h400/LacetsBikeComputer.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br />Here’s a nice stock photo of the Lacets:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9X2ghLqZ1v9HdQMmd0XCTaSDHAQ-kBF0YSfyH6Rekb7SE5kKLGZTDN7v8mgZixs_AC_HtcCcAfTnSQ6ig_eNCIKT3sTCdK9mjEScHTZ4FTmLrO_lsygUkYMKnKYR_bpWqyyladcAZIOQMtaO9YBa63Q4duoDEbdRITbQvSmOqivtnH-XX2s2k0khLQtwH/s709/LacetsStockPic.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9X2ghLqZ1v9HdQMmd0XCTaSDHAQ-kBF0YSfyH6Rekb7SE5kKLGZTDN7v8mgZixs_AC_HtcCcAfTnSQ6ig_eNCIKT3sTCdK9mjEScHTZ4FTmLrO_lsygUkYMKnKYR_bpWqyyladcAZIOQMtaO9YBa63Q4duoDEbdRITbQvSmOqivtnH-XX2s2k0khLQtwH/w339-h400/LacetsStockPic.gif" width="339" /></a></div><br />K— was feeling his oats (okay, his eggs) and tapped out a
sweet tempo. If memory serves, he totally dropped the rest of our <a href="https://eastbayveloclub.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">East Bay Velo Club</a> cohort.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-Q2gHEG833qJeu5Le-PWnzMh62u8Nl8GYgl9-hAdzMAgtQA2mM-d29a0tgXkbJcrlUo5YbGEoeL-ASThBdGEl6jeT4UhwsNDtujgg2Td9EGfyp7Gfuaw5y5RbqLABsN6ueyO-WgqLXvkQMiKJkI6qJk9MyQW1A39iatzQ1mgmuqafMw55vipbNq4Qasb/s1613/LacetsK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1210" data-original-width="1613" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-Q2gHEG833qJeu5Le-PWnzMh62u8Nl8GYgl9-hAdzMAgtQA2mM-d29a0tgXkbJcrlUo5YbGEoeL-ASThBdGEl6jeT4UhwsNDtujgg2Td9EGfyp7Gfuaw5y5RbqLABsN6ueyO-WgqLXvkQMiKJkI6qJk9MyQW1A39iatzQ1mgmuqafMw55vipbNq4Qasb/w400-h300/LacetsK.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Here’s Ian, in his stealth non-EBVC <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/04/kit-revisited-not-ok-with-kit-comments.html" target="_blank">cycling costume</a>, savoring the grade as I peer over a switchback.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpuXr-lOzrKpKQ6k-caG_OZjXucZPlswYl2cjUpVCysI0QsutKk0_JyrGil43Tl4mlF1D7sZ9OUxlhufONW3Qm_5Vm7JEmpFK72xEHypyRe10lvqXAqfe2dfbdptcFj4dtFhbS_Ep0XHusv-Vkk1F7U_iUd3C6nUJfh3GPJmEYB5G_7k1tWDmhpxSy8QZF/s1613/IanDanaLacets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1210" data-original-width="1613" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpuXr-lOzrKpKQ6k-caG_OZjXucZPlswYl2cjUpVCysI0QsutKk0_JyrGil43Tl4mlF1D7sZ9OUxlhufONW3Qm_5Vm7JEmpFK72xEHypyRe10lvqXAqfe2dfbdptcFj4dtFhbS_Ep0XHusv-Vkk1F7U_iUd3C6nUJfh3GPJmEYB5G_7k1tWDmhpxSy8QZF/w400-h300/IanDanaLacets.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Craig cruises through a stone-walled section, then stretches
his legs while taking in the view.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xCliOZA9KkRk_Ggx0xm8OqgDWbH_Zk6vOO594s6-XZ1wz_ci6vL3ZPodOOxJjJUVXP9ZSCSDeP5UWd-pWJfgaUjXXsJx0_oLBRhNv501NPGJQeYDGD-LG7bkCSi_Sb8SkXnFnkn0eP_yHWFh0dlXScdVC-ITpYj0WcZmU_dKQJD39BQaLvNsh3JTUI1H/s1613/CraigLacets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xCliOZA9KkRk_Ggx0xm8OqgDWbH_Zk6vOO594s6-XZ1wz_ci6vL3ZPodOOxJjJUVXP9ZSCSDeP5UWd-pWJfgaUjXXsJx0_oLBRhNv501NPGJQeYDGD-LG7bkCSi_Sb8SkXnFnkn0eP_yHWFh0dlXScdVC-ITpYj0WcZmU_dKQJD39BQaLvNsh3JTUI1H/w400-h225/CraigLacets.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKE6JJA0RbDr4p-OuP0_-JEt4qAGpmf5RIOkxvxCOFRbdZefBtofp1fL0jA4wLzA7JLRT5JRJF04E5sWCXXW_MdKwiePPUeOPhfMtPtPRymhmUVufw4oUDVRkVdmTNPf7lrMUMhfWk2fmC5VhqHXnaRXpO6SSNzO3Nq-Rs1f2sMVNxF45gZpcXZdq2f6p/s1613/CraigProfileLacets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKE6JJA0RbDr4p-OuP0_-JEt4qAGpmf5RIOkxvxCOFRbdZefBtofp1fL0jA4wLzA7JLRT5JRJF04E5sWCXXW_MdKwiePPUeOPhfMtPtPRymhmUVufw4oUDVRkVdmTNPf7lrMUMhfWk2fmC5VhqHXnaRXpO6SSNzO3Nq-Rs1f2sMVNxF45gZpcXZdq2f6p/w400-h225/CraigProfileLacets.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />One of the guides snapped this pretty amazing shot.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyl5e45lDELHRrAtWdml8S-YUG-t48MKlaYfvPh98KTKzCGyOFTd7Ahcfkquz44y1X9y9vUBp9LZrWgshL0fE6ytxrTOvRaXd9H_B1F1Q7jvnljto7cM8rIi1TIVWZL5EjdUtWNsnLpFiP5BNviXc0AC8IuNUFBSb34p3amVtk1nc0NVPe8O7ADa_aEsC/s1280/LacetDesMontverniers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyl5e45lDELHRrAtWdml8S-YUG-t48MKlaYfvPh98KTKzCGyOFTd7Ahcfkquz44y1X9y9vUBp9LZrWgshL0fE6ytxrTOvRaXd9H_B1F1Q7jvnljto7cM8rIi1TIVWZL5EjdUtWNsnLpFiP5BNviXc0AC8IuNUFBSb34p3amVtk1nc0NVPe8O7ADa_aEsC/w400-h300/LacetDesMontverniers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Oddly enough, I can’t say it was a very hard climb. For one
thing, the weird pain in my gluteus whateverus had finally subsided. Also, we
took it really easy, knowing how much we still had ahead of us. After a
glorious twisty descent we headed south over rolling terrain, toward the Col du
Télégraphe.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5piT2f4gx-25UGwrvqNQTcfge7g0Wo2c9j9kRsCc-oPRwoeAihd-3DP9t-UmPa20OH7DNn4cVknERHnU-ufjMuyQYwR_B3sAzFlfzk1wqIRIyZ-j0bcQL1fPwtKzmhspvuYgWZwpK9BJuM_BzFAuz2uDg2YtfSZ4W2K1574YN7wCq4zYuWRoLhXgesQG3/s1613/HeadingToTelegraphe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5piT2f4gx-25UGwrvqNQTcfge7g0Wo2c9j9kRsCc-oPRwoeAihd-3DP9t-UmPa20OH7DNn4cVknERHnU-ufjMuyQYwR_B3sAzFlfzk1wqIRIyZ-j0bcQL1fPwtKzmhspvuYgWZwpK9BJuM_BzFAuz2uDg2YtfSZ4W2K1574YN7wCq4zYuWRoLhXgesQG3/w400-h225/HeadingToTelegraphe.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Col du Télégraphe</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After some time we reached the base of the Télégraphe, a
Category 1 climb, and I wisely set out at my own solo pace, having <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/08/from-archives-riding-la-marmotte-part-i.html" target="_blank">learned the hard way twenty years before</a> not to ride this one too hard. Here’s a nice shot from
pretty early on.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQacPooGsJNuTmyQec48UoRz-vQiFpi33SlbrGPqTTIlzcIawk0QTrEweSxVZT9vf293Amgwn4oJnhixMUSJW7Hm0TVCU2LV3pLID9fCAkfrTjh03L-iVHP9X3TcPukcrQGYuFRIxqzpBwwMb4on6269V5V5Tgj5QN6Ch_OhyphenhyphenKmtWGlpD8VXuJsbVZDXr9/s1613/Telegraphe1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQacPooGsJNuTmyQec48UoRz-vQiFpi33SlbrGPqTTIlzcIawk0QTrEweSxVZT9vf293Amgwn4oJnhixMUSJW7Hm0TVCU2LV3pLID9fCAkfrTjh03L-iVHP9X3TcPukcrQGYuFRIxqzpBwwMb4on6269V5V5Tgj5QN6Ch_OhyphenhyphenKmtWGlpD8VXuJsbVZDXr9/w400-h225/Telegraphe1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Here’s my next and final shot of the Télégraphe, fifteen
minutes later. Just look how far down the valley floor is … yet we’d been there
so very recently. That’s the Alps for you.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Q1CmXk6p5N1mC1LMSuEZfaU2GumYiEE9MZcF8IKOm5MZZZBnSlNztPBnYJu3RT9bFX1AKooaiNtuEhqnR6GqTOcTHNVgcyKzbCm_fKFUqS-aYvSbvkMNKzWGGEVGfazri1a0YOMZEOAVudcXde8nLagH14lHEiIk2I0UGOYZ88AmYySPWtV8g-2hVWcK/s1613/Telegraphe2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="1613" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Q1CmXk6p5N1mC1LMSuEZfaU2GumYiEE9MZcF8IKOm5MZZZBnSlNztPBnYJu3RT9bFX1AKooaiNtuEhqnR6GqTOcTHNVgcyKzbCm_fKFUqS-aYvSbvkMNKzWGGEVGfazri1a0YOMZEOAVudcXde8nLagH14lHEiIk2I0UGOYZ88AmYySPWtV8g-2hVWcK/w400-h208/Telegraphe2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We had a brief picnic at the summit before the 3-kilometer
descent to Valloire, where the Col du Galibier starts. This is the oddly difficult
descent where Team Jumbo-Visma attacked Pogacar and caught his UAE Team
Emirates guys napping, as I recounted <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/07/observations-on-2022-tour-de-france.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here is one of many excellent cow sculptures we encountered
during the week. The French seem to really celebrate their cows, and based on
the lovely cheese we’d been eating, I’d say they have a lot to celebrate.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTi9OpmAf-7_-6yWzIFgZ4KkQC5k9zX6k5jN5QP0fZ6IqMDM3AbwPCcVjUKwhnRaI3XWRRl2wf7LrPnNKUYWQLqVO695DDvGttp5gFV7gIdKae2FJCukYD7XxRz7xbDgnonL-hQc7q1leQPu2IXQs3YEDtNejVfkm7Xte0I3-GQIpiiJA0ikIGqs2Jqt0B/s1432/CowStartOfGalibier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="1432" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTi9OpmAf-7_-6yWzIFgZ4KkQC5k9zX6k5jN5QP0fZ6IqMDM3AbwPCcVjUKwhnRaI3XWRRl2wf7LrPnNKUYWQLqVO695DDvGttp5gFV7gIdKae2FJCukYD7XxRz7xbDgnonL-hQc7q1leQPu2IXQs3YEDtNejVfkm7Xte0I3-GQIpiiJA0ikIGqs2Jqt0B/w400-h180/CowStartOfGalibier.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Col du Galibier</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If the photo above were higher-res, you could zoom in and
see we had 17 kilometers (almost 11 miles) to go. The good news is, we had a
very strong headwind.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh, wait, did I say <i>good
</i>news? It was terrible. The first few miles of the climb aren’t that steep,
but sufficiently so that our Epic A group broke apart right at Valloire. There
was one dude in our group who had soloed right away. He is a big, strong guy, and
it would have been good to have him around when facing that wind. So, I was
stoked to realize I was slowly catching him, and figured we could work together
until the steep section.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The trouble is, this guy wasn’t having it. All week he’d
been kind of the “lone wolf” of the Epic A group, tending to do his own thing.
For example, the rest of us had stopped to pee and get food at the base of the
Télégraphe but he’d forged on ahead alone. So now, when I passed him, I eased
up a bit to let him get my wheel, figuring after he’d drafted a bit he’d
naturally return the favor. But instead, he slowed his pace to let me ride away
from him. I’ve never seen such a thing. Clearly he just didn’t want company.
Okay, fine. I pushed through the wind on my own. It was a cold, strong, biting
wind and these miles seemed endless.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzp6n9kU7vfvO0j24lX1cczR3Qi1mQleQjLHGiXHpOE9-UZJnv93I9RjMhVsrgbNo2BvNELUV38aFMEOCpMuxGTRAoMkxfwOSk6NkEQM9qlhemJQqqLUgpzbOijSWeB2AsWS70jLL0jehPdLv1sz5hUOW37b8GAMMzxaydSI6dGTDE8zJUCa4yYhUQbNoH/s1613/GalibierHeadwind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzp6n9kU7vfvO0j24lX1cczR3Qi1mQleQjLHGiXHpOE9-UZJnv93I9RjMhVsrgbNo2BvNELUV38aFMEOCpMuxGTRAoMkxfwOSk6NkEQM9qlhemJQqqLUgpzbOijSWeB2AsWS70jLL0jehPdLv1sz5hUOW37b8GAMMzxaydSI6dGTDE8zJUCa4yYhUQbNoH/w400-h225/GalibierHeadwind.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />“My god,” I thought, “I am <i>actually</i> facing a headwind on the Galibier.” As you can read <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/08/from-archives-riding-la-marmotte-part-ii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, one of my most soul-crushingly brutal and wrenching experiences <i>ever </i>on a bicycle came on this godawful
hard Hors Categorie climb … so to have a headwind into the bargain just seemed
way over the top. This experience will forever serve me as a useful metaphor: next
time I’m up against some quotidian difficulty and am tempted to feel sorry for
myself, I can just think, “Hey … it could be worse. At least I’m not facing a
headwind on the Galibier.”<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The wind got stronger as I very gradually approached the
first 180-degree switchback. As I cranked on the pedals, leaned over as
aerodynamically as possible with my forearms on the tops of my bars (a position
now banned by the UCI), I felt like the switchback was actually drifting away
from me, perhaps on a tectonic plate. Finally I got there, took the 180-degree
hairpin, and felt the thrill of the wind now at my back, pushing me along the
first really steep section of the climb. It was thrilling, perhaps like surfing
or being shot out of a cannon. In what seemed like no time at all, the valley
floor was way down below me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JwddX6aqzl_qxkLAmARaQXGrXNovk7ruyHVctfBQxWujDmG3z6X45PNoKlhdMMJ9TnNUdCSinuR4SXnBEaL_J4_lJ67ZMgHpTSS0Lor250yPT48gI-en6yIQYliHOzc05Xz9gTBl2PuDmJkCTnDpUVGHiUvup3KNU-LDRzr2tzFV7avsDhFtCwm455yL/s1210/GalibierVista.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1210" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JwddX6aqzl_qxkLAmARaQXGrXNovk7ruyHVctfBQxWujDmG3z6X45PNoKlhdMMJ9TnNUdCSinuR4SXnBEaL_J4_lJ67ZMgHpTSS0Lor250yPT48gI-en6yIQYliHOzc05Xz9gTBl2PuDmJkCTnDpUVGHiUvup3KNU-LDRzr2tzFV7avsDhFtCwm455yL/w400-h300/GalibierVista.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Of course, a pure tailwind like that couldn’t last, and the
climb was long and steep. And long. And steep. As the road curved this way and
that, the wind did everything it could to torment me, just short of spinning me
around like a pinwheel. Needless to say, the temperature dropped steadily as I
gained altitude. The sun went away for good.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s not exactly postcard-pretty up there but the views are
impressive.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSLudtHtqnZVorHPYCCTgoNbimAM_iOPDKI4vLeh6J6U-KMoeCruC-MlPQ_kFmQzkH6RvL_BUliJ76PhLPwBeRY28iBmXuEd64t61Mc8EHR0Zg9gxHUQ8VqmIFEU9XEbDvRFmMhzpjLIkveHri7M4dCFspgz358E4kOlsMTgg_mH1lWyWejUufcyqpg2_/s1613/GalibierOverlook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSLudtHtqnZVorHPYCCTgoNbimAM_iOPDKI4vLeh6J6U-KMoeCruC-MlPQ_kFmQzkH6RvL_BUliJ76PhLPwBeRY28iBmXuEd64t61Mc8EHR0Zg9gxHUQ8VqmIFEU9XEbDvRFmMhzpjLIkveHri7M4dCFspgz358E4kOlsMTgg_mH1lWyWejUufcyqpg2_/w400-h225/GalibierOverlook.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJxt4jORO6quLxosRQ7jOLmQ5vIcNjJY6obuomF-Exm5IaUeFCwkKWIjAVcwV3r8tv4lUqpszJkbHwUhxgxcx5T742p42LtviwxhCfMx6wVppQcRCo2CUraGExdBBF6k-JYipf-78C6A2F1htTeDU2wu_a8c_uzZu69oUznG73_tIBIXvpnKTBrhhxCD-/s1613/GalibierOverlook2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJxt4jORO6quLxosRQ7jOLmQ5vIcNjJY6obuomF-Exm5IaUeFCwkKWIjAVcwV3r8tv4lUqpszJkbHwUhxgxcx5T742p42LtviwxhCfMx6wVppQcRCo2CUraGExdBBF6k-JYipf-78C6A2F1htTeDU2wu_a8c_uzZu69oUznG73_tIBIXvpnKTBrhhxCD-/w400-h225/GalibierOverlook2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />This is the part of the report that gets really difficult:
conveying exactly how much this climb wore me down. Reading is such an easy task;
so is writing, for that matter. I’m searching for a suitable metaphor for my
dwindling power. You know how when you use a bar of Ivory soap, it gets smaller
and smaller until it’s just a sliver, and not only is the sliver small but it’s
<i>spent</i>, and just doesn’t deliver suds
anymore? Or think of a pencil lead, or the tip of a crayon, that just gets
blunter and blunter until it can’t write, it just makes kind of a blur on the
paper. Consider a ball point pen that has somehow hung around so long it’s
actually running out of ink, and puts frustratingly faint, broken marks on the
page, so you shake it violently (like God seemed to be doing to me) to try to
get it to work. Oh, here’s another one: think of trying to use a teabag a
second time, so that the resulting drink is just weak and bitter. Such was my
ineffectual plod up the mountain. Yes, I did keep the pedals turning, but this
process seemed to affect the motion of the bicycle less and less.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I saw a random cyclist up ahead who had dismounted and was
peering at the sky with binoculars. He was watching birds. I took them to be circling
vultures at first, a perception obviously based on my morale. But they didn’t
look like vultures, and they were darker than hawks, and their wings were
different. I asked the binoculars guy what they were, but in my oxygen-starved
state I made the offensive error of asking in English. Grasping the point of
the guy’s blank stare, I tried again: “Excusez-moi, mais quel type d’oiseaux
sont elles?” Now the guy looked excited, because (I suspect) he was a birder first
and a proud Frenchman second. He leafed quickly through a little book (either a
bird book or a dictionary, I guess) and it’s a testament to how slowly I was
approaching that he had time to do so. He hurriedly said something completely
nonsensical, like “They are Canada war knives.” I can’t remember the exact
phrase; though I’d really tried to shunt it, my brain was cold and the synaptic
signals sputtered and stopped. I nodded vaguely and kept riding, and the guy
flipped through his book some more, and then jumped back on his bike and
pedaled madly to within hearing range and called out, “Golden eagles!” Ah, so
they were, and there were at least half a dozen of them up there, wheeling and cavorting
in the wind. I didn’t have the presence of mind to reply, “Oh là là!” but I
murmured my approval. I don’t know what was more impressive, actually; the
birds or the birder.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On and up I rode. As I periodically looked back down the
road, trying to cheer myself by noting my (albeit gradual) progress, I noted
that Lone Wolf was gradually reeling me in. I had to hand it to him, he was
tenacious, and strong. It took another couple of kilometers, but about three
fourths of the way to the summit he finally came by. This time, I decided, I
wouldn’t offer to take turns pulling, since he obviously wasn’t into sharing,
but I was going to suck his wheel for as long as I could or unless he told me
to stop. But there was just one problem: he was riding on the wrong side of the
road. Not just a few inches from the center line, but spang in the middle of
the oncoming lane! I couldn’t figure this out. I watched, bewildered, through a
couple of switchbacks to see if he even had the sense to hug a right-hand
embankment to escape the wind, but he didn’t. He was firmly committed to riding
on the left.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Others had mentioned this mystifying behavior of Lone Wolf’s
in previous days, and now I was witnessing it. My best guess at his reason for
doing this is simply that he was embracing his divine sense of privilege. He’s
probably a guy who made a lot of money, probably in tech, without needing to collaborate
with anybody, and is very proud of that. Thus, he doesn’t see why he should
cooperate with other bicyclists, or with traffic laws, and is just determined
to do his own thing at all times, on principle. (This might explain why twice during the week,
on descents, he made no attempt to hold his line and totally chopped other
riders, almost taking Ian out at one point.) Needless to say I stayed on the
right, and kept my distance, and eventually Lone Wolf dropped me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Near the summit the mist increased, and it was blown around cinematically
by the wind, and the terrain became even more desolate. It was oppressive but
impressive, severe but sublime. And I suppose I should take a moment to point
out that I was having a grand old time. Yes, I was seriously suffering, but
after all that is the point. I chose this sport, and I chose this vacation, and
every difficulty was within spec for a weeklong adventure that was <i>supposed </i>to be epic.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg34HVy2sr3MWviMxWs4AySKcv4Llvh9RDrfdCUV1s3fvyccJdPH24MKYrYFi5CD55mYP5n8b6GhUtsWaaXScg0d_7EWVcDCA1jPfmHnRKwipvIX-UgU_nQVS38LIfAVn_C5wo1WQw3bcuxpdzvJhcZZLrqaK__AL1DUDLaDiYy_jfkFWuj7CMJYpQq_ucZ/s1613/GalibierScenic2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg34HVy2sr3MWviMxWs4AySKcv4Llvh9RDrfdCUV1s3fvyccJdPH24MKYrYFi5CD55mYP5n8b6GhUtsWaaXScg0d_7EWVcDCA1jPfmHnRKwipvIX-UgU_nQVS38LIfAVn_C5wo1WQw3bcuxpdzvJhcZZLrqaK__AL1DUDLaDiYy_jfkFWuj7CMJYpQq_ucZ/w400-h225/GalibierScenic2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Finally I reached the junction where, with one kilometer to
go, you either head left to the summit or go straight to a tunnel that we’d
been warned not to take. The fog now was so thick I couldn’t even <i>see </i>the tunnel.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59IokNpZCejct23PJX0LyRop_0jZm3w4UT4cqlO9XlRUVNlF2-D8-5yTJ_r0MXixqQpHXTMWDKtIWryyooypXChi3Pjjt-N4eYxeML98uXPc7c1dS93QYOlQ2uGbqR_NS7BkvB3ZzY4MtMa4gU9VhuwnctyLXx3fsWqwKTn4iJokZDI-tG36UBwte5gXA/s1613/Galibier1KmToGo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59IokNpZCejct23PJX0LyRop_0jZm3w4UT4cqlO9XlRUVNlF2-D8-5yTJ_r0MXixqQpHXTMWDKtIWryyooypXChi3Pjjt-N4eYxeML98uXPc7c1dS93QYOlQ2uGbqR_NS7BkvB3ZzY4MtMa4gU9VhuwnctyLXx3fsWqwKTn4iJokZDI-tG36UBwte5gXA/w400-h225/Galibier1KmToGo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I took the left turn and started that long final kilometer,
which averages 9% and—without anything left to provide shelter—I was fully in
the wind. Somehow I made the summit. There was no picnic set up. It was frigid
up there. The conditions were, <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/books/116792/self-help-by-lorrie-moore/9780307277299/excerpt" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">to quote Lorrie Moore</a>, “fit for neither beast nor vegetable.” I climbed into the warm van, found my
backpack, and started putting on all the warm clothes I had. Here’s my only
photo of the summit, taken through the van window.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDXwCk858rCqO31CXxhmqOuypfpshnIE57emoX6x-uur0dN1rqD0FyNEaFqtTDcB737CB-8ZYld9VafUpE-Z1Pi7V-kLaUGklf0gD4QwqBWbmZhdrGDPPd28wkMYDEJtjZNb-rTu862rR2GbZFIXMl-HIbOSUlNmREHyE_BHCaVrXK4BilwNGDaBcyGWg/s1613/GalibierSummit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDXwCk858rCqO31CXxhmqOuypfpshnIE57emoX6x-uur0dN1rqD0FyNEaFqtTDcB737CB-8ZYld9VafUpE-Z1Pi7V-kLaUGklf0gD4QwqBWbmZhdrGDPPd28wkMYDEJtjZNb-rTu862rR2GbZFIXMl-HIbOSUlNmREHyE_BHCaVrXK4BilwNGDaBcyGWg/w400-h225/GalibierSummit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Ian had joined us and, like Superman, was suddenly all ready
for the descent and waiting for me. “Hang on,” I drawled lugubriously, “I just
need to find my gloves.” Ian seemed to panic. “I have extras, <i>take them!</i>” he all but shrieked. I’m not
sure what his rush was, other than it looked like it could storm at any second (and
this <i>was </i>the forecast, actually). I found
my gloves and we set out. (Ian lampooned his own impatience later, before I had
the pleasure of doing so.)<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">OMG, what a descent. The road was wet and I didn’t want grit
in my eyes so I kept on my sunglasses, though they were all steamed up. Between
that and the fog, I could barely see … just the dark road between the white
lines. But after a few miles of this, the fog lifted and blue sky appeared, the
sun having finally decided to show his face. Everything was suddenly brilliant
and the remaining globs of distant mist were tumbling and turning in the wind
even as they dissolved. It was so improbably beautiful that I actually started laughing, tears in my eyes. The descent just got sweeter from there and soon we
arrived at the little down of Le Monêtier-les-Bains, and stopped just a few
blocks from the hotel we’d be staying at that night. The crew set up our picnic
here, and we contrived beautiful sandwiches with cheese, cured meat, and great
bread which we enjoyed in a glorious spell of sunshine. I was trying to pretend
that soon we’d just head over to the hotel, but I knew we had one more climb to
go.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Col du Granon</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Look, I know this is already a very long post, over 2,500
words so far, which would take (me, at least) well over five minutes to read.
