Have you ever thought about the silly things we do because our government says to do them?  Twice a year, they tell us to change our clocks.  Most folks can hardly remember which way to move them, it's "fall back and spring forward" they tell us.  But I never am sure because "fall back" could mean make it later and "spring forward" could mean make it later too, so I always look at my cell phone or my computer before I change all my clocks.

Does anyone know why we go through this instead of just adjusting ourselves to the changing hours of daylight?  I heard that originally it had to do with farmers having to get up in the dark to milk the cows.  Well, there aren't that many farmers milking cows anymore so that's not an issue.  Then it was to allow school children to travel to school after daylight.  So why not simply change the hours that kids go to school?  Why inconvenience all the people who don't have school aged children?  Do you know how many seniors are seriously injured climbing on chairs to adjust the time on their high clocks?  And what about the kids near the Arctic Circle who still have to go to school in the dark?  There are probably as many of those as there are cow milkers.

Then there are the silly things the government imposes on us that aren't even that funny.  For instance, if you appear to be trolling for a prostitute in some cities, the city government may take your car away from you.  They don't have to charge you with any crime but to get your car back you have to post a non refundable bond and go through a bunch of rigamarole to get it back (which usually costs more than the car is worth).  If the car isn't paid for, you still have to finish paying for it while the local police are using it for their donut run. 

Similarly, if you are suspected of growing hemp for sale, they can confiscate your house.  The premise being that the house is guilty of a crime?  And then there is the ludicrous issue of medical marijuana where it's legal to buy pot if you have a doctor's prescription but if you don't have the money to go to a doctor, you can be prosecuted for having the same shit even if you are using it to treat a legitimate illness.  Bear in mind that there is not a single documented case of death by pot overdose, while people (mostly teens) routinely kill themselves with alcohol, a perfectly legal drug. So the premise that these laws are to protect us from ourselves is absurd.  When I asked a friend of mine who is in law enforcement why they are still pursuing marijuana offenders he replied, "Because it's so lucrative".  The law enforcement agencies earn so much money from the confiscation laws that they can't afford to give it up.  Well, heck, that's a good reason to make criminals out of people who aren't victimizing anyone against their will.

Then there are the costly things that our government imposes upon us.  Things that we can't afford, and so we go without things we need so that we can obey the law of the land.  I fear our president's health insurance plan may be one of those things.

In order for the health plan to work, the people who don't need health care must buy into the plan to pay for the care of the people who do.  So, I, who eat sensibly, exercise regularly and save my money carefully for those rare, unexpected health care costs, am going to be required to cough up $600 a month (more than I spend on health care in a year) for a plan that pays for the health care of my lard ass neighbors who drink and smoke and do the hootchie coo.  Do you know what kind of a dream machine mountain bike I could buy with that $7,200 a year ?!?!?

In California, the government stifles industry with regulations that make it all but impossible to make a profit. 

Two examples:  A local entrepreneur applied for a permit with the county to build a new fast food restaurant here in Mentone.  After jumping through the requisite permit hoops and paying the associated fees, he proceeded to build his edifice.  With the project almost completed, he asks to have the water turned on to run his plumbing tests.  The City of Redlands that bought all of the water rights in Mentone says, "Hold on big boy, we want you to hook up to our sewer system if you want our water."  Poor Mr. Burger Builder has already installed a county approved septic system so he has no need of sewer services.  The City is unsympathetic and demands $800,000 to install sewer line to his new facility.  The building stands empty and the folks who would have been employed there, remain unemployed.

Example #2:  Mike goes to the county to inquire about a building permit to tear down our garage and replace it with a new one with a second story workshop.  The surly clerk tells him that she can't submit his application until he has three copies of his plans (he has only two with him) and the pre-inspection report.  When he tells her the inspector didn't provide him with a written report, she snorts derisively and intimates he's lying.  He goes back with the third copy of the plans and the name of the inspector who failed to supply him with the pre-inspection report and is informed that he must have a letter form two other agencies, one of which is the local fire authority.  The California Department of Forestry, who provides our fire services, tells him they want $250 for the letter and he has to replace the nearest fire hydrant (and any water lines, no doubt) to bring it up to code.  Hello, isn't a fire hydrant infrastructure that the community as a whole should pay for?  Then when all of this has been done, they will conduct a pressure test before granting final approval.  I happen to know that the senior center, which is two blocks away, doesn't have enough water pressure to run their sprinklers because I was there when the fire department ran their test. 

