Wry On The Rocks

     I  just finished driving 1500 miles from Boston to Longboat Key, Florida and here’s my question today;  why isn’t Interstate 95 knee-deep in dead young motorcyclists?  Look up death wish in the dictionary and you’ll see a picture of a kid on a Honda, hunched over his handle bars, weaving through traffic in an attempt to break the sound barrier. This kid is 20 going on 12.  But, he’s OK…he’s wearing a helmet.  He’s wearing a tee shirt, cut-offs, sneakers,…and a helmet.  This is very good, of course, because the last thing you want to be without when you hit the pavement at 190 miles an hour is a helmet.  It is very useful in helping to  identify the body.  

      Higher up the food chain is the Harley Dude.  He is between 30 and 50 and sports gray hair pulled back in a ponytail which sneaks out from under his WW II helmet. He is  fully clad in either denim or leather and looks like he just finished adjusting carburetors or flushing cooling systems.  But, unlike Kid on a Honda, all tight and intent on keeping his date with destiny, Harley Dude is cool.  He sits back in the saddle with his handle bars cranked up so high he appears to kind of hang from them.  You’ll find that most Harley Dudes have very long arms. 

     At the highest end of the motorcycle spectrum is the Senior Rider.  This guy is over 50 and is riding in a small  RV on two wheels.  He is often pulling a small, matching  trailer which presumably carries his Depends and back-up dentures.  The dashboard was originally designed for the 747.  Whereas the  Honda is usually yellow or red and the Harley dude’s bike is black, Senior Rider’s traveling motel is invariably maroon.  It’s the law.  His bike is maroon, his trailer is maroon and his helmet is maroon.  The helmet , incidentally, was designed by NASA and includes a two-way radio  which allows him to communicate with his wife who sits in a Lazy-Boy at his back.  You don’t see them talking very often.

      I’m sure that all of these folks have a reason why they’d rather tempt fate on two wheels, but I suppose it could be worse.  They could be driving a Toyota.

     I just found out that I missed one of the highlights of the Winter Olympics…the Canadian women’s hockey team drinking beer and smoking cigars.  Now, the reason I missed it was I wasn’t watching the game.  There are many activities of which I either have no interest or have relegated to my “bucket list”…I thought I might watch women’s hockey before I die, but wasn’t in any hurry.

      Understand that I like to watch women’s events as much as the next guy;  swimming… beach volleyball… the Sports Illustrated cover competition…but, with hockey how did I know that those were really women under all that stuff ?  Well, now I know.  Let’s face it…nothing says woman like a good cigar and a beer.  I think I’ve just become a fan.

     As a transplanted Floridian, my enjoyment of  the Winter Olympics has been tempered by a mixture of ignorance, awe and, at times, downright apathy.

     First, the ignorance; hockey.  Growing up in Florida in the pre-ice age, I always assumed the word hockey had something to do with phlegm.  To this day, I don’t understand rules;  like icing.  Is it an illegal physical property or is it something that a player does…as in, oh,oh Pierre just iced?  And then there’s the contradictory nature of the rules.  You’re allowed to have a player called the “Enforcer ” on the ice, but are penalized for a “third-man-in”?

     Then there’s the awe;  skeleton racing …. watching  men and women lying face down on little “skeletons”  going 90 miles an hour down an ice chute.  I suspect that when growing up these people were not allowed to play with other kids in the neighborhood. 

     Then there’s the apathy; curling.  How did shuffleboard on ice become an Olympic sport?  Are there that many people interested in watching a sport that features two men with brooms?  The Zamboni machine offers more drama which is why curling received such low ratings.  I think next time they should allow each team an Enforcer.  That I would watch.

In 1979, K.T. Smith, a patron of Mugs Away bar in Laguna Niguel, Cal. offered to buy a beer for anyone who would walk across the street and moon the Amtrak train when it passed.  This year Mr. Smith would have to be prepared to buy drinks for approximately 8,000 people who showed up to drop their trousers at the passing Amtrak trains.  Located halfway between LA and San Diego, it obviously need not it be said that there is very little to do in Laguna Niguel, Cal.  

When the crowd starts to tire of mooning passing trains, I have another crowd building venture for the Mugs Away bar.  How about a contest to choose a better name!

  The 113th running of the Boston marathon took place today with 26,331 runners signed up for the 26 mile race.  I don’t get it.  The whole running thing.  I tried it once and didn’t like it.  It was in the 9th grade when every red-blooded Florida boy was expected to go out for track.  I was told to run the mile.  Nobody else wanted the job.  Cool guys did not run the mile.  Cool guys pole-vaulted or ran the hurdles or sprinted in the 100-yard dash, but they did not run the mile.  I ran the mile.  I ran the mile with fellow competitors, most of whom wore thick glasses and shorts two sizes too big.

Actually, to claim that I ran the mile is a bit of a stretch.  The only instruction the coach ever gave me was to pace myself.  I was never good at running, but I was the best damn pacer you ever saw.  In fact, I think I still  hold the Orange County record for pacing the mile.  You know how marathoners are always trying to out-do their “personal best”…their PB?  My PB was finishing before the bus left!

(read more of this day at www.wrysandwherefores.com)