Well, boo fricking hoo. This was a long-ass day on the bike, and it takes a lot
of text to make a proper report. Just bear in mind that this day’s ride took me
something like 20,000 pedal revolutions, and I didn’t get to leave off whenever
I got bored or tired or listless. So if you feel like this is <i>just too hard</i> and you <i>can’t go on</i>, fine, go take a bubble
bath, call it a night, come back later. Or not. Whatever. I’m not going to
break this into two posts because it was all one day and that cumulative effect
is what made it so hard.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As we started moving toward our bicycles (I’m tempted to say
reluctantly, or was that just me?) it started to rain. We discussed whether it
actually made sense to ride another 27 miles in this weather, after all we’d
already been through. It was starting to sound like we had a consensus that we
should just bag it, and then someone said, “Okay, let’s go” and we found
ourselves rolling out, down a shallow descent into another headwind. It seemed
like madness, but I’m nothing if not a follower. We continued, our trusty guide
driving the pace on the front for us, Craig taking a pull here and there just
because he’s a strong and generous guy and actually loves this kind of weather.
(His spirit animal is a sled dog.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We’d been given the basic stats about the Granon: 10/10/10,
meaning it’s ~10 kilometers long, climbs roughly 10-hundred meters (that’s
1,000, for the less math-inclined readers out there, which is about 3,300 feet)
and averages (needless to say) ~10%. In fact, the tour organizers rank it the
fourth-hardest climb of the entire week. For some reason, I was ignoring these stats
and pretending this climb would be no big deal, just a little tacked-on thing
like the Lacets de Montvernier. I guess I was in denial. At least the weather
improved a bit … the rain went away and it was mainly just cold. We reached the
base, stopped to throw our jackets in the van, began pedaling again, hit the climb
proper, and once again our group fell apart, or at least I fell out of it.
Here’s a picture from pretty early on, before my hands became too cold to
bother with photography.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFm_zFtBrT8MdPGf3yHurQc_2Fd2Xrto5Lhta765Qymkg1IvAgUAWmYqtj-nqquFaznTIgh9YeD1s2W1aQu_dx-c18Qa0I62evxe23zAXGNuWOakvUuZxHD4W-FqggEdS-jinfmhw-W7fsyWVIF-XHMZMCpzQ3k5csCsAOWkHcNVqbEgWuMHcElNucPDq/s1613/GranonOverlook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFm_zFtBrT8MdPGf3yHurQc_2Fd2Xrto5Lhta765Qymkg1IvAgUAWmYqtj-nqquFaznTIgh9YeD1s2W1aQu_dx-c18Qa0I62evxe23zAXGNuWOakvUuZxHD4W-FqggEdS-jinfmhw-W7fsyWVIF-XHMZMCpzQ3k5csCsAOWkHcNVqbEgWuMHcElNucPDq/w400-h225/GranonOverlook.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The Granon is like being sucker-punched. It’s not that
famous, not that scenic, and isn’t
anything I’d psychologically prepared for, but it’s simply relentless. Once it
gets going, it never, ever lets up. We’d grumbled good-naturedly earlier in the
week about how the road up the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-iii.html" target="_blank">Col de la Loze</a> would sometimes dip down, meaning even more leg-wrenching steepness to come,
but at least we’d gotten a chance to rest our legs, our backs, our butts. No
such respite here. Imagine if your workweek were all Mondays, or all your
meetings lasted eight hours. Or imagine going on a walk and every step you took
was barefoot onto a Lego. Oh well, at least it was nice and cold up there.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wait, did I say nice? <i>Damn
</i>was I sick of the cold and the wind. Give me 90 degrees and heat any day.
At some point, for lack of anything else to help pass the time, I decided to
photograph a guidepost, perhaps to show how every one of them casually declared
that the next klick would also average 10%. Here’s what I got.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic22XbmxKCwPi5lNReO-TZ1S81w6m5ycIE4J3bpv7FYv7KWh78Jt6VMyvhFa3IdxjtC4FuWcHL9L-0z2g-QmDcIAInW1Wta9P2qk5C3NbRHSCbYsnrI3mrIgxhApVt521EI_sdGzvLoDGBbGcZrzYLr-LlPCNmYHKIampn6yPGMVAxDajE86LH_kWtL8dV/s1008/GranonBlurry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="567" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic22XbmxKCwPi5lNReO-TZ1S81w6m5ycIE4J3bpv7FYv7KWh78Jt6VMyvhFa3IdxjtC4FuWcHL9L-0z2g-QmDcIAInW1Wta9P2qk5C3NbRHSCbYsnrI3mrIgxhApVt521EI_sdGzvLoDGBbGcZrzYLr-LlPCNmYHKIampn6yPGMVAxDajE86LH_kWtL8dV/w225-h400/GranonBlurry.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />It’s actually not that easy to get a blurry photo with a
smartphone … the image stabilization is remarkably good. But right as I hit the
shutter button (not the elusive touch-screen one but the physical button on the
edge of the phone) a giant shiver went through me. I’ve included the photo
anyway because it might do the best job of all in capturing how I felt on this
climb.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’d started out with my vest unzipped, and for a good while
I argued with myself about whether to try to zip it up. As much comfort as this
would give me, it didn’t seem possible to actually get it done. If I stopped, I
feared, I might not ever find the resolve to get going again, or my punch-drunk
foot would fail to get my cleat engaged with the pedal and I’d tip over. On the
other hand, it seemed implausible that I could ride no-handed long enough to
get that zipper engaged, with my cold, numb, barely prehensile hands and this
constant steep pitch. What is the minimum speed at which a person can even <i>ride</i> no-handed? I’m no slouch at bike
handling—I can actually tie my shoe while riding—but this seemed like the wrong
day for a new PR. Still, I could take the wind no longer and decided to have a
go. I furiously pumped the pedals, sat up, secured the flapping ends of the
vest (here I drifted into the left lane like Lone Wolf), managed to get the
zipper end engaged, and zipped that bad boy all the way up without even jamming
it. As I slumped forward I even managed to catch the handlebars and get the
bike under control again, and back in the right lane. This may have been the
finest moment of my life, and if I ever decide to go to grad school, I’ve got
the kernel now for my personal essay.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As a victory lap I spent a minute or two, a bit later on,
extracting my phone from my pocket and snapping a non-blurry photo of a
guidepost. See? The vest works!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbu0O-FGk62fFMO3UJ0hhhZHKH1TdlEA4PoVqgUVf68Xs3nE8eQLaXPD86HtkaBCGHWAQDFSOHPQsCgXHUUWbFL07AvYPU602K98asR3Q67yzHtXIDHNNIvFY7n3RODtZ7elq-rR8iNAPZBxOJTihTLxQmIshET9lVkxOYRT0Sbpqy0XO7TuipMA0KC1ih/s1351/Granon3KmToGo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="1351" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbu0O-FGk62fFMO3UJ0hhhZHKH1TdlEA4PoVqgUVf68Xs3nE8eQLaXPD86HtkaBCGHWAQDFSOHPQsCgXHUUWbFL07AvYPU602K98asR3Q67yzHtXIDHNNIvFY7n3RODtZ7elq-rR8iNAPZBxOJTihTLxQmIshET9lVkxOYRT0Sbpqy0XO7TuipMA0KC1ih/w400-h260/Granon3KmToGo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Finally, the summit. It was starting to rain again and I
didn’t even look for the summit/elevation sign. I leaned my bike on the van,
climbed in, and allowed my sinews and skeleton to dissolve the rest of the way
until I was just a bag of spent flesh wrapped in clammy Lycra.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, only Craig seemed interested in riding back
down, across the valley floor, and up the shallow climb back to the hotel. (Our
guide, of course, was required to accompany anybody who felt like pushing on,
and had a great attitude about it, as though nothing would please him more than
continuing the ride <i>even beyond what the
Tour de France riders had done.</i>) Did you see what I did just now? In those
parentheses? I made it seem like it was completely normal to wimp out and not
actually finish the ride. Yeah, what can I say. I suppose you could conclude I’ve
fallen prey to the modern practice of <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/08/will-self-compassion-make-you-wuss.html" target="_blank">self-compassion</a>. But actually, it’s just that I didn’t want to make Ian, M—, and Lone Wolf
feel bad by showing them up. Yeah. That’s it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZiLw0_gj0a63jgP9u_X65PXJBN8wUOA8bGDQBfJCEzVpljfVONDZ_YzNKhIreYEWCcEmMZktsfSbu7j0Xf_L82nPHBI6O5ADUqPuRQuO7iAX477sZiQpXfE0xornCzQ-4WSSqL6JAM0OL7V40WCTStfQ6Ht6PPeGX5ThZqatLmZxC7wJlJIBdFamdX984/s1420/EpicTransAlpsDay6Profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="1420" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZiLw0_gj0a63jgP9u_X65PXJBN8wUOA8bGDQBfJCEzVpljfVONDZ_YzNKhIreYEWCcEmMZktsfSbu7j0Xf_L82nPHBI6O5ADUqPuRQuO7iAX477sZiQpXfE0xornCzQ-4WSSqL6JAM0OL7V40WCTStfQ6Ht6PPeGX5ThZqatLmZxC7wJlJIBdFamdX984/w400-h310/EpicTransAlpsDay6Profile.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Dinner</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The hotel was gorgeous and we relaxed in the lounge with
some recovery beers. (I generally define “recovery beer” as either a watery
lager, or a 25-cl serving, but after this brutal ride it meant “whatever we <i>feel </i>like we wanna drink, <i>gawd!</i>”) Then we walked maybe ten steps
to this incredibly long table, built from a very thick slab of wood, like we
were at King Arthur’s court or something, but in a non-Disney way. A new friend
we made on the trip, KR, visited the concierge or chef or somebody and
negotiated a bottle of what he declared a very good local red wine, and although
I am generally suspicious of <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/06/curse-of-epicure.html" target="_blank">epicures</a>, especially in the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/09/wine-tasting-castello-di-amorosa.html" target="_blank">realm of wine</a>, it tasted really good to me. And then we were served this delicious corn
gazpacho.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc8c-4kBUMF51gWhuTJc8lohAcQmE8R_oVPE21B5ntPNc4iomOmnVQGy3qFxaF06v5NzCLqarZ0HeSScyJIW5cS7k19SXXryJzI4_zu89GonIV91zfyel8b3I7Jze5s8CGgn5yOakPzCFxf5X549EcgySbOT9dfcs6stRZm5S9UlDjSkOGWRSqzBU0Efbz/s986/CornGazpacho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="986" data-original-width="680" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc8c-4kBUMF51gWhuTJc8lohAcQmE8R_oVPE21B5ntPNc4iomOmnVQGy3qFxaF06v5NzCLqarZ0HeSScyJIW5cS7k19SXXryJzI4_zu89GonIV91zfyel8b3I7Jze5s8CGgn5yOakPzCFxf5X549EcgySbOT9dfcs6stRZm5S9UlDjSkOGWRSqzBU0Efbz/w276-h400/CornGazpacho.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br />Who knew gazpacho could be made with anything, not just
tomatoes? The French, evidently. In other news, it turns out a couple of riders were missing from
dinner and someone had the brilliant idea to lie and say they’d be
arriving shortly. So I inherited a second bowl of soup. The evening was just
getting better and better.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then the main course arrived and it was almost too pretty to
eat. OMG, did I really just type that? Nothing is too pretty to eat, and we
were starved. This was amazing. Even the carrot.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_usuXkX75GDyVklX5TkZmis_KppB6fFsduOyYEVjloqQ5ZebOEi-vqDpfT7X2I3HQCQvEzTE70iGcqiyxrdQ_lbtTEMRuQcQ_Fpg60X2jTxSlD4Wmo8FI6GDgrLcJ4PZj2oGrvGqzLtKRaAnzdRW8l0YkgRM9aZ8_dzRXgPEEfArmm6GQJnwOO7PUCvcn/s1613/StuffedChicken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_usuXkX75GDyVklX5TkZmis_KppB6fFsduOyYEVjloqQ5ZebOEi-vqDpfT7X2I3HQCQvEzTE70iGcqiyxrdQ_lbtTEMRuQcQ_Fpg60X2jTxSlD4Wmo8FI6GDgrLcJ4PZj2oGrvGqzLtKRaAnzdRW8l0YkgRM9aZ8_dzRXgPEEfArmm6GQJnwOO7PUCvcn/w400-h225/StuffedChicken.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />KR noted, with a tinge of concern, that his chicken looked
pretty seriously undercooked. I have to say, he was a really good sport about
it … no sign of outrage or anything. I pointed out, to his great relief, that
the pinkness was because it was stuffed with (what else?) cured meat
(ham or prosciutto, I can’t remember, and with my memory dimming it’s a good
thing I didn’t wait even longer to write all of this down). The chicken was
also stuffed with some fancy French cheese. I could have died right then and
been satisfied with my life, even if (perhaps especially if) I were to be
drowned somehow in a vat of that delightfully rich sauce you see above.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That would have been a shame, though, because we hadn’t had
dessert yet. It wasn’t anything that original:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhM0jAp7WUjCT4Slv1aOgTsTMgRyDl0axrnI5_XmzRWm9Qa6c4bCL_wRKa1Ds6NT8DB8xoeFQeSygJQCZZxkYTCpofWdPIIxGowzQRHDv5TT6oc7nVn8LtWM_qsbepXv29Rg2mChCtz2B-eohXWARd_BU2XbmP_R0iaZC4NEs7CjEyDJ8Yaqdo-3Iinn5/s1269/FlourlessCake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="1269" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhM0jAp7WUjCT4Slv1aOgTsTMgRyDl0axrnI5_XmzRWm9Qa6c4bCL_wRKa1Ds6NT8DB8xoeFQeSygJQCZZxkYTCpofWdPIIxGowzQRHDv5TT6oc7nVn8LtWM_qsbepXv29Rg2mChCtz2B-eohXWARd_BU2XbmP_R0iaZC4NEs7CjEyDJ8Yaqdo-3Iinn5/w400-h270/FlourlessCake.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />That said, I’ve tried a couple times to make flourless
chocolate cake and <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/04/more-covid-19-chronicles-baking-in-place.html" target="_blank">both times crashed and burned</a>, so it’s nice to see (and taste) it done well.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The only slight blight on this delightful night was the tour
director coming around to see who still planned to ride in the Epic A group the
next (and final) day, given that the forecast was for persistent drizzle, if
not rain, all day long. I was sorely tempted to step down and sign up for the
shorter route, knowing I’d completely (and satisfyingly) destroyed myself on
this brutal day, but my pals promised to hang back with me on Day 7 (at least
until Alpe d’Huez). And so, with a heavy heart I committed once again to Epic
A. So watch these pages in a week or so for the final chapter of my Trans Alps
epic.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">. For a complete index of albertnet posts,
click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span> </p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-4204972281327888122023-10-14T20:31:00.007-07:002023-10-16T13:46:52.851-07:00Epic Trans Alps Cycling Trip - Part IV<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Introduction<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, albertnet used to be a blog about nothing. Now it
seems to have become a blog about my cycling trip in France. Part I is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip.html" target="_blank">here</a>, Part II is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip_30.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and Part III is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-iii.html" target="_blank">here</a>. One day perhaps I’ll run out of Alpine tales to recount, and meals to
describe, but that’s still a long way off. In this post I cover the famous Col
de la Madeleine and the relentless Col du Glandon. Is the Glandon also famous,
the Madeleine relentless? Yes and yes. Do cured meats figure strongly in this report?