So, the workshop project is halted which means the concrete contractor lost a job, the lumber company lost a sale, the steel company keeps their I beam, the welder stands idle, the forklift rental misses a sale and on down the line. 

Our country isn't in decline because we Americans are stupid, wasteful, greedy or any of the other things the government wants to lay on the working class.  It is in decline because of poor government.  All of the above examples are just the pin prick tip of the iceberg of how our government wastes our labor. 

How can this be in a country that is governed by the people?  I don't know but I think it has something to do with how easy it is to spend someone else's money.

I feel I should add this disclaimer:  I don't smoke pot, I don't troll for prostitutes, nor do I eat burgers so all of these issues bother me on an ideological level not a personal level.  How can we consider ourselves a free society when we are controlled in every aspect of our lives?

I awoke just before 3:00 A.M. for no apparent reason.  Maybe it was too warm in the room, maybe my mind was unsettled about this trip to Gooseberry.  At any rate, as I waited in the darkness for slumber to return, listening to the birds making their night time noises, Butchie came to attention. 

Almost immediately, I heard the familiar rumble in the distance and then the old house gave a small creak as it rode a gentle wave in the earth's crust.  It was almost imperceptible even riding my California king-sized bed.  If the epicenter was nearby, it probably wasn't more than 2 or three on the Richter Scale.

The Aliner is all loaded and the bikes are in the back of the truck.  All I need to do in the morning is make some sandwiches for the road and take a shower, the last one for a while.  We have a couple of solar showers but usually it's so dry and breezy on the mesa that one isn't inclined to do more than quick rinse off after a ride.

As usual, everyone who said they wanted to go with us backed out so it's just the two of us.  No surprise, it happens more often than not.  I don't mind going alone; there are almost always other folks out there to ride with if Mike gets bored waiting for me.  He's been training much more diligently than I have for this trip so he's bound to leave me behind. 

It's funny, he begrudges all the stops to take videos of the action on the trail, but enjoys watching them later more than anyone. 

Mike came home today and found a battery powered drill in its case along with a note, on the front porch.  The note said, "You dropped this at the intersection of 5th and Crafton".  It was signed by Chris and included a phone number.

It was a drill Mike had bought for me years ago and I was so tickled to have my very own drill that I wrote my address and phone number on the case.  Later he found a lighter one that he thought I would like better so he bought it and gave the first one to his dad. 

Mike called his dad and sure enough, he'd lost it out of the back of his truck on the way to the airport to work on one of his planes.

I was pleased that some thoughtful person had taken the time to pick it up and deliver it to my doorstep.  It would have been decent to simply pick it up and call me to come and get it, but to go out of the way to deliver it was, well, something I would do.

It's incidents like this that reaffirm my belief in karma.  Maybe good things happen to bad people too but I like to think that the reason I've had so many things like this happen is because I've always gone out of my way to do the right thing. 

Mike called Chris right away to thank her for her thoughtfulness.  The significance of the good deed far surpassed the value of the drill.

Have you ever typed in a blog, edited it, clicked save, and had a sign in box pop up?  Well, what it means is that the last forty minutes of your life were wasted.  So, here's the abbreviated version.

Guy came over to ride with me, he locked his keys in the car cuz he's so messed up over his new girlfriend, we went for a ride, we had fun, the locksmith charged him $55 to open the car and here's a video of Guy riding the trail we rode today.  The End.

 Is there anything finer than discovering a new subscription?  For me it's like a trip to a foreign country, a new romance, a fresh view of the world, a journey down a long forgotten lane, a sneak peek at a private journey, a shared pleasure, a common struggle.  Each of my subscriptions takes me on a flight into a different world, places I may never visit, a state of mind I might never experience.

Today I found DeLasombra via TripCrazed.  His travelers' tips for the visitor to East LA took me on a journey to a foreign country just sixty miles away.  Not only was it funny, it was educational.  I learned what a 2-3-5 car is, and perusing his older posts, I learned what to say when your friend's girlfriend is screaming at you when she is unarmed, and the appropriate version to use when she is armed.  Very useful information, I must say.

For those of you not inclined to visit his site, a 2-3-5 car is a $2000 car with $3000 wheels and a $5000 sound system.  Kinda like my neighbor's car which is a $200 car with a $30 dollar battery and $5 worth of gas in the tank.

TripCrazed netted another of my "view of the world" sites, Kipahni.  I think I've mentioned her before.  She gives a Western woman's view of life in a small village in Southern Egypt.  Her descriptions are so vivid and humor laced that you almost think you could learn to love her in-laws the way she does.  Except for the female excision thing. 

And then there is Michel's site (Fauquet).  So civilized and eloquent, the gentleman farmer, grandfather, historian.  He recently sent me links to his posts from January of 2002 where he related his experiences as an 11 year old boy in newly liberated France.  His writes in English with the heart of a Frenchman.  If you are able to read French I expect you would enjoy reading his original version along with the translations.

I love my excursions into the heartland of America when I visit AprilsPlace and ElevenStones.  Their posts remind me of a Norman Rockwell calendar or a stroll through Mayberry RFD (remember the Andy Griffith Show?)

The two things all of my subscriptions have in common is good humor and good writing.  Whether young (Curtainsopen) or very young (Noree_n), or mature (Babs430, ElevenStones, Fauquet) or somewhere in between (Queenie), each of them opens my mind to the endless possibilities of life. 

Now, you may assume that I'm under the influence of my one glass of medicinal red wine, just because I'm waxing all sentimental but it's not true.  I'm just plain grateful to all of you for giving me these glimpses into your lives.  Perhaps when you started your blog you were writing for your own entertainment (as I was) or to keep distant friends and family up to date.  But somewhere along the way you connected with strangers who felt a sense of kinship and your posts blossomed into something more. 

At some point I started writing for a more varied audience, realizing that my subscribers (both of them) maybe felt like I did.  What if they were just interested in the different life from theirs?  My life, that seems so mundane to me, might just be interesting to someone who hasn't lived it. 

So, to those of you who don't post anything (you know who you are, Zarnicki) c'mon in.  Share with us.  Gentle hands will sift through your musings.   

I was invited to speak today at a luncheon for old duffers.  I've been recording interviews with veterans for the Library of Congress (www.loc.gov/vets) and one of the vets whom I had interviewed, thought the project would be of interest to his Round Table cronies. 

When he asked me to speak, about two months ago, I said yes, without really considering what was entailed .  I put it on my calendar and put it out of my mind.  A couple of days ago a reminder popped up that I needed to compose something but, remaining true to myself, I procrastinated until this morning.  Even then I was able to put it out of my mind and go for a bike ride.  By the time I got back I barely had time to get cleaned up and get myself down there. 

I had produced a short movie comprised of some of the highlights of the interviews I'd done, so I figured I'd speak extemporaneously for a few minutes and then show the DVD.  As I sat waiting to be introduced the magnitude of what I had walked into hit me with full force.

In all of my fifty-six years on earth, I have never stood behind a microphone and addressed a group of people, least of all, a group of highly educated, professional, white guys.  This was a "No girls" club.  Oh, did I forget to mention that the guy who usually set up the projector wasn't there and the stand-in dude couldn't get it to work with my laptop?  We ended up setting it up with his laptop but didn't have time to actually do a test run.

Fortunately, Ellie, the senior center director, spoke before I did and she made it look easy.  With her sweet, mellifluous voice and raven tresses, she talked easily of her Army brat upbringing and her daughter who recently graduated from Annapolis, and soon had the room warmed up for me.

I took the podium, refrained from confessing my inexperience figuring they could discern that on their own, and launched into my pitch.  To my astonishment, it wasn't much different from talking to a couple of people except that I had to do all the talking.  I was careful not to use "um" or superfluous words like "like" or "you know" because it drives me nuts when people like the President of the United States do that.  In his defense, he has to be much more careful how he says things, so stalling for thinking time is necessary. 

After maybe fifteen minutes I fielded a few questions and then offered up the movie, the production of which I had labored over for many hours.  I was relieved that the room expressed eagerness to see it since I would have expected them to be getting restless and ready to head home for their afternoon nap.   I turned to the laptop, which of course had gone to sleep, and woke it up.  It yawned and scratched it's hard drive and said, "I just don't feel up to playing a DVD at this time". 

If this had been my own laptop, I would have taken strong disciplinary action.  However, its owner stood helplessly by as if he had no control over the wayward beast.  I asked him quietly, whether he had ever used his DVD player before.  "Not that I can remember", he replied. 