Yes!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Wh48Uge2o6jdgeh3NJ_JfIaBZYlyks4EFoB0h2WRSfiZ9-xVpFQdYMzhjF-ooBJVk4IteeZdirYJRUc40V9Q3VV0GgNjm_VUkiSYMAh8T7cllNbSwLIK4ZYTGwzILIv2JyB23otw0MiEC9-6QY-Y0YTbh1eT_vNCMM-E3K4xuYzSUkeYgmqEoAsEHiJ5/s2016/Glandon.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="2016" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Wh48Uge2o6jdgeh3NJ_JfIaBZYlyks4EFoB0h2WRSfiZ9-xVpFQdYMzhjF-ooBJVk4IteeZdirYJRUc40V9Q3VV0GgNjm_VUkiSYMAh8T7cllNbSwLIK4ZYTGwzILIv2JyB23otw0MiEC9-6QY-Y0YTbh1eT_vNCMM-E3K4xuYzSUkeYgmqEoAsEHiJ5/w400-h208/Glandon.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Col de la Madeleine</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Day 5 featured the second and third hardest climbs in the
Alps, according to the organizers. We started with the <a href="https://pjammcycling.com/climb/114.Col-de-la-Madeleine-North-Cycling" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Col de la Madeleine</a>,
14.9 miles long at an average grade of 6.6%. The ride was hard even before the
climb began because we had ten miles of gradual descending first, at a
motor-pacing tempo behind the tour guide. My pool-cue-to-the-gluteus pain was
still there, plus after four hard days of riding I was pretty knackered in
general. When the climb started I was dropped instantly from our Epic A group
(which had dwindled from ~15 riders initially down to 5, the others having
switched to Epic B). Only a kilometer into the climb, my pals (along with some
rando you see there on the right) stopped to wait for me at the only
intersection, knowing I’m just dumb enough to take a wrong turn.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzeSiOzXJ64ket9Ie43iTfxZY510e-WsmQ5vn7A4jQQiymqV2l9YBqHeJHGbDr6AgWt0B-dilRTWYMv3AL4GmrkhjPT101-jWMH3WmJqDdR4eH18E3IEucIAj0yu8HcGPP9_gdqerXkcUqVsprzrUITY1_JqE6lTgayGc4jYZON6zXvJv6xiqbZIpidvgv/s1787/MadeleineCrossroads.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="1787" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzeSiOzXJ64ket9Ie43iTfxZY510e-WsmQ5vn7A4jQQiymqV2l9YBqHeJHGbDr6AgWt0B-dilRTWYMv3AL4GmrkhjPT101-jWMH3WmJqDdR4eH18E3IEucIAj0yu8HcGPP9_gdqerXkcUqVsprzrUITY1_JqE6lTgayGc4jYZON6zXvJv6xiqbZIpidvgv/w400-h246/MadeleineCrossroads.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />In this case I wouldn’t have actually gotten lost because a)
my bike computer navigation was working fine (see <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip_30.html" target="_blank">Part II</a> for details) and b) I remembered what the tour leader had said in the
pre-ride meeting: “Don’t go towards Pussy!” (Click the above photo and look at the signpost on the right.)<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From here I was immediately dropped again and made my
slightly dejected, slow way up the mountain. There were lots of switchbacks,
and tree-lined ravines to stare blankly into. The cement guardrails were the
perfect height to flip a cyclist over the bars.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0h0wEG73-fSYIcVKNBULXBMA6ZyJFPv44HOlt3FSAlGpHDeG8Qp6DGNgkYfzUwMhUWi4JgzSZhx_CblkY3LFtswYX41JR46eBdhUqMgxauoNfcPkjd9wPnpseLvSIPFJcwjcSWyJ9Arzs-ZWviXR2Hx8dCRlArCv9FpkCLn4WNaomWUn7kKK0QbhuEVw/s1613/MadeleineSwitchbacks.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0h0wEG73-fSYIcVKNBULXBMA6ZyJFPv44HOlt3FSAlGpHDeG8Qp6DGNgkYfzUwMhUWi4JgzSZhx_CblkY3LFtswYX41JR46eBdhUqMgxauoNfcPkjd9wPnpseLvSIPFJcwjcSWyJ9Arzs-ZWviXR2Hx8dCRlArCv9FpkCLn4WNaomWUn7kKK0QbhuEVw/w400-h225/MadeleineSwitchbacks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />After some time I came upon Ian and Craig, stopped along the
road. Craig had punctured and Ian was hanging out during the repair. I left
them for dead and continued on up the road. This gave me the opportunity to
watch their gradual progress, switchback after switchback, as they reeled me back
in.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglOZhSi_nqfUZRYSv6qZE_eKkt7vR2d10ecWWPGdGDhCtBgnUCmm8wBGt46K7D8hOYzolu65sAw5cMbMfUXT-G79k-hgU3bc78zrGPrPUQZuthhRLt5jwyBhSBJ3BUbTGFV0LskssXXWvemYifZFyEcvi4T2IQRUWR7YiF2M6-ZNdtuj-phRyvekT8q6C9/s1847/Ian&CraigBehind.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="892" data-original-width="1847" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglOZhSi_nqfUZRYSv6qZE_eKkt7vR2d10ecWWPGdGDhCtBgnUCmm8wBGt46K7D8hOYzolu65sAw5cMbMfUXT-G79k-hgU3bc78zrGPrPUQZuthhRLt5jwyBhSBJ3BUbTGFV0LskssXXWvemYifZFyEcvi4T2IQRUWR7YiF2M6-ZNdtuj-phRyvekT8q6C9/w400-h194/Ian&CraigBehind.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />They eventually, inevitably, caught me and we rode together
for a while, and then with about 7 kilometers to go they sailed off into the
distance again. I slogged along solo, and a bit later came across a bunch of
cows, their bells making a pleasant sound. Cows and cowbells normally buoy my
spirits, but then I saw something kind of disturbing: many of these cows had
weird plastic things attached to their snouts.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJpu7PdHfuNsIaipHCGtl5CWWMLwd9Lgmyl65B9istx1r9MXUBJ96yVsDQo-2TrQHUVUbqnnmGXl3lrgnzy9OwlIMaGXBSjsSTLLrgSM1ymiL8V9tqxMMV7vBvceDUa1Tlk43BPn5UOOgDbFgNFlw6MWO0atVeSEjS-pt_bUVq2lEAzzrqe3ADvlzVkrp4/s1343/UncannyCowPic.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1343" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJpu7PdHfuNsIaipHCGtl5CWWMLwd9Lgmyl65B9istx1r9MXUBJ96yVsDQo-2TrQHUVUbqnnmGXl3lrgnzy9OwlIMaGXBSjsSTLLrgSM1ymiL8V9tqxMMV7vBvceDUa1Tlk43BPn5UOOgDbFgNFlw6MWO0atVeSEjS-pt_bUVq2lEAzzrqe3ADvlzVkrp4/w400-h268/UncannyCowPic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />They looked kind of like the thick plastic ring-thingies you
get with expensive four-packs of <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2015/12/becksting-frexting-for-men.html" target="_blank">craft beer</a>. What the hell were they, and did
they have to be plastic? For some reason this brought to mind the frightening
plastic-faced children in the train tunnel scene of “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/02/pink-floyd-wall.html" target="_blank">Pink Floyd: The Wall</a>.”
I was starting to kind of dislike the Col de la Madeleine.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That said, it sure was scenic. Check out this view, with
Mont Blanc at the left edge of that range there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJvCxXrrcLKhKQUL7pU-yWKeaXGH3DfOH_hM3RSL7N3h9D-LDjHGAvoRN6Q3ukuk0ET3lCDm6POmhRzit2SARZVw3Cr6owwk9cbo1lENHW7atzrXYF5nttCa8eA6AufrWimraQXUkISWNTqxuJrY-_xOSn1NnBc7yH827ePUPdssLvDweuOp01doAfPCu/s2016/MadeleineMontBlancView.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1178" data-original-width="2016" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJvCxXrrcLKhKQUL7pU-yWKeaXGH3DfOH_hM3RSL7N3h9D-LDjHGAvoRN6Q3ukuk0ET3lCDm6POmhRzit2SARZVw3Cr6owwk9cbo1lENHW7atzrXYF5nttCa8eA6AufrWimraQXUkISWNTqxuJrY-_xOSn1NnBc7yH827ePUPdssLvDweuOp01doAfPCu/w400-h234/MadeleineMontBlancView.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I made the summit and enjoyed a brief picnic with my pals. I
made a sandwich of good French bread with olive oil, <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/08/pretty-good-guacamole.html" target="_blank">guacamole</a>, and these weird
cigarette-sized sticks of cured meat; the package said simply “Galibier.” This weird
creation was oddly tasty, under the circumstances. By the way, there tended to
be a tub of guac at every picnic, and it was never very good … pretty much
whatever you get in a tub at Costco. But then, we can’t expect the French to be
great at everything and it’s nice to know the U.S. can
still be better at something. (After all, the tub guac at Whole Foods is better than this, albeit more expensive than cocaine.)<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here’s the photo-op. I know “Altitude 2000m” might not mean
much to my American readers. It equates to 6,562 feet elevation in Imperial units
(or, as my brother calls them, “Freedom units”). Of course those of us who have
conquered <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/08/ride-report-mount-evans-with-teenager.html" target="_blank">Mount Evans</a>, with its summit of 14,270 feet, might have a harder time thinking 6,562 is any
big deal. But the Madeleine gains over 5,000 feet and it has cows with weird
plastic nose things, okay? Take my word for it, it’s grueling.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgStf-VwWABzSe2z1V-RMqoxfASs4Dy-CAhKU4_N5rnT73UtPx5a8l17xStD91WkQ_M39XSrTJFhmoiyAO5v6DzMnQ7hsnO2l9ljrmC5CL57UAsg3wbkes18P7xPPMy6GOMBa7DmHDHGr0VpI1H4lZtMgP5WFZ4mat4DQ1vJ0bloeAu8x5I0L6Y92Lo_z0u/s2016/MadeleineSummit.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgStf-VwWABzSe2z1V-RMqoxfASs4Dy-CAhKU4_N5rnT73UtPx5a8l17xStD91WkQ_M39XSrTJFhmoiyAO5v6DzMnQ7hsnO2l9ljrmC5CL57UAsg3wbkes18P7xPPMy6GOMBa7DmHDHGr0VpI1H4lZtMgP5WFZ4mat4DQ1vJ0bloeAu8x5I0L6Y92Lo_z0u/w400-h225/MadeleineSummit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We had another glorious descent. Permit me an aside here on the topic of risk management. During my nights of poor
sleep throughout this trip, as I tossed and turned, I often contemplated the
danger of descending and the high stakes. “Oh dear!” my wussified,
disgracefully declawed middle-aged psyche would say. “What if I <i>crash?</i>” Probably this interior monologue
wasn’t actually about bike safety at all, but was based on some generalized
anxiety that needed something specific to latch on to … basically an excuse to
fret. Whatever the case, I as I lay there having these self-defeating thoughts
I would resolve to take it super-easy on the remaining downhills. Fortunately,
this soul-degrading <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/01/voices-in-my-head.html" target="_blank">inner voice</a> was somehow vanquished during each ride as my normal, justifiable confidence
reasserted itself. That is to say, the descents were glorious affairs, grand
and sweeping and flowing and perfect. To paraphrase Faulkner, middle-age might
have kilt me but it ain’t whupped me yet.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, according to the <a href="https://www.thomsonbiketours.com/trips/epic-trans-french-alps/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">tour organizers</a>, the Madeleine is the third hardest climb in the Alps, and the Col du Glandon—which
was our next climb of the day—is the second hardest. That’s a lot to throw at
us, particularly the day after we conquered the very hardest climb, <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/10/epic-trans-alps-cycling-trip-part-iii.html" target="_blank">Col de la Loze</a>. I had some butterflies heading into the Glandon, which were somewhat
assuaged by this amusing sight:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqkv5XaJ1horD5fEqwV9cz-boFl-Hh-IzdfCTOE8Rz1D5lsyoPr2pfEDIV5nr9GZB-ik-CwDXegJCqSI87EfOTzyhttkc_UAYTXdJwDY9s1DsTpV3ArAjuQjI3V7Pvn69VGJQrjwldUaJ97EAr0sjVKZL37STjH-h0eM9Br7458cX2GYsFcYZ_oK6SJ4YD/s1361/PrayingMantis.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1258" data-original-width="1361" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqkv5XaJ1horD5fEqwV9cz-boFl-Hh-IzdfCTOE8Rz1D5lsyoPr2pfEDIV5nr9GZB-ik-CwDXegJCqSI87EfOTzyhttkc_UAYTXdJwDY9s1DsTpV3ArAjuQjI3V7Pvn69VGJQrjwldUaJ97EAr0sjVKZL37STjH-h0eM9Br7458cX2GYsFcYZ_oK6SJ4YD/w400-h370/PrayingMantis.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We ultimately decided to brush this praying mantis off of
Ian’s jersey, because what if this little insect hitched a ride all the way to the Glandon
summit, out of his element and far from his kind?<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our group broke up right away, and I went straight out the
back in accordance with what seemed to be the new status quo. I didn’t really
mind; I have a talent for resignation (which serves a cyclist well). That weird
pain in my gluteus maximus (or perhaps gluteus medius—what am I, a doctor?!)
was still bedeviling me. But one of the great things about cycling is that there’s
scenery to enjoy, even as you suffer. Prizefighters, for example, don’t get to
look upon landscapes like this as they’re being pummeled.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYyiAj7tM4SSUojFWQsU1mEEsy0TStdTRDwen4nU8gpToAL1As2vLt7KnsOSps_sCCMicGZNRXY03JaxKB5i0dtmpssreIBUk5G-l2bd4u3Y129kLhYd1zRFtvcWd4YHsE8qyKamdCHpihRkrkryrnCZi7Jch37CutGWBaD8-qhcKkGdDrJ1WFJWRiwgd/s1613/GlandonScenery1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYyiAj7tM4SSUojFWQsU1mEEsy0TStdTRDwen4nU8gpToAL1As2vLt7KnsOSps_sCCMicGZNRXY03JaxKB5i0dtmpssreIBUk5G-l2bd4u3Y129kLhYd1zRFtvcWd4YHsE8qyKamdCHpihRkrkryrnCZi7Jch37CutGWBaD8-qhcKkGdDrJ1WFJWRiwgd/w400-h225/GlandonScenery1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYZy4-7J5fl4MpobnDBBQzeNkVWZaF3-qj_6QhdqHt9d_M9VIu74kcM2SQ91cFfxL-x86caNcXV0cIJ3hrCwS1hva5DbN15NOVDxAH-8tcJsFkcT3cGw1OBMes1ZG1xnwlZxo7DCrDRuKKnmVf6uQK4s0Kv4qvO4QygiDdiBHiSfUpWQ4K6xP_aGzas6u/s1256/GlandonScenery2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1256" data-original-width="898" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYZy4-7J5fl4MpobnDBBQzeNkVWZaF3-qj_6QhdqHt9d_M9VIu74kcM2SQ91cFfxL-x86caNcXV0cIJ3hrCwS1hva5DbN15NOVDxAH-8tcJsFkcT3cGw1OBMes1ZG1xnwlZxo7DCrDRuKKnmVf6uQK4s0Kv4qvO4QygiDdiBHiSfUpWQ4K6xP_aGzas6u/w286-h400/GlandonScenery2.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbgmCoeAMF6oFX4KZMbyoq5TyC-ZWR0QDIO8mRg_jBEQtpM97JsNAorc4jQob6SMv7OWgI_DOl4tR4oJYmM7kzfvSN7Mci0uztBMG4CugxYcszHprxH-OsabYpX28L35mY5uuw3PyV5jEFB-8zoSH4beQ_fYzmE3Xv_gofswhDiIwq8n5U7PmgwbH5CIQ/s1897/DarlingVillageGlandon.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="1897" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbgmCoeAMF6oFX4KZMbyoq5TyC-ZWR0QDIO8mRg_jBEQtpM97JsNAorc4jQob6SMv7OWgI_DOl4tR4oJYmM7kzfvSN7Mci0uztBMG4CugxYcszHprxH-OsabYpX28L35mY5uuw3PyV5jEFB-8zoSH4beQ_fYzmE3Xv_gofswhDiIwq8n5U7PmgwbH5CIQ/w400-h209/DarlingVillageGlandon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">After a few miles I caught up to M—, my roommate on the
tour. We paced each other and chatted for a good while until I found myself in
a strange dilemma. Riding in the saddle, my glute hurt. Standing on the pedals,
I got some relief. But the very low gear on my rental bike (35-tooth chainring,
33 rear cog) was so low, pedaling out of the saddle felt lame—mincing,
ineffectual little pedal strokes that barely move the bike forward. My ego
couldn’t handle it. So I had to shift up before I could properly ride out of
the saddle. Obviously this increased my pace and thus my labor, but burning legs is the proper
kind of pain, the kind caused by hard work, as opposed to this blunt stab in my
glute that suggested injury. The upshot is that I gradually dropped my pal and
thus faced another endless Alpine climb solo. But I’m used to it. <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/05/unintentional-fiction-in-bike-race.html" target="_blank">Bernard Hinault</a> said once, “No kind of progress will ever overcome the loneliness of
the long-distance rider,” and he would know.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As the climb progressed, the scenery changed from what you’d
see on a postcard to something more spare, sparse, even kind of bleak—or maybe
this was just my psychological state filtering what I saw. All the trees
disappeared, and the grasses had a cropped, stubbly look, their green turning
to a mossy yellow, suggesting (at least to me) a pallid, wan lack of health, as
though the plant life couldn’t get enough oxygen. More and more, the rock
seemed to be winning out, beating back the flora. The views were impressive but
not exactly pretty. In the final kilometer of the climb (which averaged 10%) a
guide dropped back to pace me along.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj82Lr9rsGtIIH8MZWKGeRmXC7pB8qddX9tUTq3AuZ19pdcDxMN244D2iGY6mJNdSU9joLmuNbBeZDIrjHYZWZq7h9oV04-_9S6mDrlYESR8_zfx5pbvy9SokCfmNSxfjhkGxjlucdvE6A_UJksFWgeHzTco8_CjX6za4yf-rPElvlkbjP9W4Lmhj8oUpG/s2016/GlandonFinalKM.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj82Lr9rsGtIIH8MZWKGeRmXC7pB8qddX9tUTq3AuZ19pdcDxMN244D2iGY6mJNdSU9joLmuNbBeZDIrjHYZWZq7h9oV04-_9S6mDrlYESR8_zfx5pbvy9SokCfmNSxfjhkGxjlucdvE6A_UJksFWgeHzTco8_CjX6za4yf-rPElvlkbjP9W4Lmhj8oUpG/w400-h225/GlandonFinalKM.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It was a relief to be near the summit because, as
disciplined as I try to be, it’s hard to stop negativity from infiltrating my
thoughts, sometimes even of the “can I even make it?” variety. Normally, as
discussed <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/05/self-talk-in-action.html" target="_blank">here</a>, I am good at stomping down this negative self-talk, but the sheer
leg-wringing length of these Alpine grades can start to wear down even the most
stubborn resolve. That’s where decades of accumulated suffering start to pay
off, with a deeply resigned attitude that embraces the fatalistic notion that
there is no choice, no alternative, just the reality of serving out your sentence.
There’s almost a comfort in this, eventually; as <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/07/keep-calm-read-these-quotations.html" target="_blank">Dostoyevsky wrote</a>, “Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel!”<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Even as I reached the Glandon summit I had this other quiet
voice gradually insinuating itself, with a message I knew was important but
didn’t want to hear. We’d been briefed that the Glandon wasn’t our final
summit, that we had to head from there to the top of the Col de la Croix de
Fer, which I’d been up once before, twenty years ago when <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/08/from-archives-riding-la-marmotte-part-i.html" target="_blank">I first raced La Marmotte</a>.
The Croix de Fer summit isn’t far from the summit of the Glandon, and it’s not
a steep pitch, but nothing seems trivial this far into such a brutal day of
riding. I pushed the matter out of my mind until the end of the Glandon when it
could no longer be ignored: I had another three kilometers to go. I dragged
myself the rest of the way and eventually reached the true high point of the
day, at 6,782 feet. The iron cross you see on the left there may or may not be <i>the </i>croix de fer. I didn’t have the energy
to investigate.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSRK3vFW6lcxwHv28MfBASfIX_RH9fVRumGJA81tyE3jrHZVHQVrFAdLK2orsN7SgBXvBw_jg7gABeT8kUsnQgd4yk9cpd-wWQL8um19tzp2GvdJ6I9AK5HB7BaeuUnb57Go-oBLboijR9cQsh3bEDSHCaH5HSD5GCqMI41jcoX-oOqHuxFrBV5Jvc-hq0/s2582/CroixDeFerSummit.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1267" data-original-width="2582" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSRK3vFW6lcxwHv28MfBASfIX_RH9fVRumGJA81tyE3jrHZVHQVrFAdLK2orsN7SgBXvBw_jg7gABeT8kUsnQgd4yk9cpd-wWQL8um19tzp2GvdJ6I9AK5HB7BaeuUnb57Go-oBLboijR9cQsh3bEDSHCaH5HSD5GCqMI41jcoX-oOqHuxFrBV5Jvc-hq0/w400-h196/CroixDeFerSummit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />A picnic was waiting at the van, and a staffer volunteered
to make me a sandwich. What service! He sawed a couple slices off a perfect
French bâtard (proving in the process that the expression “greatest thing since
sliced bread” is way off-base). He added olive oil, and can I just interrupt this
post for a moment to say how much I hate it when a menu at an upscale
restaurant employs the abbreviation “EVOO” for “extra virgin olive oil”? When I
see that I almost want to head for the exit. Below the menu item “Herb-crusted
beef medallions” you see the accompaniments, “Tomatillo-garlic salsify, braised
parsnips, EVOO hummus.” Pretentious fuckwits. Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, so
some oil, then groovy French cheese (what type? doesn't matter), prosciutto (of
course), and the albeit mediocre guac (and again, who cares because this isn’t
a chichi bistro). Oh yeah.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRb4GJIc_i7Sglq0EJ748Ptvk38ag39wwa-PV4h7Ue_H9ORHi1laxlA4rnezNo2Ypi4OQE3ntadp9iUODlGRxhGSRIc3m-0viaFgSErtZJBU6Q5MfMXt9nDDESwYMK_K56HdxvQHp7nrosnCKpOlT4xeVbbWHiAZiM3wtPMHwdo4Y0BlkHTFA13Feqr8j/s1621/GlandonSandwich.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="1621" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRb4GJIc_i7Sglq0EJ748Ptvk38ag39wwa-PV4h7Ue_H9ORHi1laxlA4rnezNo2Ypi4OQE3ntadp9iUODlGRxhGSRIc3m-0viaFgSErtZJBU6Q5MfMXt9nDDESwYMK_K56HdxvQHp7nrosnCKpOlT4xeVbbWHiAZiM3wtPMHwdo4Y0BlkHTFA13Feqr8j/w400-h280/GlandonSandwich.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />If I ever open a restaurant I’ll serve this (with <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/08/pretty-good-guacamole.html" target="_blank">proper guac</a>, of course, or maybe just avocado) and call it “Le Glandon.” I won’t
explain the name on the menu and the description won’t say anything about “EVOO.”<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was a corny picture frame thingy up there and I tried
haplessly to do a selfie with it. A German motorcyclist intervened and got a
passable shot.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WM6Ycob6d5uriS91dD1iV9otkPg6VfrL2iJEH5_nYvdSELTHDadMNDyvh0yqTwB-iM7Nhw2NSNoVXfyzbkGebn2RG_wQVdQlfRdkbWKFHpp0aDPu2b0TzSzftlW2JR8N6-tonATnRh2xdWV9IssOhOOneBm3KtIHFawo2MuhB0k03_0dUke7O6XmSZbX/s1285/CroixDeFerPortrait.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="1285" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WM6Ycob6d5uriS91dD1iV9otkPg6VfrL2iJEH5_nYvdSELTHDadMNDyvh0yqTwB-iM7Nhw2NSNoVXfyzbkGebn2RG_wQVdQlfRdkbWKFHpp0aDPu2b0TzSzftlW2JR8N6-tonATnRh2xdWV9IssOhOOneBm3KtIHFawo2MuhB0k03_0dUke7O6XmSZbX/w400-h310/CroixDeFerPortrait.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />As you can see, the day’s effort has both grown and deepened
my crow’s feet. Too much more of this and my face might just crack.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We started the descent but abruptly halted because we didn’t
have everyone. I took the opportunity to snap one more photo, and as I did so
the missing guy showed up and everyone sailed by, so I was chasing like a
madman after that. The photo came out well, though, so it was worth it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirm6veippdkeVEQL2uW6yIBp7LtXRIf_w_1wdLqvANEmFwIxX1T-LBiUvdUdyiZP51IexxIRa1oE-8Qagks5kRpHqI3H1yIXWDrp8BI4t3E6PtIuXmNJqLRphEHGIpDX-Lf9LptMgkyHXdCaUY0BsT2T4sX3M0OJCeAzhig1c43NMidni3kS3kpXcaggq_/s1613/ViewFromCroixDeFer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirm6veippdkeVEQL2uW6yIBp7LtXRIf_w_1wdLqvANEmFwIxX1T-LBiUvdUdyiZP51IexxIRa1oE-8Qagks5kRpHqI3H1yIXWDrp8BI4t3E6PtIuXmNJqLRphEHGIpDX-Lf9LptMgkyHXdCaUY0BsT2T4sX3M0OJCeAzhig1c43NMidni3kS3kpXcaggq_/w400-h225/ViewFromCroixDeFer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The little town of St-Jean-de-Maurienne where we finished up
does not have a fancy hotel, so we were at a Best Western next to what looked
like a rock crushing plant. It was the nicest Best Western I’ve ever seen, with
little bicycle pictures all over the wallpaper. It had no restaurant so we went
to this greasy-spoon type pizza joint, all Formica and linoleum, of such
barebones tacky aspect it even had advertisements on the menu. In the U.S.,
this would be your sign to flee immediately, but we’d heard this place was
good. The menu was entirely in French which led to some confusion. I almost
ordered a pizza with “thon” on it, before learning what thon is: chunk light
tuna, like out of a can. If memory serves tuna was a topping on the pizza they
called “California,” though I may be conflating this with the Dutch frozen
pizza line “Big Americans.” Anyway, I was able to find a pizza with no thon,
though I think all the pizzas had some form of cured meat. The food ended up
proving out my theory that the French are simply incapable of doing a bad job,
even at their greasy-spoons. The pizza was excellent. Fun fact: in France, they don’t cut up the pizza for you. You have to hack away at it with a fork and knife. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmALzHBMDWQlu4O5iuuY6mGEDQQgMo6-QDNyBnVznLrPs_XxS2J8kYd2uuhDGr5eEg8tn0H4LsihN_ygo9jmRMwZ0z5KdNY4XQaAgUC_aUoQbnNS3zJVyGruNiDrBN1XfmzJgePs5svsSH1bDuCbp80Btk7QdPWHTiIdTTKi9H9VyhFSpj0bE7r13sZ6o/s2016/FrenchPizza.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmALzHBMDWQlu4O5iuuY6mGEDQQgMo6-QDNyBnVznLrPs_XxS2J8kYd2uuhDGr5eEg8tn0H4LsihN_ygo9jmRMwZ0z5KdNY4XQaAgUC_aUoQbnNS3zJVyGruNiDrBN1XfmzJgePs5svsSH1bDuCbp80Btk7QdPWHTiIdTTKi9H9VyhFSpj0bE7r13sZ6o/w400-h225/FrenchPizza.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Some of the guys around me made the shock-and-awe move of ordering
dueling entrees, such as a pizza <i>and</i>
a calzone. It’s rare for me to be out-eaten, but I’d had a big-ass snack right
after the ride in accordance with the glycogen window principle of sports
nutrition, which has been <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/10/glycogen-window-for-sports-recovery.html" target="_blank">scientifically proven by my daughter</a>.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ian ordered profiteroles and they were majestic.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6y0EtcRFVrXPfyb7Zu6h-CDSosAOo0UBx9ntu7HXm824Xo9-AL2UlH72kP5QF32wFGSUi3BjPOJn7HOXCoXM2e-KwhdJ4pvwCJr9K2RA9InxHn_Ejk1eYGP-BMnJGRhZvB0VoC8yZw285olJqw-LotijVESiu7ZkP5snMx9zTIji0q8bbAda1PpikxlBU/s1063/Profiteroles.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="907" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6y0EtcRFVrXPfyb7Zu6h-CDSosAOo0UBx9ntu7HXm824Xo9-AL2UlH72kP5QF32wFGSUi3BjPOJn7HOXCoXM2e-KwhdJ4pvwCJr9K2RA9InxHn_Ejk1eYGP-BMnJGRhZvB0VoC8yZw285olJqw-LotijVESiu7ZkP5snMx9zTIji0q8bbAda1PpikxlBU/w341-h400/Profiteroles.jpg" width="341" /></a></div><br />All who know me understand that a) I have a massive
appetite, b) I have no fear of saturated fats, c) the idea of “guilty”
pleasures or “sinfully” rich never enters my mind, and d) I absolutely <i>love </i>free food. Since I’d already paid
for this trip (it’s an all-expenses-included deal), all signs pointed to me
ordering a dessert or two. Reader, I did not. I’d had too many gels, too much
energy drink, too much chocolate milk, and too much Coke that day to even
contemplate any more sweets. This is how you can finally begin to understand
how difficult cycling in the Alps truly is.<div><br /></div><div>Check back soon, because I will be reporting on Day 6, the hardest one yet....<br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">. For a complete index of albertnet posts,
click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
<p></p></div>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-53804343469265594782023-10-08T17:49:00.000-07:002023-10-08T17:49:03.359-07:00Epic Trans Alps Cycling Trip - Part III<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In accordance with my new “all French Alps cycling all the
time” blog format, this post continues the tale of how I gradually burned
myself down to the filter via a week of cycling in the beautiful Rhône-Alpes mountains.
Part I is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip.html" target="_blank">here</a> and Part II is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip_30.html" target="_blank">here</a>. Today’s post, covering Day 4, features the fearsome Col de la Loze.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHrlEu4yT0xWrvMdwg61eIh5zfBywIg60GnLFjvzT-ROIaBM2G5cZUAQLbrD_UuEGHlryv_4moCPVqVkd1GkK33QoDfX2iFkvrPeiT2eN8VUpInBoecBFm54bTCjL4apsVXCBWbla-zYmTOq7E_zbxUVbaVOQFSdZ4TlQtp-l9fVPie0DDaqj0KbnBLy0/s1854/Ian&DanaColDeLaLoz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1854" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHrlEu4yT0xWrvMdwg61eIh5zfBywIg60GnLFjvzT-ROIaBM2G5cZUAQLbrD_UuEGHlryv_4moCPVqVkd1GkK33QoDfX2iFkvrPeiT2eN8VUpInBoecBFm54bTCjL4apsVXCBWbla-zYmTOq7E_zbxUVbaVOQFSdZ4TlQtp-l9fVPie0DDaqj0KbnBLy0/w400-h191/Ian&DanaColDeLaLoz.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><i>About the Col de la
Loze</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Simply put, the Col de la Loze is the hardest climb in
France. But don’t take my word for it; that’s the ranking given by <a href="https://pjammcycling.com/climb/1703.Col-de-la-Loze-Meribel" target="_blank">Pjamm Cycling</a>, a website devoted to the topic. The Col is 14 miles long at an
average grade of 7.5%. A quarter of it is above 10%, the steepest bit is 24%,
and the top 6 kilometers are <i>a fricking ski
run </i>that was recently paved. This is where Tadej Pogacar totally cracked
during this year’s Tour de France (click <a href="https://youtu.be/nTGWORHukVo?si=4vyW6vZoIEPP1d1-&t=165" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a> for footage). My pals and I were kind of dreading this, obviously, but at
least it was the only major climb of the day.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here we are rolling out, a nice mist tumbling around in the
distance but the previous day’s rain all gone, thank goodness.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhml09XhfpCx7xX7-VOL8-_qD4ve7h8aPvD22h_MBe47r_5yMVQP4dpBqRreiREnl_YX0sae4SgDepghZLawQemGHTBsLRmDLUaKaG9nl6bARcuuQVv0Q2WbpfaLlcfYx_4smqEOpk-OIeu1IPE0xEBzhzhq6SxqFOtQvmcemQAutxzy-TcofDTCF9-ErKr/s1009/MorningB4LaLoze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="748" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhml09XhfpCx7xX7-VOL8-_qD4ve7h8aPvD22h_MBe47r_5yMVQP4dpBqRreiREnl_YX0sae4SgDepghZLawQemGHTBsLRmDLUaKaG9nl6bARcuuQVv0Q2WbpfaLlcfYx_4smqEOpk-OIeu1IPE0xEBzhzhq6SxqFOtQvmcemQAutxzy-TcofDTCF9-ErKr/w296-h400/MorningB4LaLoze.jpg" width="296" /></a></div><br />Something was wrong with my butt. I know that’s a strange
thing to say, but from my first pedal revolutions I had this strange pain like
somebody had bashed my butt cheek with the blunt end of a pool cue, kind of
high up on, what, the glut, I guess? Perhaps it was some kind of muscle strain,
maybe from the cold the day before and that final, frigid, clenched-muscle descent. Whatever caused it, this pain dogged me all day.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Col de la Loze is a savage climb, no doubt about it, but
at least we weren’t racing. Ian and K and I rode a mild, conservative tempo
just to play it safe. Craig put the hammer down and was long gone, with just
one other guy from our group with him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, I don’t know what happened, and Craig doesn’t seem to want
to talk about it, but partway up the climb, the guy Craig was riding with started
to dissolve. I guess the Col de la Loze will do that to you. Check this out:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDpveZj3QhCoV2GinXeRuCbBtghyu5kuN0k-Q1M9P4I4DG62oE0vgYkMZ8TtFkMXuhrKUQLFrJOJQNsUdFiJ8PqPIy1t3U2MLbT_3xm3P-eFVruu4w2ZWsIOJB6ysNZdklkWVZ_mWZmLNmlPse0x3WD1ryMWvD9N0p-k9DK5z9RDfTpQF2pI9hizeIYon/s1331/RiderDissolving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="887" data-original-width="1331" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDpveZj3QhCoV2GinXeRuCbBtghyu5kuN0k-Q1M9P4I4DG62oE0vgYkMZ8TtFkMXuhrKUQLFrJOJQNsUdFiJ8PqPIy1t3U2MLbT_3xm3P-eFVruu4w2ZWsIOJB6ysNZdklkWVZ_mWZmLNmlPse0x3WD1ryMWvD9N0p-k9DK5z9RDfTpQF2pI9hizeIYon/w400-h266/RiderDissolving.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Weird, huh? I never did find out if this dude got his flesh back.Now, this next shot I was pretty excited to get because it’s really tricky snapping photos while climbing a crazy steep grade:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6q6qZqIofW9-sLPMNLntaqMTWt2NXWJMNqXiPNJNu8Pudn8FY6RGdqGmyRDrCnFStBHUCdsUs9gbxMoVOMOjZjKETg9P_CAHOh9FA3VhyphenhyphenYH4qbFFPt27cfAxPp7Qtfm-weplIim_e9yVrkjx8ka8YvW8HepkGkaz3JQLBOL9MgIXtWXixRmU5OKMtI_J/s1613/BikeComputerPercentGrade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1613" data-original-width="907" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6q6qZqIofW9-sLPMNLntaqMTWt2NXWJMNqXiPNJNu8Pudn8FY6RGdqGmyRDrCnFStBHUCdsUs9gbxMoVOMOjZjKETg9P_CAHOh9FA3VhyphenhyphenYH4qbFFPt27cfAxPp7Qtfm-weplIim_e9yVrkjx8ka8YvW8HepkGkaz3JQLBOL9MgIXtWXixRmU5OKMtI_J/w225-h400/BikeComputerPercentGrade.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />So yeah, 23%, impressive, sure, but check out my speed: 3.5
mph. That’s just sad. I think once I put away my phone and stood on the pedals,
I was able to bring my speed up around 3.6 mph on this stretch.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On and on the climb went, the kilometers very gradually
ticking by as we oozed our way up. With 3 kilometers to go, we learned that the
next kilometer averaged 12%.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDmlCNeC07AujrFw9i7R_F8VfF06MJcYXBXtgPInBPjlydalCa7fpAqSE2PRfKVekPJFDhdaZit2fC6GyMaS9a8TjCdReArZMKRdEvXGKqyajTLnJ3IrwoeNK0kEwhlQF2zyO7uFtjsF7FzFA0r3Y1ePLz_q3KBOw63A0-dZkQ90ITquwLr6boB19kWSz/s870/Loze3kToGo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="579" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDmlCNeC07AujrFw9i7R_F8VfF06MJcYXBXtgPInBPjlydalCa7fpAqSE2PRfKVekPJFDhdaZit2fC6GyMaS9a8TjCdReArZMKRdEvXGKqyajTLnJ3IrwoeNK0kEwhlQF2zyO7uFtjsF7FzFA0r3Y1ePLz_q3KBOw63A0-dZkQ90ITquwLr6boB19kWSz/w266-h400/Loze3kToGo.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />See how easy it is to read all this? And you can imagine how
easy it was to type that last sentence. If anything, you may find this account tedious,
but man, that’s just because I can’t convey the actual difficulty. Even the
photos flatten everything out. Perhaps I could express it better with a formula, which we had seen on the road earlier in the climb:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjABgxbAE9fS8mC5zlF-W1-dAjssaJTM1ND_idwuM_MiuaD_tfj4fTKh5KjTr-ysQSZnrltoqApSkczUMY1skqUQ9Q-3c9R7bhuIZGxwQX34nll2aGBA8LW5kXKHvKt38qBuxNbCFCfz4x9IXd97ocsDjF_eQTtMkz4kadYec-sKp0HK6fB_YsCgkOTF8Ma/s1656/LaLozeFormula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="1656" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjABgxbAE9fS8mC5zlF-W1-dAjssaJTM1ND_idwuM_MiuaD_tfj4fTKh5KjTr-ysQSZnrltoqApSkczUMY1skqUQ9Q-3c9R7bhuIZGxwQX34nll2aGBA8LW5kXKHvKt38qBuxNbCFCfz4x9IXd97ocsDjF_eQTtMkz4kadYec-sKp0HK6fB_YsCgkOTF8Ma/w400-h193/LaLozeFormula.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The funny thing was, my poor brain was so oxygen-deprived when
I saw this, I couldn’t perform the calculation. Imagine that! “<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/09/everest-challenge-pep-talk.html" target="_blank">Climbing stupid</a>”
indeed! But you know, it’s the damnedest thing: I <i>still </i>can’t work my way through this equation. Could the climb have
permanently damaged my brain somehow? I’ll bet you’re having a chuckle at my struggle
here with such a basic Physics formula. I’ll have to find a Tour de France
rider to explain this to me.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here are a few more pics:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47PaAo51WF8GLlRIJHsZMIOCoIvfyhATM3k6fBDoxaltKlmQ2YpFau-vAGQmf1OK6FdWio2WTlCq4qAmNMHMAnX-ojLI7Mnxzz2dk1AaezppNnQTod64-N65bSTYVGOKbtjgmWZvxMtuG9E5Hu-MTiEzmZLaADnBVFdRWdm-5XoDoGHv9vXBs4-EhyphenhyphenwIU/s2016/OverlookColDeLaLoze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47PaAo51WF8GLlRIJHsZMIOCoIvfyhATM3k6fBDoxaltKlmQ2YpFau-vAGQmf1OK6FdWio2WTlCq4qAmNMHMAnX-ojLI7Mnxzz2dk1AaezppNnQTod64-N65bSTYVGOKbtjgmWZvxMtuG9E5Hu-MTiEzmZLaADnBVFdRWdm-5XoDoGHv9vXBs4-EhyphenhyphenwIU/w400-h300/OverlookColDeLaLoze.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dTLet1LlAVLTLn05WFs4qlDmaXfHR0oj-JtIxeyw0WXxfVj66PrgnK7-0f5bCqQuxlsHXBZg-en1wrApDI_FmtCyIcMjRO02kQlNuuYykUa1w2ac1AXWvQumk0vQdfKoh3LYxqvLYS4KXOF87horFOgAYKexJNCg2wfNuRp0Q5Z28clvCurtqe5p0Pvg/s2016/LaLozeNearSummit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="2016" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dTLet1LlAVLTLn05WFs4qlDmaXfHR0oj-JtIxeyw0WXxfVj66PrgnK7-0f5bCqQuxlsHXBZg-en1wrApDI_FmtCyIcMjRO02kQlNuuYykUa1w2ac1AXWvQumk0vQdfKoh3LYxqvLYS4KXOF87horFOgAYKexJNCg2wfNuRp0Q5Z28clvCurtqe5p0Pvg/w400-h204/LaLozeNearSummit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLFMjGHhbEqaGxJI6IYKuA6px4yeR2feH2BsZafDl_ygS2XRX-aSso4dFf7_IaGyyWASLMrRXA7AzSt_uLI-AxD4tRRVslFNb8p9x5pzbfj7KqD_pbMc0vfDWZEH6HlqzbIJFSixEjS7hgVRQQwvLmW5VPcByd9mxr5jfgDz9TWv8lPLAFJyNUbl2JX3M/s1613/LaLozeNearSummitK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLFMjGHhbEqaGxJI6IYKuA6px4yeR2feH2BsZafDl_ygS2XRX-aSso4dFf7_IaGyyWASLMrRXA7AzSt_uLI-AxD4tRRVslFNb8p9x5pzbfj7KqD_pbMc0vfDWZEH6HlqzbIJFSixEjS7hgVRQQwvLmW5VPcByd9mxr5jfgDz9TWv8lPLAFJyNUbl2JX3M/w400-h225/LaLozeNearSummitK.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5eWpCZuvz08Rf6IkHDrpq-_cOCCK-LYb7UaOy66AoJqcUZqW9husbG77BOhXFQbTGZViBnyoUTkAyVTOQR0gg6Z_3hAooT5DWJk-ddd0laD4er4jne6ByFOgZXYckFd43hOejkGhgVOkhV9az338VU6QCodnVj2kpCHsMvUC72xI3QSPvuXFzXs6TNtU/s1600/CowsOnColDeLaLoze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5eWpCZuvz08Rf6IkHDrpq-_cOCCK-LYb7UaOy66AoJqcUZqW9husbG77BOhXFQbTGZViBnyoUTkAyVTOQR0gg6Z_3hAooT5DWJk-ddd0laD4er4jne6ByFOgZXYckFd43hOejkGhgVOkhV9az338VU6QCodnVj2kpCHsMvUC72xI3QSPvuXFzXs6TNtU/w400-h300/CowsOnColDeLaLoze.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Nearing the end, Ian, K—, and I agreed that the grade would
surely let up a little, and that the last kilometer wouldn’t be more than 8%. I
don’t know why we thought this. We reached the last guidepost and it said 11% …
sonofabitch! Well, it didn’t say the “sonofabitch” part, <i>we</i> did—or rather, we said something even more profane. Here we are
tackling the final bit. (One of the guides must have snapped this photo because
we’re all in it; that’s me at the back, unsurprisingly.)<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-hnDzNSiLIA12rdcvnfYfUSOFHDDN_VVRLL5F5JJHt3Z8t16ZV6sncu8nOyOj240zuchvVrebXBuCeQHAmFISUcgbLX6EP53vw1PwSntGUf0HxyM0weS_k9ptJQBi-K_MnbdX-Kzt2F5Ai7Y-um3yUGbN0pQhl6c8tIYL0MYI6zuc3StE1OPtROVXGR6/s1600/LastKMColDeLaLoze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-hnDzNSiLIA12rdcvnfYfUSOFHDDN_VVRLL5F5JJHt3Z8t16ZV6sncu8nOyOj240zuchvVrebXBuCeQHAmFISUcgbLX6EP53vw1PwSntGUf0HxyM0weS_k9ptJQBi-K_MnbdX-Kzt2F5Ai7Y-um3yUGbN0pQhl6c8tIYL0MYI6zuc3StE1OPtROVXGR6/w300-h400/LastKMColDeLaLoze.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />We made it, needless to say. Here we are chillin’ at the
summit.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvWbUdnvv_rn5EHJz5iq53CR0YJenHWuZhTHJvV5bAP9bYh-KFm-wC1tdYIH9_iRA9YqTnNXSOsNqioMBoX2yImJjL-kVqdp1C4mTVTGMD6BBUsus-blPNyzzrAQ6xG9shG4QFp-fHCdIAnsr15Mxqn0ZwaiCMzMeQPP0WrBXkqasjFWXa4SpLc0LvIbO/s2016/ChillinAtLaLozeSummit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="2016" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvWbUdnvv_rn5EHJz5iq53CR0YJenHWuZhTHJvV5bAP9bYh-KFm-wC1tdYIH9_iRA9YqTnNXSOsNqioMBoX2yImJjL-kVqdp1C4mTVTGMD6BBUsus-blPNyzzrAQ6xG9shG4QFp-fHCdIAnsr15Mxqn0ZwaiCMzMeQPP0WrBXkqasjFWXa4SpLc0LvIbO/w400-h189/ChillinAtLaLozeSummit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It was pretty cold up there at 7,559 feet elevation but I’d
worked up a good sweat anyway. I have long enjoyed the pleasure of squeegeeing the
sweat out of my helmet pad. I managed to capture this in a photo:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcE3mcDJVSnFkNAJtfx5Lha0Eh_yOV1QbcHdmCGp4JfKWVPKF60uip6uVsQ2MxmmICOUF1QYoCUjqTFp1YuPMLYV2MURO-i-NTKynlulcPfpgX6p4k-nLXg7-hYqkcxFnRj38-o9p-sRzdaw73Hv92PRbIGxbFuaX4ldvRRRroyaAFMFiJ5VrhYruh481p/s1552/SqueezingOutSweat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1074" data-original-width="1552" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcE3mcDJVSnFkNAJtfx5Lha0Eh_yOV1QbcHdmCGp4JfKWVPKF60uip6uVsQ2MxmmICOUF1QYoCUjqTFp1YuPMLYV2MURO-i-NTKynlulcPfpgX6p4k-nLXg7-hYqkcxFnRj38-o9p-sRzdaw73Hv92PRbIGxbFuaX4ldvRRRroyaAFMFiJ5VrhYruh481p/w400-h276/SqueezingOutSweat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I froze my ass off on the descent, being underdressed, but
then it warmed up and we had a really good, fast trip over the Cat 2
Champagny-en-Vanoise climb. The group splintered right off the bat, and Craig
and Ian destroyed everyone with a blazing pace. We regrouped and then proceeded
to a final, uncategorized climb, which we all rode together. Here’s one of
those “meta” pictures, K— snapping a photo of himself being photographed.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWvo0UX8qpsdDXYLlL90_aQ_SFuw7XssFOK1eQDIbhlOcYtGnVgnAgAyyaJ5q8rV6tcPHD_RE2YwfpfkaSNFYL0ag1ZCVjZyrgHgu131dsCgvVJo-fYHGoyE5l8uGt_7SS7-guklztpOBsKrDOfgGGOEN8i3CY-ijhxvLwaex50uXHHGOeM0WPZlKHD4U5/s1600/LastClimbDay4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWvo0UX8qpsdDXYLlL90_aQ_SFuw7XssFOK1eQDIbhlOcYtGnVgnAgAyyaJ5q8rV6tcPHD_RE2YwfpfkaSNFYL0ag1ZCVjZyrgHgu131dsCgvVJo-fYHGoyE5l8uGt_7SS7-guklztpOBsKrDOfgGGOEN8i3CY-ijhxvLwaex50uXHHGOeM0WPZlKHD4U5/w400-h300/LastClimbDay4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The day wrapped up with a wickedly fun, twisty descent to
our next town. The staff set up a nice picnic next to a roaring river and guess
what? There were cured meats involved! Check out this “raw quesadilla” that I whipped up to chow down on (with a chocolate milk chaser, <i>bien entendu!</i>).<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1gypNxvKbWM_FTH89V500DlG3BjQUrzEw-3JnJFPfwQMYDxeQsnsIs1LK0YGgbD23ajLFgGaSYAW-iUuwWfC50TD7pahZiw1Vwd1BdAY3mSNN0yjucWvrKsiPXF16acOjJuSeD5vcZsalUeHNwH1KS6gjBpSXdr5m4ASQ05xvLvdgoMxMQzTvb6HnQJ0/s969/RawQuesadilla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="969" data-original-width="680" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1gypNxvKbWM_FTH89V500DlG3BjQUrzEw-3JnJFPfwQMYDxeQsnsIs1LK0YGgbD23ajLFgGaSYAW-iUuwWfC50TD7pahZiw1Vwd1BdAY3mSNN0yjucWvrKsiPXF16acOjJuSeD5vcZsalUeHNwH1KS6gjBpSXdr5m4ASQ05xvLvdgoMxMQzTvb6HnQJ0/w281-h400/RawQuesadilla.jpg" width="281" /></a></i></div><i><br />Weirdest dinner ever</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our strange hotel (see <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip_30.html" target="_blank">my last post</a>) was the only we stayed at for two nights, and after the “veal nut” the night
before we weren’t that excited about another dinner there; meanwhile, we had
something to celebrate (which doesn’t happen to be any of your business). So we made a reservation
at the highest-rated restaurant in town. At least, we <i>thought </i>we had a
reservation—there were some crossed wires. We headed up there anyway, hoping
they could take us as walk-ins. It was in another wellness spa hotel, and although
Brides-les-Bains feels like a ghost town, their dining room was booked solid.
The helpful concierge, who spoke excellent English, said, “It’s probably for
the best because they are serving a prix-fixe<i> diététique </i>menu tonight and you would not like it.” OMG, <i>diététique</i> … I felt like we’d dodged a
bullet! It could have been a squash nut with a side of quinoa mist.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The concierge made a phone call, had a brief dialogue in
French I couldn’t follow, and then told us, “My favorite restaurant can
accommodate you, but they are only serving one thing tonight which is raclette.
It is cheese and there is ham and potatoes.” I immediately knew what she was talking about—or, I thought I did. I confused raclette with tartiflette,
a dish popular in the French Alps, which is like scalloped potatoes on EPO. (You
didn’t think I was gonna say “on steroids,” did you?) Everyone agreed raclette sounded great.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We headed to the place which, coincidentally, was the dining
room attached to the pub we’d gone to for recovery beers earlier that evening
and the day before as well. So it was kind a full-circle trip (the inefficiency
of which bothered me as a tiring cyclist, but pleased me as a curious tourist).
The waitress spoke no English but there was no menu anyway … she just carried
over this bizarre metal contraption and set it down on our table. It looked
like a cross between the scary waffle maker at a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/04/motel.html" target="_blank">crappy motel</a>, a SodaStream fizzy water machine, and a miniature version of the hugging
apparatus Temple Grandin built. I was completely mystified until the waitress
brought over a giant wedge of raclette cheese, cut from an enormous wheel, and
attached it to the contraption (impaling it on something at the base, I
believe).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsL8MfiSCDgLD5vi7YjB7mRAmIrEkwD3zBIHlZvJWVijd9zHMyQnDPQLPGYVfJKJbbI7HQ_AfvF4rbLybrz-9-7f0YDUAVyeO9T17vYmVzywkFIrx5hZS6BYxBXlEl_9JtzZv9GrO1se30Lt6pwR18Nc2nbZl9w8-vkZoplxWuan_QQ76LFKFufwTKCniy/s1405/RacletteContraption.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1044" data-original-width="1405" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsL8MfiSCDgLD5vi7YjB7mRAmIrEkwD3zBIHlZvJWVijd9zHMyQnDPQLPGYVfJKJbbI7HQ_AfvF4rbLybrz-9-7f0YDUAVyeO9T17vYmVzywkFIrx5hZS6BYxBXlEl_9JtzZv9GrO1se30Lt6pwR18Nc2nbZl9w8-vkZoplxWuan_QQ76LFKFufwTKCniy/w400-h297/RacletteContraption.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Oh boy, I thought. This is going to be delicious but will
take a very long time. It would be very different from tucking into tartiflette, which is as simple a comfort food as <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/10/homemade-macaroni-cheese.html" target="_blank">macaroni & cheese</a>. I was starving and I’m sure my pals were too; fortunately, cyclists are not generally given to fisticuffs as we’re no good at it. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">After a brief
nonverbal dialogue between K— and the waitress, we determined it was time to plug in the
contraption (which after some light research I have just learned is called a <i>raclonette</i>). The waitress brought us each a plate of—wait for
it—cured meats, along with a little salad and some tiny pickles.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Idv2KobjdhdwFPZnYm7gFRHCbabslgxRh8eU9TDs4FOcpGJ2E3A4skK7ZyZY_WPExYOKWK_qy6LaSnljKkw4VvjhAPfYEGd_yoh3K2MzfaAtP_TQsLHNFdnWzHFck5dPts0IRVyzOEqm06V0G-BFUkkHyGqp2kP1hWCxqWW6n-fO6zMGjoaYnAxprFpp/s1213/CuredMeat&Salad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1058" data-original-width="1213" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Idv2KobjdhdwFPZnYm7gFRHCbabslgxRh8eU9TDs4FOcpGJ2E3A4skK7ZyZY_WPExYOKWK_qy6LaSnljKkw4VvjhAPfYEGd_yoh3K2MzfaAtP_TQsLHNFdnWzHFck5dPts0IRVyzOEqm06V0G-BFUkkHyGqp2kP1hWCxqWW6n-fO6zMGjoaYnAxprFpp/w400-h349/CuredMeat&Salad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It’s possible this stuff was supposed to be combined with
the soon-to-be-melted cheese but I didn’t wait around to find out, and
immediately scarfed down the whole plate. There was chatter about somebody
wanting more pickles, and/or offering up his pickles, but I was in the zone and
mostly tuned it out.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Those metal wings that fold down on the <i>raclonette </i>have heating elements in them, and their proximity to
the cheese melts it, outside-in. You collect the melted cheese on a little
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/11/rubber-spatulas.html" target="_blank">spatula</a> and then drizzle it over sliced boiled potatoes that show up somewhere along
the way. Labor intensive, but well worth it. (It strikes me that raclette is
the polar opposite of microwave popcorn, which is the dumbest food concept
anybody has ever had.) Gradually I descended pleasantly into a cheese stupor.
My French is poor and rusty but I managed to order more potatoes for the table.
After a good long chow-down, during which we all exercised admirable etiquette
(at least, I hope I, too, behaved, despite my baser impulses), we were all
topped up and looked upon the fallen soldier that had been our raclette wedge:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdcwjQ_nuOXTw_nBlwRReo3C1w_89TkrvY6G2GqPkLAZfU1OPefOT_TTPdmugpu-L846CrooeNrcLnKclhDj0vRWRWhHrNfAUwBwrUwilr997g8FMUX3a6vhxs-01t6SEcZ7HrQ3Rz3atGDl3A0hMUV9cPC1wTKEb_7Y2ZP6_Fmnb7e2tnaEdaABAtfAQR/s1042/RacletteAfterShot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="919" data-original-width="1042" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdcwjQ_nuOXTw_nBlwRReo3C1w_89TkrvY6G2GqPkLAZfU1OPefOT_TTPdmugpu-L846CrooeNrcLnKclhDj0vRWRWhHrNfAUwBwrUwilr997g8FMUX3a6vhxs-01t6SEcZ7HrQ3Rz3atGDl3A0hMUV9cPC1wTKEb_7Y2ZP6_Fmnb7e2tnaEdaABAtfAQR/w400-h353/RacletteAfterShot.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We all wondered what would become of that large deformed
stump. It would sure be a shame to waste it. Someone suggested it might be fed
to children. I thought of asking for a doggy-bag, but a) surely there is no
French equivalent of “doggy bag” because the entire concept is unknown to the
French, and b) I would have no way to keep the cheese cool, so my luggage would
become a Superfund site.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I described the raclette adventure in a text message to my older
daughter, who replied, “That actually sounds like a cheese dream fantasy,
cannot believe you got to experience it. I want an excuse to eat an ungodly
amount of cheese in a socially acceptable way!” She makes a good point, and I
hereby advance the notion that the Col de la Loze was a good excuse.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Check back soon because the riding only got harder from here,
and the best pastries were yet to come.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">. For a complete index of albertnet posts,
click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-33605615966205095522023-09-30T09:47:00.005-07:002023-10-01T12:20:07.261-07:00Epic France Trans Alps Cycling Trip - Part II<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you’ve been <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/09/epic-france-trans-alps-cycling-trip.html" target="_blank">on albertnet lately</a>, you’ll have learned that I recently did a week-long, fully supported bicycle
tour through southeast France, tackling most of the Alpine climbs that are
included in Tour de France routes. You’ll also have learned that I tend to get
sidetracked by culinary matters, which is great news for those who tire of
cycling lore. Well, I’m back, and this time promise to focus more on the
suffering—mine in particular (your favorite!). As before, this report doesn’t
have a very specific structure … it’s more like a highlights reel, because
there were just too many rides, too many climbs, and too many meals to worry
about sequencing them properly.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMLSEcRJIbpiauILODbplmFB4uPzJrvCIYTtB47TX6UF2U_xEZnlMacVPlgX_eYhw15J1DuTZ6_Hl6syDE2JMUpONyMStoVDzzNZFCkQJ7fxXM38Wp7vPwjxZQ6ygjQmKboF2yUhRFmhmqMzlhdviwBpwjp0JvlQiLwepRv-lKnFBuZX35RFrFDU2K80m/s1984/JouxPlaneNarcie.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="892" data-original-width="1984" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMLSEcRJIbpiauILODbplmFB4uPzJrvCIYTtB47TX6UF2U_xEZnlMacVPlgX_eYhw15J1DuTZ6_Hl6syDE2JMUpONyMStoVDzzNZFCkQJ7fxXM38Wp7vPwjxZQ6ygjQmKboF2yUhRFmhmqMzlhdviwBpwjp0JvlQiLwepRv-lKnFBuZX35RFrFDU2K80m/w400-h180/JouxPlaneNarcie.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Navigation</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m really bad at navigation. I don’t have much of an
explorer’s curiosity, and am happy to keep riding the same training routes over
and over again. Even when I did a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/08/from-archives-bike-tour-journal.html" target="_blank">nine-month bike tour</a> with my wife, we made literally zero effort to plot any kind of route—we just
started by heading south along the California coast almost to Mexico, then went
randomly east or north until we got to Maine. Let’s be clear though: It’s not
just that I’m not <i>interested</i> in
navigation, it’s that I lack the mental faculty for it. So my biggest fear with
this French Alps tour was that I’d get dropped and then get lost, in this
strange foreign land where you can’t even get a normal cup of coffee.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hoping to have my fears assuaged, I asked K, our supported-tour
veteran, if getting dropped would necessarily mean getting lost. His reply was
emphatic: “If you don’t download the GPX files, you will definitely get lost.”
D’oh!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is kind of a classic pitfall of modern society: you’re
expected to be an expert in the latest technology whether you like it or not. Events and itineraries are now communicated via social media—never
mind that these vanity platforms were originally designed solely to increase teenagers’ insecurity.
Case in point: the bike tour organizers took to sending important schedule
updates via WhatsApp, a platform I <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/06/teens-texts-and-marshmallow-test.html" target="_blank">do not, and shall not, use</a>. On top of all this, I’m suddenly supposed to know what a GPX file is …. presumably
it runs on a Garmin (i.e., one of the expensive gizmos I don’t own).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, I found the email with all the routes, downloaded a
GPX file, tried to open it on my phone, and was offered two apps to try. One of
them I hadn’t heard of, but the other was (surprise!) an app I actually use.
It’s Sigma Ride, the workout tracking app for my <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/09/biketronics-ii.html" target="_blank">cheap, weird bike computer</a> that nobody else in America has. Well, the GPX file opened right up, which was
a pleasant surprise but not <i>that </i>helpful.
After all, it’s not like I want to ride around the Alps peering into my phone
the whole time. On a whim, I clicked a three-dot icon and saw an option to beam
the route into my bike computer via Bluetooth. And, voilà! There it was, the
route loaded in my bike computer so it could give me step-by-step directions …
a feature I was vaguely aware it might have but had never before investigated. Sweet!
Now I could totally get dropped and all I had to worry about was everyone snickering
at my frailty behind my back! (You know, the devil I know…)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Col de</i> <i>Joux Plane and Col de
la Columbière</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t remember much about our first climb of the day, Cat 1 Col de Joux Plane, other than we
started up it immediately, with like zero warm-up. That’s okay, because I was
raring to go after a great night’s sleep. Ha. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha. Actually
I hadn’t slept for shit, between jet lag, the room being too warm, anxiety
about the big day of riding, etc. Plus, my older daughter phoned me in the
middle of the night. Why? Well, my phone had gone berserk and had been texting and
re-texting her my <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2022/11/why-wordle.html" target="_blank">Wordle</a> result and some trip photos almost continuously, all night, creating the illusion I was awake and
insane and already on my phone. At least, that’s what led my daughter to forget
the time zone difference. My roommate was oddly gracious about the whole thing;
turns out he was wide awake at the time anyway. I’m not the only one having
trouble sleeping.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, the pace on the Joux Plane was fine. The photo above is from early in the climb. The first
descent was beautiful and fast and fun, and my rented Felt FR road bike handled
very well—so if you stumbled on this blog by searching on “Felt FR,” and are <i>this close</i> to buying that bike, and
don’t mind a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/11/return-of-full-slab.html" target="_blank">73-degree seat tube angle instead of 72</a>, well, shoot, just go ahead and buy it. It’s a good bike that does not
hesitate to dive right into the curves.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Near the base of the Hors Categorie (i.e., “too difficult to
even categorize”) Col de la Columbière, as if in some kind of harmonic
convergence, my East Bay Velo Club teammates Craig and Ian and I all had to pee
at the same moment. (As far as you know, we dutifully used a public restroom
and any photo you may have seen of any less responsible behavior was surely
Photoshopped.) Following this stop we found ourselves off the back of the
group, which by this point had pretty much split apart into tiny clumps, pairs,
and individuals. We passed them all, like in one of those car race <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/03/from-archives-video-gaming-in-80s.html" target="_blank">video games</a>. It was super fun. Craig paced Ian and me, which is bog standard for all the
rides we do, as though Craig were our super-domestique … except that in the end
he always sails off into the sunset instead of us.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpQJjLoQqrAJl-1j6dk5JGLrMaZSzAMOD03IPmBvvNCYizNW3i42gNalyPkhp3ZAkDUqwysFcNrEf4hXIJFZVH-oYjmclP4c30XwoSn5nv_KlcGj8g40B87kiYikOvEayU3o4Rr7aqgMbEwWugeB0flzHu3FC6_nbwvtpodpzoh4YoBYZNuAO6oP6cW6D/s1613/ColDaLaColumbi%C3%A8re.jpg.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpQJjLoQqrAJl-1j6dk5JGLrMaZSzAMOD03IPmBvvNCYizNW3i42gNalyPkhp3ZAkDUqwysFcNrEf4hXIJFZVH-oYjmclP4c30XwoSn5nv_KlcGj8g40B87kiYikOvEayU3o4Rr7aqgMbEwWugeB0flzHu3FC6_nbwvtpodpzoh4YoBYZNuAO6oP6cW6D/w400-h225/ColDaLaColumbi%C3%A8re.jpg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Sure enough, about three kilometers from the Columbière summit,
where the climb gets particularly hard, Craig accidentally dropped me. He would
never, ever attack; it’s just that he forgets how limited my endurance
truly is, and after all he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head. Sometimes
he realizes I’m gapped and he holds up, but other times I’m too far back and just
does his own thing. It’s kind of like a cat playing with a snake, and not
realizing he’s actually killed it, and then he wonders why the snake isn’t very
much fun anymore.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Guideposts</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Did you notice something just now? Something very odd for
albertnet? Like, how I used the metric system to specify the distance from the
summit? Nice catch. As you know from <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/08/the-case-against-metric-system.html" target="_blank">this post</a>, I’m a proponent of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imperial_and_US_customary_measurement_systems" target="_blank">imperial system of measurement</a>, even if this puts me at odds with the entire scientific community. Well, I
haven’t renounced those views; it’s just that in the very specific context of
Alpine mountain passes, kilometers have their place. It’s because of these cool
guideposts you’ll see on every major climb:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXCM9K_qNKURTs5QFqxWqcqeID9_nZ16HiMrx0XsuDPKCHemE7DCkvsK5yXmyPBXgk38I22jTQ6wn-2GZUlQwcb-NnugUODQVg_jDY_2G33CbHT2DI-pEa7-gzRZHmZRLQcZF8gSkucuXAMiaGZKqkB9Wlych247eFFPTbIZ4R40Vh64-VWw92gHEV6To_/s1216/Guidepost.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1216" data-original-width="990" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXCM9K_qNKURTs5QFqxWqcqeID9_nZ16HiMrx0XsuDPKCHemE7DCkvsK5yXmyPBXgk38I22jTQ6wn-2GZUlQwcb-NnugUODQVg_jDY_2G33CbHT2DI-pEa7-gzRZHmZRLQcZF8gSkucuXAMiaGZKqkB9Wlych247eFFPTbIZ4R40Vh64-VWw92gHEV6To_/w326-h400/Guidepost.jpg" width="326" /></a></div><br />If you click to zoom on the above image you’ll note that
that sign gives all kinds of info. It gives the name of the climb (which,
believe it or not, you can forget if you’ve targeted several in a day and are
severely oxygen-deprived); the distance to the summit in kilometers; the
current altitude (alas, in meters, which is still not so useful to me since I
can’t do simple arithmetic under physical duress); and the average percent
grade for the next kilometer. This info is generally very useful (though at
times it can seem to be taunting me, like when the end of a climb seems to
never come). Do I wish all this info were in imperial units? Well, almost,
except that, kilometers being shorter than miles, this arrangement obviously
gives me more signs to look at, and a better sense of progress. So I’ll accept
this use of kilometer as the exception that proves the rule.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the final climb, the Category 1 Col de la Croix Fry, Craig
and I encountered some lovely cows, bells a-jangling:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bXNwsmIhGZ4" width="320" youtube-src-id="bXNwsmIhGZ4"></iframe></div><br />I still had great legs on this final climb of the day, which
was so satisfying, I cannot tell you. As I said, I’d worried about not keeping
up, and embarrassing myself, and trying the patience of my pals and other Epic
A riders, but this is not at all what was happening. My legs were totally up to
the job. This surprised me because I knew I hadn’t trained enough for this trip.
I just can’t seem to carve out enough time, and I’m getting too old to simply wing
it—at least, that’s what I’d assumed, only to end up riding just fine. But this
satisfaction with my fitness wasn’t only about ageing well. Let’s just say the
last couple of years have been hard on me, so to be doing something bloody
difficult, but with aplomb, gave me renewed faith in my whole self (even if my
competence is in the largely useless realm of amateur cycling). The scenery was
pretty glorious, too.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QBpTtRI8uG3oTXgmHA2HiSbRtS9BHAlGMgXjqdr3xGNCTzmOfEsOharKQm0oU8x5cf7s3KUEI9sk5oipbWLcGOopyB0FW8yoGoPzOhV-S83AAPQ4Hxa67jkLjIGcAoBnTX-gnqd-azgM-mGRSBQGtQF4-YoZt0Na8oW1GOlDF3TNJt5Hz5bVdKrtdW6z/s1411/DanaCroixFry.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="943" data-original-width="1411" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QBpTtRI8uG3oTXgmHA2HiSbRtS9BHAlGMgXjqdr3xGNCTzmOfEsOharKQm0oU8x5cf7s3KUEI9sk5oipbWLcGOopyB0FW8yoGoPzOhV-S83AAPQ4Hxa67jkLjIGcAoBnTX-gnqd-azgM-mGRSBQGtQF4-YoZt0Na8oW1GOlDF3TNJt5Hz5bVdKrtdW6z/w400-h268/DanaCroixFry.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />After a sweet, sweeping descent to our next hotel, and a
giant snack there involving cured meats, we wandered around the little town of La
Clusaz and noted their brilliant open-air market. Check out what you can get
from this little vender:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpApmzHMeIeTV78eVSgp5yInKFP2_UCF1XjlvgN8xLlaHGO_5O2BvdxHytAw-DPmW6PkKxN3vGncaBiCicNfkkVoV3w8fIsX8dmQ_Yi3s8OUlFIkc9a43iu-6__eF9zyZ55NwxpzX18e2DClJQRyNWVdtH2KMfyB1FjrKqq8VXir7rS6vbvRJxxTObS8GT/s2016/OpenAirMarket.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpApmzHMeIeTV78eVSgp5yInKFP2_UCF1XjlvgN8xLlaHGO_5O2BvdxHytAw-DPmW6PkKxN3vGncaBiCicNfkkVoV3w8fIsX8dmQ_Yi3s8OUlFIkc9a43iu-6__eF9zyZ55NwxpzX18e2DClJQRyNWVdtH2KMfyB1FjrKqq8VXir7rS6vbvRJxxTObS8GT/w400-h225/OpenAirMarket.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Not to be <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2011/07/our-national-anthem.html" target="_blank">unpatriotic</a> or anything, but this sight reinforced
my growing sense that farmers’ markets in America are a joke. I think that, as
with factory outlet stores, farmers’ markets started off well—an actual
farmer could sell truly local, fresh produce directly to consumers—but then morphed
into a sham when deeply cynical minds realized that once people had latched on
to an idea, they’d pursue it indefinitely regardless of whether there was any
value in it. So we have people setting up tables at these farmers’ markets with
produce they just <i>bought</i> somewhere (which is sometimes still in someone else’s packaging!) and then they actually <i>mark it up </i>because the farmers’ market
seems like a “premium” experience that is worth paying extra for. Sheesh.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Bad weather!</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh, man, the forecast for the third day was not promising: a
93% chance of rain from 5 a.m. through late afternoon. Sure enough, it was
already raining when we woke up, and raining when we rolled out. What a grind.
I don’t have a good rain jacket, for the simple reason that—as documented <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2014/02/bicycling-in-rain-or-how-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">here</a>—I don’t ride in the rain. What I do have is this big puffy thing that doesn’t
breathe very well, doesn’t wad up small enough to easily fit in a jersey
pocket, and isn’t really waterproof. I
think of it as the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Jacket.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps halfway up the Cat 3 Col des Aravis the rain let up
somewhat, and I had a nice time riding by a lot of cows, their standard-issue bells
making the usual pleasant racket.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/dZ_MIO8nJ0I" width="320" youtube-src-id="dZ_MIO8nJ0I"></iframe></div><br />The respite didn’t last, and on the Cat 2 Col des Saisies, K
and I rode through a downpour of biblical proportions, the rain drumming on our
helmets and jackets, the road completely flooding. You know how when you’re in
a car wash, you sometimes get the sensation of the car rolling forward though
you know it isn’t? Same deal: the water rushing past my wheels gave me the
illusion of hauling ass up the mountain until I lifted my gaze again. I wish I
had photos and videos of this, but of course you can never get that footage …
you’re too busy suffering and shivering. There was thunder and lightning, and K
wisecracked about opportunistically riding next to me so he’d never be the
tallest object.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here’s a photo of the summit, where the rain had finally let
up. K and I are offering our gratitude, or at least a photo op, to Saint Anne,
whom we took from this shrine to be the patron saint of travelers. Turns out (based
on some very light research) she’s actually the patron saint of unmarried
women, housewives, and women in labor. Whatever.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMkzteNs_zxVCyl44WM-BiW42fqwqrFKM3Ybh3njOKhn6WHRyc9Z8BlnxeNfjnXWk8L0Lg2DjkS_TKp4HSNw8QT8-Vhqv3YXD0dQEJjfH_RdnQfqVrIt4qw_Bx8bRPfvf5zwAne13UEUgha14SG6nHkNH5ARR3ehiQaX6jS5YbUFh5t767N1vH7pu9a82/s1343/SasiesSummit.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="874" data-original-width="1343" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMkzteNs_zxVCyl44WM-BiW42fqwqrFKM3Ybh3njOKhn6WHRyc9Z8BlnxeNfjnXWk8L0Lg2DjkS_TKp4HSNw8QT8-Vhqv3YXD0dQEJjfH_RdnQfqVrIt4qw_Bx8bRPfvf5zwAne13UEUgha14SG6nHkNH5ARR3ehiQaX6jS5YbUFh5t767N1vH7pu9a82/w400-h260/SasiesSummit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We warmed up at the van, scarfing Cokes, cookies, fruit, chocolate
milk, and of course cured meats. We had a decently dry descent and, during a
brief stop at one of those darling French villages, stashed our rain gear in
the van for the climb.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-giSZSlYAn4UUg0cBEyDvEmgdhBeG1eHuYnEQ5jC-A1Dx6ZYjTBVhhUh2_goScaaYyKqdkgmaAA9862TzpbQg8TeH1Okd48Pg7dVMG7XI1vtmTvzs30PTie9hkJO0k3zSi8GNq1HQrWqHc9qd0EgcsEq_3F5ORKvb3sBWq2rffeskl4_lyhhQ6_OlgEp_/s1771/DarlingVillage.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="998" data-original-width="1771" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-giSZSlYAn4UUg0cBEyDvEmgdhBeG1eHuYnEQ5jC-A1Dx6ZYjTBVhhUh2_goScaaYyKqdkgmaAA9862TzpbQg8TeH1Okd48Pg7dVMG7XI1vtmTvzs30PTie9hkJO0k3zSi8GNq1HQrWqHc9qd0EgcsEq_3F5ORKvb3sBWq2rffeskl4_lyhhQ6_OlgEp_/w400-h225/DarlingVillage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We began the final climb up the Hors Categorie Col du Pré. Halfway
up, the skies got darker again, and Craig and Ian fetched their (slim,
scrunch-able, actually waterproof) jackets from the van to have on hand. I
decided to take my chances (which gave me the opportunity to noodle on ahead). The
climb was a lot of fun. It’s a gorgeous road with a lot of super steep pitches.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTblsIVcfHHgpI3fdFAcfVeH6n5m_vP1Yp6VFGJVvKnH0Fz_hoxA7f9qD03Wl1lxey6L7e6ysZDkXfxQ5UDOhaZWWAP8wQUZooOG24IeD5RRc7LkxQZ-7bV2-EGHetDHKVwkuItMSz9b9RhulF5szjFp8s1BVgl9voFia09NMbdUGhhx4qZk0xvy_7LCg/s2016/EarlyDuPre.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTblsIVcfHHgpI3fdFAcfVeH6n5m_vP1Yp6VFGJVvKnH0Fz_hoxA7f9qD03Wl1lxey6L7e6ysZDkXfxQ5UDOhaZWWAP8wQUZooOG24IeD5RRc7LkxQZ-7bV2-EGHetDHKVwkuItMSz9b9RhulF5szjFp8s1BVgl9voFia09NMbdUGhhx4qZk0xvy_7LCg/w400-h225/EarlyDuPre.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFx7t7-8Ar0o2jp591ol-N42MHlFPsEVr-z-P3yNY94aLGuMp711kUziGHHtsmnzelYgF3ANhcdm2Pml11qjh35-OLBb8xs-_47o3DXuAKAqOBF8z6A5OKgl3gG28KAxVpg9PtsTN0NJ53N8KoAmpsWHPAUbg7HyV74Jp2iAu4R0T2B7DydGoTW7xMmCgO/s1641/DuPreSteeper.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="915" data-original-width="1641" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFx7t7-8Ar0o2jp591ol-N42MHlFPsEVr-z-P3yNY94aLGuMp711kUziGHHtsmnzelYgF3ANhcdm2Pml11qjh35-OLBb8xs-_47o3DXuAKAqOBF8z6A5OKgl3gG28KAxVpg9PtsTN0NJ53N8KoAmpsWHPAUbg7HyV74Jp2iAu4R0T2B7DydGoTW7xMmCgO/w400-h223/DuPreSteeper.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The sky grew increasingly tenebrous as we climbed.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFA2neEWJcbjukWB1eocUeAnuAp4F1EI5XaDvOjBpODAJJmfwVbs35FzIKo0rmKWy2K_ZybEqkhGYveGbWAGctxpdO1fq-9AAnaArtl7c9zWN-FCjFH04LSQVWKtRY3Opodz_SkBpFRiulEKXq9neqTvC6Ognq7PqCUzAvRqh1JDHXhG4Vyvcwwr3LfGg/s1613/Tenebrous.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1613" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFA2neEWJcbjukWB1eocUeAnuAp4F1EI5XaDvOjBpODAJJmfwVbs35FzIKo0rmKWy2K_ZybEqkhGYveGbWAGctxpdO1fq-9AAnaArtl7c9zWN-FCjFH04LSQVWKtRY3Opodz_SkBpFRiulEKXq9neqTvC6Ognq7PqCUzAvRqh1JDHXhG4Vyvcwwr3LfGg/w400-h225/Tenebrous.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The climb went on and on.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHbVHy2p_dVdmqCcwss6gVi7wL3orDZxBVu3Aa2Qi3npr2sT4Bb2RvfPtSuWqG5Paz3iVpbQqeiW8xpWVjwXbjwLojNxwpkcuukExlmu7dmWyc8Eu-_e3spDI6S2S-4r2uNiYYrg96jntupZWtvLoouI1svbpFtCkYOsbFxPmo5zPolo3Mbao99Q6DR2Bz/s1615/OnAndOnAndOn.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="957" data-original-width="1615" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHbVHy2p_dVdmqCcwss6gVi7wL3orDZxBVu3Aa2Qi3npr2sT4Bb2RvfPtSuWqG5Paz3iVpbQqeiW8xpWVjwXbjwLojNxwpkcuukExlmu7dmWyc8Eu-_e3spDI6S2S-4r2uNiYYrg96jntupZWtvLoouI1svbpFtCkYOsbFxPmo5zPolo3Mbao99Q6DR2Bz/w400-h238/OnAndOnAndOn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />This could have been a great photo if the smartphone camera
software weren’t so janky:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUqueXYy3TNKxb0Eihb_6Iyqpr6H53p1WL6f_OGf8EH-HzCBLRhcVmnJS0Zs4nBGYKbuUvf6mAzJW6s5jqpvKu3olsQlkqbCGNJOTt-kmgS52_2pqpmFqfOyCXs2cN7v_4imR1NYilyEfSo7l2JlfmF8L8BEGq_hUGWr1CE0TC5DsRhEK3BElaaQzc40Vo/s1834/WackyPhoto.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="1834" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUqueXYy3TNKxb0Eihb_6Iyqpr6H53p1WL6f_OGf8EH-HzCBLRhcVmnJS0Zs4nBGYKbuUvf6mAzJW6s5jqpvKu3olsQlkqbCGNJOTt-kmgS52_2pqpmFqfOyCXs2cN7v_4imR1NYilyEfSo7l2JlfmF8L8BEGq_hUGWr1CE0TC5DsRhEK3BElaaQzc40Vo/w400-h236/WackyPhoto.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I mean, look at how small Ian looks compared to Craig—like a
dwarf or something! Craig’s head looks as tall as Ian’s torso! And Craig’s
front wheel looks way larger than his rear. What is this nonsense? This is <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2021/10/how-to-select-camera-and-why.html" target="_blank">why you want a real camera</a>.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With 4km to go, I got my last photo from the Col de Pré …
after this, the skies opened up and the rain just absolutely pummeled us. I was
soaked to the skin. At the summit, we piled into the van and went through our
backpacks of warm gear. Ian had an extra jersey for me, and after some
discussion four of us, plus the guide, decided to forge ahead on the descent
while the rest of the crew went down in the van. It was a frigid descent, rain flowing
over the road like a water slide at a theme park. A road construction crew,
decked out like stormtroopers, stared at us dumbfounded. Ian, riding a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/04/disc-brakes-for-road-bikes.html" target="_blank">bike with rim brakes</a>, eventually thought better of the whole enterprise and pulled off to the side
to be picked up. When we reached the town down in the valley, the rain showed
no signs of letting up, and Craig reported, with fascination, that my lips were
completely blue. With only a relatively unexciting flat run-in to the hotel
ahead, we bagged it and climbed in the van. The heater was blasting in there. By
the time we got to the hotel we’d all been basically poached alive in our wet gear. I hope there are no pets in the cargo hold of this aircraft,
proximate to my luggage, as I make my way home. I have never before encountered
such stinky cycling gear, and that’s saying something.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Brides-les-Bains</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We lodged at a strange health spa type hotel in
Brides-les-Bains. This is where unhealthy people with unhealthy lifestyles go
to get cured by the special waters and various spa treatments, so that they can
enjoy robust health going forward without changing any of their unhealthy
behaviors. Several of these guests regarded us with a bit of the ol’
stink-eye, as if deeply suspicious of our very presence at their spa.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This place had those fancy outward-facing elevators that are
like glass cylinders so you can watch the world go by during your vertical
trip. They were also among the slowest elevators I’ve ever encountered, with
disconcerting juddering at times. Most interesting of all was the sound they
made: think of a giant, like the one atop Jack’s beanstalk, groaning, combined with
the sound of a whale calling out across the ocean. The noise was nearly
constant. At the request of my wife I’ve attempted to recreate the sound:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Qw6G_gbN_AE" width="320" youtube-src-id="Qw6G_gbN_AE"></iframe></div><br />Dinner got off to a good start, with a salad that was like
70% Serrano ham.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgY3-HDuapG1hWhNEON0xG3qPckFDKG7oIHtpjQ-Ns0LkVVcCM92Xy4qe81OdiVkO1BO9bmhCw76j_xMDlNJ-aQpqwl-PeFFqkBPJhzmwQD03FY62XYyD1_9FnRl4HqYW4dyi79m2O-dxaszr_bRZjL0_UzweHumZDxzSUf5YTGm4vxbcNLhmjlrBVewv8/s921/HamSalad.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="921" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgY3-HDuapG1hWhNEON0xG3qPckFDKG7oIHtpjQ-Ns0LkVVcCM92Xy4qe81OdiVkO1BO9bmhCw76j_xMDlNJ-aQpqwl-PeFFqkBPJhzmwQD03FY62XYyD1_9FnRl4HqYW4dyi79m2O-dxaszr_bRZjL0_UzweHumZDxzSUf5YTGm4vxbcNLhmjlrBVewv8/w400-h303/HamSalad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The entrée, though, was a bit on the small and non-starchy
side:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbHhuqfqn2ESLAjbS1O9WyflxYxv5nNg0BLsclLHxdYtsfSjmAtvY5nUw_sl9piEGasRnCekzhT7qVK7PCiwQ_AP5syqi6cQPCQP6495RXHwUwL9W0YCKyrm8iozNRgLzBUsm1sIZRT9zUAk3h_N7JCpyQ0Es5v1wtfY9qIPNqHidFdhxewAhJWH4J6JE/s2016/VealNut.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbHhuqfqn2ESLAjbS1O9WyflxYxv5nNg0BLsclLHxdYtsfSjmAtvY5nUw_sl9piEGasRnCekzhT7qVK7PCiwQ_AP5syqi6cQPCQP6495RXHwUwL9W0YCKyrm8iozNRgLzBUsm1sIZRT9zUAk3h_N7JCpyQ0Es5v1wtfY9qIPNqHidFdhxewAhJWH4J6JE/w400-h225/VealNut.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The menu described this as “Veal nut with its juice.”
Needless to say, this led to all kinds of sophomoric humor (“testicle of a
young bull, with…”). The dessert, or “desert” as the menu called it, was a
peach clafoutis, which I guess was supposed to be like a cobbler but was
practically frozen. We’d have starved except the very good bread was plentiful (though
still bereft of butter or olive oil). But then, breakfast the next morning
featured the excellent pastries we’d come to rely on, so no harm done.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS2OvhsNt5niWVCtVnJtG3xrIiYMicg9v4EJDxtet1nF-xKuVjuSN09JkvwgUVnp8ozysraVZxfiCN41D8Y84FTcpVk-lw7ynqSGp66a-5qnz7ExLoyKRTw2TB8ohnJ_rHvlZfEqXBq-njeWjr2H3KL87zVp62OxBcZd6B3STdeUgdOvXaybp9S-7QtOgT/s1393/PastriesEtc.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1041" data-original-width="1393" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS2OvhsNt5niWVCtVnJtG3xrIiYMicg9v4EJDxtet1nF-xKuVjuSN09JkvwgUVnp8ozysraVZxfiCN41D8Y84FTcpVk-lw7ynqSGp66a-5qnz7ExLoyKRTw2TB8ohnJ_rHvlZfEqXBq-njeWjr2H3KL87zVp62OxBcZd6B3STdeUgdOvXaybp9S-7QtOgT/w400-h299/PastriesEtc.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />At every breakfast I had a croissant and a <i>pain au chocolat</i>, sometimes two, along
with a big bowl of cereal, some eggs, cured meats, cheeses, and yogurt. This is how I
managed to gain four pounds in a week—the same week I rode almost 400 miles and
climbed almost 60,000 feet. God bless these Alpine cows and all the butter they
make possible.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>To be continued…</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, that seems like enough for this round. I’m getting
cold just remembering all this. Check back soon because I’ll be reporting on
the Col de la Loze, which is considered the hardest climb in the entire Alps;
the famous Col de la Madeleine; and the absolutely brutal Col du Glandon. And
of course I’ll describe our caloric intake as well, to include one of the
weirdest and French-est dinners I’ve ever had.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">. For a complete index of albertnet posts,
click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-91525946111217324022023-09-25T22:05:00.001-07:002023-09-26T12:43:59.944-07:00Epic France Trans Alps Cycling Trip - Part I<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I did a week-long fully-supported bike trip through the
French Alps with three friends. We hopscotched from one fancy hotel to another,
with a full staff in vans supporting us the whole way. The trip was called the
<a href="https://www.thomsonbiketours.com/trips/epic-trans-french-alps/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Epic France Trans Alps</a>, and basically took us over every major Alpine mountain pass featured in the Tour de
France. Not just this year’s Tour, but all of them. That’s 18 categorized
climbs, half of them “Hors Categorie,” aka HC, which means “so difficult they
cannot be classified.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you think this sounds hard, you’re right, though I’m
suffering worse now that I’m on an airplane, in coach, headed back to my
worldly responsibilities, and the person in the seat next to me has really bad
breath. I’m about to start looking for a parachute…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This ride report will dispense with my usual formula of
recounting the food and then the riding. There’s just too much to report, and I
doubt you overmuch care what order we did anything in. This is just a
highlights reel, and every couple thousand words I’ll cut it off and call it a
post. (Readers complain I go on too long….)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXjPaJLzwzrm4Mh2zp4EH5s7IuHenEC7iBv8F9FwQn5FZx0Qs9WmA38VnxDOzA2RUsarKtBWJeQwGf3IfBls1p4Nq2o_TKzIq8hGY3Wy80RTmuXkDVqdTvlEwTyfgMejOcAuxDB7j_2zdLjr1MkRgICAO5K1WyOK2jY01LsrzwLkORqXAZdedTX4FENwkd/s1790/TheEBVCFour.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1722" data-original-width="1790" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXjPaJLzwzrm4Mh2zp4EH5s7IuHenEC7iBv8F9FwQn5FZx0Qs9WmA38VnxDOzA2RUsarKtBWJeQwGf3IfBls1p4Nq2o_TKzIq8hGY3Wy80RTmuXkDVqdTvlEwTyfgMejOcAuxDB7j_2zdLjr1MkRgICAO5K1WyOK2jY01LsrzwLkORqXAZdedTX4FENwkd/w400-h385/TheEBVCFour.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Rental bike</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The airlines are apparently cooler these days about not
charging for bicycles, but they don’t take liability for any damage. Plus, I’m
lazy, so I rented a bike. On the first day, we supplied the staff mechanic with
pedals, saddles, <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/01/biketronics.html" target="_blank">bike computers</a>, etc. and made sure the fit was right. We’d sent in our measurements in
advance, and sure enough, the bike fit me pretty darn well. The tires looked
really fat, and seemed awfully soft, but I’m told that’s the modern style. I
asked three different randos if the tires felt too squishy to them, and they
all said naw, it’s fine.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In case you’re a tech weenie, here’s the bike. I’m not going
to geek out on the details other than to say it has a carbon frame, hella <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/05/letter-to-middle-aged-cyclist-buy-new.html" target="_blank">aero wheels</a>, disc brakes, 12 cogs in the back, a <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2013/08/blogger-eats-crow-over-compact-crank.html" target="_blank">compact</a> double up front, and SRAM electronic shifting. The shifting hasn’t changed
much since I first reported on it, <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2017/09/colorado-mountain-road-test-sram-etap.html" target="_blank">here</a>. Over the course of the week, I threw my chain three times, but in each case I was able to
shift it back on via lever-taps, without needing to stop. (I did have to
restart my heart each time.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65tJW9oB_bx4lNmnAOfBmHc98KYVFKoaW7O2h6P3434HtBOVsH467NW4iMBSD307Rwr7D-RcY6IpE057lASoeoZpVqGgy9mhzgW9S-BtLwllw4IcXthxWNzcFDAd8OzwfRkR8Il7rDc7sqEBF5BRY4yWBbkmhJhPfKJRuErHmnflNWgrBqtHXZy-Yl8AD/s1593/RentalBike.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="1593" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65tJW9oB_bx4lNmnAOfBmHc98KYVFKoaW7O2h6P3434HtBOVsH467NW4iMBSD307Rwr7D-RcY6IpE057lASoeoZpVqGgy9mhzgW9S-BtLwllw4IcXthxWNzcFDAd8OzwfRkR8Il7rDc7sqEBF5BRY4yWBbkmhJhPfKJRuErHmnflNWgrBqtHXZy-Yl8AD/w400-h285/RentalBike.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Wine with lunch?!</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Since the first ride would just be an hour or so (to shake down
the bikes), we had lunch in the hotel restaurant instead of having a picnic on the
road. I’ve never done one of these supported tours before, so I kind of go with
the flow and just play along like I know the drill. (I know—story of my life,
right?) So when the waitress opened a bottle of wine for the table, and my pals
elected to partake (“We wouldn’t want to waste it,” Ian said), I went along. I
know drinking before hard exercise is absurd (even a small amount that wouldn’t
affect motor skills), but I figured what the hell, I’m eating all this great
bread anyway, it’ll sop it up. I was a couple sips in when we noticed
waitresses rushing around removing wine bottles from the tables. “A mistake was
made,” one explained to us, though she stopped short of removing our bottle
since we’d started in on it. I guess the wine was only for the staff, not the
riders. Oops.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When dessert arrived—crème brûlée—the others turned it down,
not wanting to still be digesting as we tackled the Montée d’Avoriaz. I said
screw it—I paid for this dessert, and it’s gonna be tasty. I’d muddle
through the ride somehow, I figured.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJya3n1li7OCJIGHvH-UusGwtXM0v3TOZHYeKajkOIZL8gGhCqmYpVVIapy441TItdppp7DjzoAszyIAJlR_ztBz7x6-EhPTIUQGCz2JgONTwfhHRlGWshD11Ff-JkTdxh9HOKZLs1Jgb5GyhRShYQyvW4HaqvjcILaEsbDiLdNmvCpyPSg3pCokWp0lx/s1664/CremeBrulee.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="978" data-original-width="1664" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJya3n1li7OCJIGHvH-UusGwtXM0v3TOZHYeKajkOIZL8gGhCqmYpVVIapy441TItdppp7DjzoAszyIAJlR_ztBz7x6-EhPTIUQGCz2JgONTwfhHRlGWshD11Ff-JkTdxh9HOKZLs1Jgb5GyhRShYQyvW4HaqvjcILaEsbDiLdNmvCpyPSg3pCokWp0lx/w400-h235/CremeBrulee.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Col des Égos</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I knew this first ride would bring out the egos. There were
two week-long tours running simultaneously, with the same staff and hotels, but different
routes. The Epic one I signed up for has longer days and more climbs than the
Trans group would do. Then, within each tour there was an A group and a B
group. (My old scoutmaster would have called them “the kickass group and the
pick-ass group,” bless his twisted, deeply suspect heart.) I was surprised that
fully 15 of the Epic riders declared themselves Group A. Some of these guys
looked a little old to me. Sure, they were fit and trim, but come on … it won’t
be long before they’ll be offered wheelchairs at airports. I’d assumed going
into this tour that I’d be bringing up the rear, hopefully not making everyone
wait too long, but now I wasn’t so sure. One thing I did know: everyone was
going to go super hard on this opening ride, to strut their stuff. It’s just
how the male ego works. Except mine: I vowed (silently) to behave.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the event, there was little temptation for me to hammer.
My (albeit world class) stomach was working pretty hard on all that bread and
crème brûlée, and surely the wine didn’t help. Meanwhile, I’d discovered that
riding out of the saddle was tricky because my tires were, I now realized,
severely underinflated. As I rocked the bike, there was a slight handling
latency, the front tire buckling just a bit. It was like trying to sleep on a
downy airbed, one of those weirdly thick ones, that when they invariably lose
air start to sway a bit, like you’re onboard ship. In fact, my bike and I both
felt a bit woozy in general. It was like some foggy, slow-motion dream, rider after
rider rolling by me. This one guy passed me in a switchback and said, in a Mr.
Rogers voice, “Coming through!” There was something so politely triumphant
about it, it kind of rankled, especially since he was so damn old. He looked
like he could be 40-something from the neck down, though looking at his face
you’d think late sixties at least. But I wasn’t about to mount any resistance to his bold
move. I just watched him pedal away and thought: enjoy yourself. Enjoy stomping
me. Enjoy your $9K bike. I’ll be back here practicing my resignation skills,
being the shit one once again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As slow as I was going, continental drift was in my favor
and I eventually made the summit. Here we are doing a photo op: the East Bay
Velo Club 4, plus a couple of new pals, both (conveniently) named Michael. (I
thought of not using any names here, but everyone is on Strava and if some
serial killer wants to stalk wealthy cyclists he could easily do it without
this blog.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapfLgKbrvdrZd2z32JWpKF0Ga_CaRE_oUwJ1QvzRkn-6DhpNiYdjGshK5Q6W7IEed8mVZQ3UcsCsb51VHk_ifaBP4NuexkjiEYDoe5mCvOiHnpifaSLVOXtBRVTIdyINIsZR_VVyv27esUqbmTPNsM4hE23fdk5pwaRFid29U_byuheONkJd6VzB9BsO-/s1800/FirstSummit.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1055" data-original-width="1800" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapfLgKbrvdrZd2z32JWpKF0Ga_CaRE_oUwJ1QvzRkn-6DhpNiYdjGshK5Q6W7IEed8mVZQ3UcsCsb51VHk_ifaBP4NuexkjiEYDoe5mCvOiHnpifaSLVOXtBRVTIdyINIsZR_VVyv27esUqbmTPNsM4hE23fdk5pwaRFid29U_byuheONkJd6VzB9BsO-/w400-h235/FirstSummit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />See the Michael on the right, in the neon? We chatted with him
at lunch. He’s recently retired, does a fair number of these tours, and rides
an old bike with a steel frame that can be disassembled like a sniper’s rifle. He
was nipping at my heels all the way up the climb. I figured him for about 60
but came to learn he’s 71 years old, and still tough as nails.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I figured if I tried to descend back to the hotel with such
squishy tires I’d probably roll one, so I found the van and asked the mechanic
to take a look. Each tire had just 40 PSI! Boy did I feel like an idiot. Once I
got those bad boys topped up at 80, my rented Felt felt like an actual road
bike, no longer like a beach cruiser. The descent was <i>glorious</i>. Smooth, flow-y road, amazing scenery, an expert guide
with perfect lines to follow. Comparing notes, Craig and I were just giddy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Dinner</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The format of this tour makes a lot of sense, for the ride and my report: if you’re sick
of cycling, either because you’re knackered from a hard day in the saddle or
from reading too much tedious text on the topic, suddenly there’s this great
meal in front of you. We started with this:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2nGyTX1Oa5kSIO4uYnjKLLA84HYIMBe2cua3HJhOE63pAjQ9AoPu2SphuafuuzUh6249VCysPDGnsNdxNHsjGuwTt1lU72mQAwOIYaoKZAOPqe-d32K88aYIAKDw0-gkjsdVWodpZ1VkVMlsndlgdJs0OtSiQYSYTFkOkg_Jfv9NNDd6w2s2p0-JsqClC/s1598/MelonProsciutto.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1019" data-original-width="1598" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2nGyTX1Oa5kSIO4uYnjKLLA84HYIMBe2cua3HJhOE63pAjQ9AoPu2SphuafuuzUh6249VCysPDGnsNdxNHsjGuwTt1lU72mQAwOIYaoKZAOPqe-d32K88aYIAKDw0-gkjsdVWodpZ1VkVMlsndlgdJs0OtSiQYSYTFkOkg_Jfv9NNDd6w2s2p0-JsqClC/w400-h255/MelonProsciutto.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />France has clearly not (okay, has <a href="https://www.nycfoodpolicy.org/food-policy-snapshot-france-nitrite-reduction-cancer-risk/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">only recently</a>) gotten the memo about cured meats being carcinogenic. (Then again, they’ve
never taken the tobacco threat seriously either.) We ate cured meats roughly
three times a day throughout the week, even K who is otherwise a vegetarian. It’s
just so good, you never say no to all manner of charcuterie, ham, bacon, you
name it. Perhaps it’s a regional specialty. That’s what I decided, anyway; I can’t be bothered to look it up now.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here is the entrée, some kind of amazing roast pork. I must
confess I’ll probably never feel perfectly natural sitting at a table and
having something like this set in front of me. That’s just not how I was
raised. Don’t get me wrong, my mom is an amazing cook, but our pantry always had
different stuff. When was a kid, Mom would use oatmeal to stretch a pound of
ground turkey to make burgers for six. Once my patty squirted out of the back of
the bun and I didn’t even notice. The only beef we ever got was liver because serving
it was considered a mother’s duty back in those days. We got pretty cool
cheeses from some co-op, but they were all the melting, cooking kind—not like
these soft French ones. Hell, we grew up drinking powdered milk. So when I had this incredible roast pork dish on my plate there was a small part of me that
feared someone would suddenly rush out from the kitchen and say, “Stop! A
mistake has been made! You must give that back!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEi_fZQK8lFfEt8wG7-1mifHB0pqGPNobMzCSuuRUins-VJ-Sb8D7_HDPvO0gQ-celrSZRnlZ8aVoOertTKQg5VN1443af2HqQ68k7D717w2yNTKPzgRCOflgraHbqINTFluu7Hs5zJvNUPC0d_DuVKPyiyz1dj46CPcR0wNU5IOFz2uOh8dUFYA5zT_a/s1569/Entree.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="1569" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEi_fZQK8lFfEt8wG7-1mifHB0pqGPNobMzCSuuRUins-VJ-Sb8D7_HDPvO0gQ-celrSZRnlZ8aVoOertTKQg5VN1443af2HqQ68k7D717w2yNTKPzgRCOflgraHbqINTFluu7Hs5zJvNUPC0d_DuVKPyiyz1dj46CPcR0wNU5IOFz2uOh8dUFYA5zT_a/w400-h289/Entree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Here’s the dessert, a little cake doodad, possibly
flourless, with flawless ice cream. Since we’re on the topic, <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/04/more-covid-19-chronicles-baking-in-place.html" target="_blank">here</a> is my recipe for flourless chocolate cake.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLHvx-zFgi4oogYMG1xachCH3zMivgTfoWN_0ct5onEgx8FoXRabfdfZZYxPBcR-3xyue0mHizngBaf08Qm5fvrg5ihOlhluH9dMEQvwXjR51LrQuYhbE0b48R1SL563_8BZwW1wzx_GC2nYNFicXwNHQe2nFe8sNvICV9wQiRobBnwJsvrUrXY_w24w5/s1401/Dessert.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="859" data-original-width="1401" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLHvx-zFgi4oogYMG1xachCH3zMivgTfoWN_0ct5onEgx8FoXRabfdfZZYxPBcR-3xyue0mHizngBaf08Qm5fvrg5ihOlhluH9dMEQvwXjR51LrQuYhbE0b48R1SL563_8BZwW1wzx_GC2nYNFicXwNHQe2nFe8sNvICV9wQiRobBnwJsvrUrXY_w24w5/w400-h245/Dessert.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br />Breakfast</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wait, you’re thinking: this report has so far delivered only
16 miles of actual cycling action, but at least 6,000 calories of food lore,
and now you’re gonna talk about <i>breakfast?
</i>Seriously?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, yeah. This is kind of what travel is for. As different
as the Alps are from the Sierra Nevadas and the Rockies (and don’t worry, I
will eventually get into these differences), the French terrain is far more
similar to the American than their food is to ours. I can only imagine that a
European traveler to the U.S. would be endlessly appalled by the garbage we
serve up. A grocery store baguette? Forget it, it’d go straight into the
garbage. And a croissant? Spongy, insipid, indestructible, ageless. Eat an
American <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2010/04/motel.html" target="_blank">motel breakfast</a> pastry and you’ll end up with a gross film on the roof of your mouth. And don’t
you dare eat scrambled eggs from a steam tray … they’ll be soggy or dried-out
or somehow both, and won’t taste a thing like an egg, which they’re not—they’re
surely poured from a carton. That’s the US hospitality industry for you. Meanwhile,
I stayed at an airport Holiday Inn Express in Geneva and had an entirely
serviceable continental breakfast. Sure, the croissant wasn’t brilliant, but on
the balance was quite worth eating. So I’m going to spend some time on the food
in these posts.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the croissant I had at my first official tour hotel
breakfast. Light, airy, buttery, and flaky enough to make a mess on my plate.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMztyyJpl6aagNGtgcTr_yTeNZF6mT6aA42yWQGWleMpp2Fp4QyIm3rcytzYy4hNB72w-sTPN4V6vFYMc96udXrjM75JTIBIvq1PVjIcjQk5vvslGN-OKSFMUH_5G-vgUIpJ73Gjpo_Skbb3nmbUQmP__t2N_T5IQHeqmnuqmuNN1eqXvZTAA6UB9vAHwI/s1310/Croissant.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1310" data-original-width="907" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMztyyJpl6aagNGtgcTr_yTeNZF6mT6aA42yWQGWleMpp2Fp4QyIm3rcytzYy4hNB72w-sTPN4V6vFYMc96udXrjM75JTIBIvq1PVjIcjQk5vvslGN-OKSFMUH_5G-vgUIpJ73Gjpo_Skbb3nmbUQmP__t2N_T5IQHeqmnuqmuNN1eqXvZTAA6UB9vAHwI/w278-h400/Croissant.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><br />Bread in general can be intolerable in the U.S. Anything
you’d get with a so-called continental breakfast in most places would just make you want to
cry. Sure, we have great one-off bakeries in the Bay Area, but the quality
control if you randomly toured the country would be abysmal. In contrast, you
really can’t go wrong in Europe, in my experience. I fearlessly had a pre-made sandwich at the
Geneva airport and another at the Zurich airport, both on rather good bread. And it
wasn’t just the bread: one of these sandwiches was a Caprese. Can you imagine
ordering a Caprese sandwich at an airport in America? The tomatoes would be
pink and mushy, the bread like cardboard, the basil flavorless, the fresh
Mozzarella soggy and limp. You’d probably start crying. I certainly would.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the flip side, my pals and I observed something really
bizarre at every French hotel we ate at: as good as the bread was, there was
never any butter. WTF? Doesn’t everybody love good
butter for their great bread? (Exception: I did find one little block of
Président brand butter at one breakfast, which I’d thought was cheese. Maybe
the hotel did, too.) Even olive oil was never offered, and if the bread
hadn’t been so good we’d surely have complained (I mean, other than to each
other). At our last dinner there was one little oil/vinegar dispenser going
around, but literally just one, and the absolutely world class waitstaff seemed
really flummoxed: perhaps not by not having more of these dispensers, but by
this one having shown up out of nowhere seeding discontent at neighboring
tables.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, I cannot understand the French hotel industry’s
inability to cater to Americans’ coffee tastes. Every coffee shop in America
has some version of a basic house coffee. Isn’t Starbucks
showcasing this globally now? Plus, the archetypal large mug of coffee is featured in countless
Hollywood movies that are exported around the world. The concept is not
complicated: we drink a dark brown beverage, brewed from coffee beans, in quantities of 12 to 24 ounces, and we call it, simply, “coffee.” It is not cappuccino or espresso or any other
kid-size micro-beverage that you drink like it’s a shot of booze. I thought we
had this coffee mismatch solved after World War II when Europeans saw our
American soldiers watering down their dinky coffee-bean-freebasing drinks and
took to calling this larger beverage an Americano, but nobody in the Rhône-Alpes
region seems to have heard of this. The machines have all these buttons with
weird names like “Café Long” which doesn’t mean anything in any language, or
“Café Noisette” which sounds like it would be “noisy” but actually literally
translates “hazelnut” which the ensuing beverage did not have the slightest
flavor of. Over the course of the trip I tried six or eight different fancy
digital coffee machines and a few humans and never did get a normal cup of
coffee, not even an Americano. Most of what I drank tasted mainly like foamed
milk and at no point did I manage to get the simple <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2016/10/i-will-disrupt-your-coffee.html" target="_blank">black coffee</a> I was looking for. It’s like some vast conspiracy to deliberately fail to
understand this simple concept of what non-fussy, non-micro, basic-ground-coffee-bean-based
beverages are supposed to be. I never even saw a normal mug, except this one in
my hotel room (the purpose of which was not clear, but which I liked due to the
cyclist pattern):</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQZ1I3_-biBaHL_jQZfsGQsA8qNN5DOeVuAnahF_Fwym5dg5N5utnMxQb-8kFyuyNSyCKQVFAy2gbwnVWZhulbH4JqGKMXakuSMrlvJmKy-kEvNneABUTV-e_xSql-E0L1cE79AFy7jEiphE_p0scrVf55z-tzOwdIPIwG3pyr2WqdiRZYzNSV6CUddfn/s2040/Mug.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2040" data-original-width="1835" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQZ1I3_-biBaHL_jQZfsGQsA8qNN5DOeVuAnahF_Fwym5dg5N5utnMxQb-8kFyuyNSyCKQVFAy2gbwnVWZhulbH4JqGKMXakuSMrlvJmKy-kEvNneABUTV-e_xSql-E0L1cE79AFy7jEiphE_p0scrVf55z-tzOwdIPIwG3pyr2WqdiRZYzNSV6CUddfn/w360-h400/Mug.jpg" width="360" /></a></i></div><i><br />To be continued…</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, I see I’ve pretty much run out of room here, or more
to the point you’ve run out of patience. Tune in next time when I promise to
get as far as the Col de Joux Plane, the Col de la Columbière, the Col de Croix
Fry, and surely another meal or two.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">. For a complete index of albertnet posts,
click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737851275453020904.post-24684692248088808142023-09-15T09:18:00.003-07:002023-11-05T17:39:03.383-08:002023 Vuelta - Jumbo Visma & the Kuss Conundrum<p><i>Introduction</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s been a hell of a Vuelta a España. Not since <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2009/11/vuelta-del-taco-truck.html" target="_blank">Vuelta del Taco Truck</a> have I been so enthralled. Not that it’s a particularly close race
lately—Team Jumbo Visma is dominating—but there’s some intrigue within the
team. As I write this, the American Sepp Kuss is still leading the GC, but with
just a handful of seconds over his teammate, recent <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/07/biased-blow-by-blow-2023-tour-de-france_22.html" target="_blank">Tour de France winner</a> Jonas Vingegaard. Kuss is only another minute ahead of another teammate, recent
<a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/07/biased-blow-by-blow-2023-tour-de-france_22.html" target="_blank">Giro d’Italia winner</a> Primoz Roglic.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The really weird thing is, Kuss’s lead has been dropping a
bit, stage after stage, because his own teammates have been attacking. A member
of my bike club emailed the group, “Can one of you armchair directors sportif
explain today’s stage of the Vuelta in which 2 guys on the GC leader’s team
attack him on the final climb? I’m struggling to find a charitable
explanation.” By the time you read this, things may have changed, but I want to
follow my pal’s prompt and investigate this weirdness from this particular
moment in time, right after the Angliru stage, when the team still has the
opportunity to decide how to conduct itself, with Kuss still in the red jersey.
I have developed some theories.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHQBhIaUvUPZPV32ZjGiM8WOMZjeIJZR8D8zo3ATlSHg4xlj8a8AH4lxGtYOXOlAkI6oErNgSS282De8s009DReayh5RBZyTPxalyPRQctgzyloq8FvdMhh73PxJO22dTNp5JpyOXtiT5sesXWm_8QtfD8c-lFFntpaEaPMOjEBsIUekd3w7G88XdkcxR/s1045/Roglic&Vingo1-2.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="1045" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHQBhIaUvUPZPV32ZjGiM8WOMZjeIJZR8D8zo3ATlSHg4xlj8a8AH4lxGtYOXOlAkI6oErNgSS282De8s009DReayh5RBZyTPxalyPRQctgzyloq8FvdMhh73PxJO22dTNp5JpyOXtiT5sesXWm_8QtfD8c-lFFntpaEaPMOjEBsIUekd3w7G88XdkcxR/w400-h236/Roglic&Vingo1-2.JPG" width="400" /></a><i></i></div><i><br />Theory #1: it’s just
the hierarchy</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It could be that Team Jumbo Visma is simply too risk-averse
to shake up the established hierarchy for no good reason. Not that they don’t <i>have</i> good reason, from my<i> </i>perspective as a fan. I mean, I think rewarding
a very loyal domestique, who some commentators are saying may be the best
mountain domestique in the history of the sport, is actually a good reason to
challenge the established pecking order. But this team is about winning races,
not just being cool. Roglic has won the Vuelta three times, Vingegaard has won
two Tours de France, and the team can be confident these guys won’t falter in
the final week, or buckle under the responsibility of finishing out the job. As
a GC leader, Kuss is an unknown entity.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Beyond tactics, this hierarchy could extend into the messier
realm of unconscious bias, like an unofficial caste system in the sport. Consider
the label <i>domestique. </i>It wasn’t until
I was talking about bike racing with some <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2023/08/the-oxford-comma.html" target="_blank">recovering journalists</a> recently that I thought much about this term. I was just trying to tell the
story of Kuss pounding champagne after his brilliant stage win (more on this
later), but—with the curiosity befitting journalists—my friends backed me up
and said wait, wait, wait. … support riders are actually called <i>domestiques</i>? It really is an ungenerous
term, like calling your teammates “the help.” In this light, the sport really
does promote elitism. Meanwhile, it surely takes a massive ego to be a Grand
Tour winner and perhaps guys like Vingegaard and Roglic take it as an article
of faith that they’re simply superior to their staff, occupying a more rarified
realm. (“Kuss?! That motherscratcher? He’s never even made the final podium!”) If
that’s their feeling, the idea of this (albeit strong) domestique becoming a GC
winner is just preposterous and cannot be allowed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From this hierarchical viewpoint, even letting Kuss ride
hard in the Stage 10 time trial was actually charitable. Don’t forget that Floyd Landis, while in his
last year of service to Lance Armstrong, was severely punished for riding too
fast in a Tour time trial (instead of saving his energy for his support role in
the later stages). Although Floyd professed his innocence—“I <i>was </i>going easy, I’m just really strong!”—Lance
threw a fit and flushed Floyd’s blood bag down the toilet, right in front of
him, to remind him who was boss. (No, I did not make that up. It really
happened. It’s in <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2012/11/book-review-secret-race.html" target="_blank">Tyler Hamilton’s book</a>.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the way, Kuss was a good sport after the Angliru stage,
congratulating his two teammates on, well, beating him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51fZMaZUWi_w_h3WYXTZdf-r1lz4RzywpUNJLA8wmexWEvsyl8zUBeWj2a6i70W25cBkoyOqglSlJl5Y-fadUSeyDIaDjJSN3X6kAfyfl4MIbpsTVCsL97QL03suqdxiLVJtBA8QLa0A_VDfzwhyQr5DjUQfaUO3VJ4OM6Xua_COH5hUmdZ0ebchdjWF8/s1920/KussGoodSport.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1019" data-original-width="1920" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51fZMaZUWi_w_h3WYXTZdf-r1lz4RzywpUNJLA8wmexWEvsyl8zUBeWj2a6i70W25cBkoyOqglSlJl5Y-fadUSeyDIaDjJSN3X6kAfyfl4MIbpsTVCsL97QL03suqdxiLVJtBA8QLa0A_VDfzwhyQr5DjUQfaUO3VJ4OM6Xua_COH5hUmdZ0ebchdjWF8/w400-h213/KussGoodSport.png" width="400" /></a><i></i></div><i><br />Theory #2: no gifts</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">During one of his Tour “victories,” Lance let Marco Pantani
win the Mount Ventoux stage, which was an unpopular move with everyone. In the press
conference post-race, Lance casually mentioned he’d only cared about the GC, basically
announcing the gift, and Pantani was offended and said so. There was more backlash
because Lance could have just been making an excuse instead of admitting
Pantani was stronger, and for this reason Lance himself came to regret his
professed generosity. Many Pantani fans felt ripped off, too, like there was an
unnecessary asterisk next to their hero’s win. Well, the next time Lance had
the opportunity to win a stage, when he already had the GC in the bag, he took
that opportunity, and during the podium celebration the former five-time Tour
champ Bernard Hinault said to him, “That’s right: no gifts.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hinault lived by this ethos himself. Prior to the 1986 Tour
de France, he announced that he would be working for his teammate, Greg LeMond,
to reward him for his past support. It would be like passing the baton. But in
the actual race, Hinault totally attacked LeMond, several times, leading to a
big dustup in the media, a real soap opera. When questioned about breaking his
word, Hinault shrugged and said something like, “I wanted to make him earn it.”
And wasn’t it a better story in the end, that LeMond had to beat everyone, even
his friend and teammate, to prove he deserved the Tour title?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Applying this to the current Vuelta is admittedly a bit of a
stretch, but perhaps this “make him earn it” notion is a clever story
Vingegaard and Roglic are telling themselves because it’s more palatable to
them than, say, theory #1.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWot68z8MNaFFEldySs2HzbYb3h3mQCYovGpwQZYSoCyQDldZpywrAd5gx_RSlcjB_Hqa9N6avOPQdXAYz4lSmBYLU1Ao0unwHEORSmghPY4ep93tbmq5P954q7YvuQMmXxNmYylRph8j2RWSiMy61a03eUQ0I_vkC8vlG9KQG0wnKuD_UUO3F9SWzOhs/s1616/KussDropped.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1006" data-original-width="1616" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWot68z8MNaFFEldySs2HzbYb3h3mQCYovGpwQZYSoCyQDldZpywrAd5gx_RSlcjB_Hqa9N6avOPQdXAYz4lSmBYLU1Ao0unwHEORSmghPY4ep93tbmq5P954q7YvuQMmXxNmYylRph8j2RWSiMy61a03eUQ0I_vkC8vlG9KQG0wnKuD_UUO3F9SWzOhs/w400-h249/KussDropped.jpg" width="400" /></a><i></i></div><i><br />Theory #3: Plan B</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s also possible that according to some convoluted tactical
logic, to have Vingegaard and Roglic attack is just a way to make sure Jumbo
Visma has a plan B for winning the GC if Kuss should happen to falter. Since
the time Kuss took the red jersey, Vingegaard has soloed twice. The first time,
at least, the Dane wasn’t in great position on GC, having had a poor stage or
two. His attack bought him some needed time on his rivals, and after all
nothing was preventing Kuss from also attacking and defending his own position
(which he did). Such tactics aren’t very nice, of course, but if the overall
team directive is to win the GC at all costs, and if Vingegaard and Roglic have
the legs, why not?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This wouldn’t be the first time a team put a GC leader’s bid
at risk to support a Plan B. In one of the Tours that Lance “won,” his teammate
Víctor Hugo Peña crashed in the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2019/07/from-archives-national-championships.html" target="_blank">team time trial</a>, and the team waited for him. I was astonished … Lance was not known for his
dedication to the team, to put it lightly. A pal explained to me that Peña was
the team leadership’s Plan B for the GC if something happened to Lance, so they
needed to keep him from losing time in the TTT.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jumbo Visma themselves have some experience with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMIF4IyDM6o" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Plan B: last year</a>, when Roglic crashed in the Tour and couldn’t perform at his normal level, his
support rider Vingegaard had been kept close enough on GC to take over and get the
win.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Theory #4: envy</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It could be that Vingegaard and Roglic are nursing petty
jealousies when it comes to Kuss. I mean, let’s not kid ourselves: Kuss is better
looking, has more charisma, is more of a crowd favorite, and as the tireless,
loyal domestique is more relatable than these past heroes … and now he gets to
lead the Vuelta on top of it all. A real Cinderella story.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In case you don’t take all these claims for granted, let’s
look at a couple of Kuss’s endearing exploits. When he won his first Vuelta
stage a few years back (and again when he won a stage this year), he did
something that American mountain bike racers have done for years: as he headed
for the finish line he rode near the fencing at the side of the road and held
out his hand to high-five scores of fans. I don’t think these European fans had
ever seen anything like it. To see him doing that, a big shit-eating grin on
his face … I had tears in my eyes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then let’s consider Kuss’s podium celebration after this
year’s stage win. He took the standard jumbo-sized bottle of champagne and
sprayed the crowd with it, as is customary, but the he went completely
off-script. Most cyclists, especially climbers, can barely lift that magnum to
their lips, and take a prim little sip. Kuss hefted that bad boy above his head
and started just <i>pounding </i>it. Check
this out:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SCnp42i8hjc" width="320" youtube-src-id="SCnp42i8hjc"></iframe></div><br />It’s kind of amazing how long he went and how much he drank
… that would be impressive even for a non-bike-racer. The commentator Christian
Vande Velde said admiringly, “You go, boy!”<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s not just any cyclist who could do this to such good
effect. Roglic, who to me looks like a bit of a thug with his swarthiness and
amateurish tattoos, might have looked kind of scary pounding the booze. And
Vingegaard … God forgive me, but everything about that guy seems a bit weird,
so to see him guzzling the champagne might have just seemed, I dunno, a little
creepy. But Kuss, with his apple-pie face and boyish charm, and his unassuming persona,
and that little surprised, half-suppressed burp at the end, all wrapped up with
an exuberant grin ... well, it’s the very epitome of charisma.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Roglic in particular might envy Kuss’s situation enough to
want to spoil it. In the 2020 Vuelta, during the <a href="https://www.albertnet.us/2020/11/biased-blow-by-blow-2020-vuelta-espana.html" target="_blank">last mountain stage</a>, Roglic had a narrow GC lead that was challenged when Richard Carapaz made a
sweet solo move. Carapaz needed only like 40 or 45 seconds to unseat Roglic,
and things looked dicey for a bit. Uncharacteristically, Kuss was dropped, and
another Jumbo Visma domestique had to make his way up and slay himself for
Roglic. In this situation, Kuss—though he’d let down his leader in a key
moment—didn’t get a lot of attention; his lapse wasn’t that visible because the
cameras weren’t on him. Compare this to the one Tour de France that Roglic
probably felt he had in the bag, only to spectacularly lose it in the final
time trial to the upstart Tadej Pogacar. Roglic will never live that down. And
now Kuss, who is leading the Vuelta seemingly by accident, could go on to lose
it without any particular disgrace because after all, he didn’t come into the
race with any ambition other than to do his normal job of domestique. To
Roglic, that might rankle enough to incite an attack or two.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Theory #5: the
business people</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s possible that Vingegaard and Roglic didn’t launch those
attacks on their own initiative. The big brass of the team might have ordered
them to do it, for financial reasons. After all, if Kuss were to win the
Vuelta, he’d be in high demand from other teams and Jumbo Visma might have to
raise his salary. If all they care about is one of their members winning the
GC, why not make it one of the guys who’s already at the top of the salary
scale?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Theory #6: the
business people, continued</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s also possible that the team’s business leaders didn’t
like Kuss’s champagne-swilling antics. Perhaps, they feel, this sent the wrong
message about the Jumbo Visma team culture. They may have decided his behavior
was unprofessional and glamorized the uninhibited consumption of an alcoholic
beverage. “Think of the kids! Those poor impressionable youth!” they might be
thinking. Perhaps they determined that the less attention Kuss gets from here
on out, the better … so he shouldn’t be allowed to win the Vuelta. So they
deploy their henchman, Vingegaard and Roglic, to stop him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Theory #7: nationalism</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ever since the Dubya years, and particularly since the Trump
years, the United States hasn’t exactly been the darling of Europe. It also
doesn’t help our cause when American tourists like me go around saying things like,
“World War II: you’re welcome.” (No, of course I don’t actually say this, but
you get the point.) It also didn’t help that Lance took his
don’t-mess-with-Texas ethos over there and messed with Europe, handing the Tour
(and the sport) its biggest scandal in history. For Vingegaard and Roglic, as
helpful as Kuss has been to his team, maybe they’re nursing some unconscious anti-American
grudge such that they can’t bring themselves to promote him to the protected
rider.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you’re skeptical about this theory, and haven’t felt like
Kuss wears his nationality on his sleeve, consider Exhibit A, his bike travel
case:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyo-k-FzZ4iU1kNpAYUSyIdcCfVZiNcvHjdDPCqiTctG4DORzyS2GScsam7sZdHwz98zCmpDy805w6vK4R5IgHsi84ijJOp8sGGRxpkvlOlrl2_-t6mteaeBIdDJA88H6WGNLWnNcKNdYxcfF5frNIJCxilpt1e6g2ZewIwSPQOuP2RdvhHfpaUsVWF1z/s1000/KussBikeCarrier.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyo-k-FzZ4iU1kNpAYUSyIdcCfVZiNcvHjdDPCqiTctG4DORzyS2GScsam7sZdHwz98zCmpDy805w6vK4R5IgHsi84ijJOp8sGGRxpkvlOlrl2_-t6mteaeBIdDJA88H6WGNLWnNcKNdYxcfF5frNIJCxilpt1e6g2ZewIwSPQOuP2RdvhHfpaUsVWF1z/s320/KussBikeCarrier.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />That really does smack of unbridled patriotism, doesn’t it?
I mean, would <i>you </i>use such a loud,
brazen product? I sure wouldn’t. With all this in mind, you’ll surely be
relieved to learn that (at least to my knowledge) Kuss’s bike case actually looks
nothing like this. I was just messing
with you.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Theory #8: it’s not
about Kuss</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It could be that these attacks actually have nothing to do
with Kuss. For all I know, Roglic and Vingegaard are bitter rivals, and their
attacks are simply on one another, with Kuss and the rest of the peloton being collateral
damage. Or even if the two get along, Roglic could be lashing out at having
been kept off the Tour team this year, and wants to show everyone he was
wronged, and/or Vingegaard wants to demonstrate that only <i>he</i> could have won the last two Tours.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Theory #9: irrational
exuberance</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe these riders have been trying to do the right thing
and work for Kuss, but they just can’t help themselves. When you’ve got the
legs, it’s hard to resist using them. Look at LeMond in the 1985 Tour, attacking
Hinault, his team leader. I already mentioned Hinault returning the favor in
the 1986 Tour. Then there was Marc Soler up in the breakaway <a href="https://www.eurosport.com/cycling/vuelta-a-espana/2019/cycling-news-nairo-quintana-moves-into-red-as-tadej-pogacar-wins-in-the-rain_sto7439187/story.shtml" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">throwing a tantrum during the 2019 Vuelta</a> when his Movistar team called him back to help his leader (i.e., do his fricking
job). Sport in general is riddled with reckless, impulsive behavior. Chalk it
up to testosterone poisoning.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Theory #10: none of
the above</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course it’s entirely possible there’s a perfectly good
reason for these attacks that just isn’t apparent to an armchair directeur
sportif like me. For example, Roglic and Vingegaard could be space aliens
driven by forces utterly foreign to us humans. That would explain a lot,
actually.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—</span><br /><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Email me <a href="mailto:feedback@albertnet.us" target="_blank">here</a></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">. For a complete index of albertnet posts,
click <a href="http://www.albertnet.us/2014/03/5-years-of-albertnet-index.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p>
Dana Alberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13488621586586091954noreply@blogger.com0