A young man from the audience stepped up to try to help as did another older gentleman.  Now here I must confess to age bias.  I'll put my trust in a twenty-something when it comes to anything computer before I will allow a septuagenarian to take over.  Color me ageist, if you will, but this case only confirmed my bias.  The avuncular gentleman proceeded to remove the pin cable (male end) and attempt to force it into the pin port on my laptop (also male).  These were not consenting males so I felt compelled to intercede.

Long story short, we never did get it to work so my lovingly produced DVD never made it to its screening.  Now I know how those lesser known indie film makers feel. 

Still, they were kind enough to present me with this framed certificate, despite the technical problems, which I shall treasure in perpetuity.  (I love that word "perpetuity" ever since I heard it used in Body Heat)

I heard a comment about the relationship between dog and man the other day that made me consider our obligation to our pets.  In essence the speaker said that the relationship is unequal in that, for the dog, the penalty for failure is death. 

I had never thought about it that way before but he's absolutely correct.  How many dogs (and other pets) end up in the shelter with euthanasia their fate, for no other reason than they failed to meet their owners' expectations?  The natural progression of that thought is, what an obligation we have to our pets to make it possible for them to succeed. 

I watched a Dog Whisperer marathon on Labor Day and it brought home the fact that most pet owners have no idea how to communicate their expectations to their dogs.  When a human does learn how to properly interact with a pet, the most amazing transformation takes place.  Dogs by nature want to be part of your pack.  It's vital to their survival to fit in and they know it instinctively.  When you teach your dog his place in the pack hierarchy, he becomes the companion you want him to be.

In Judyland there is a law that requires a passing grade on a test before any pet adoption may transpire.  It's similar to the one required of prospective parents, but with the spay and neuter clause being added. 

For those of you unfamiliar with Judyland, it's a mythical place of peace, quiet, and consideration, with a multiracial population that respects each other by being tolerant and unobtrusive.  There are no lawyers or politicians because disputes are settled through civilized arbitration and laws are simple and followed enthusiastically.  There are few teenagers in Judyland and no Harley Davidsons.

Anyway, back to the test.  Anyone willing to take on the responsibility of pet ownership or child bearing would first be required to demonstrate an understanding of the rigors involved, show a working knowledge of training techniques and prove they have the tenacity to apply them.  They would also have to gain the endorsement of their neighbors. 

Thankfully the test for grandparents is more lax.  This is Gracie, the neighbor's puppy that we babysit Tuesdays and Thursdays while they are at work.  In this picture she's patrolling the area the cats use for a litter box in search of a snack.  After her snack she likes to give Mike puppy kisses.

My other neighbors are going to have their endorsement revoked if their adult children don't tone down the drunken parties on the front porch.  But then that's another story and I suppose I should consider it my chance to demonstrate tolerance.

This is all in response to a comment from Fauquet who said something about DB being happy to have a home and Queenie who commented on my lucky cats.  I feel lucky to be a. in love with a man who loves cats; and b. able to provide a home for eight cast offs.  I just wish my neighbors would read the spay and neuter clause.

The work on the cat penitentiary is nearly completed, only the decorative molding needs to be installed.  Mom came out with a soft, fluffy rug for DB's bed which, I inferred, meant he was forgiven.  He immediately settled down on it with a contented purr.

The prisoner has adapted to life behind bars and expresses no interest in escape.  As long as he has Mike's attention he's a happy boy.

Now that we have another trip planned, I've found my motivation for getting into condition again.  That, coupled with the fact that the heat wave has broken, has me cycling, running and weight lifting in a rotating schedule.

Wednesday Gloria came out to celebrate her last day of freedom before rejoining the workforce.  Her girls are both in school now, freeing her to resume her career.  We rode the wash singletracks which are in pretty tough shape these days thanks to heavy use and no rain. 

As we were making our way through one of the trickier rock obstacles, I heard Gloria who was behind, me utter an exclamation.  I was so preoccupied with picking my own line through the brush I hadn't immediately realized that she was no longer with me.  By the time I stopped to see where she was, she was nowhere in sight.  I called back to her and heard her voice about 50 yards back down the trail, "Help me, I can't get up", she wailed plaintively.  I dropped my bike and trotted back down the trail to find her sitting in the middle of a rock garden with her bike on top of her.  By the time I got to her she had managed to get her foot disengaged from her pedal and was struggling to her feet.  Good naturedly, she brushed herself off and remounted but I'll bet she's sporting a nice big bruise on her butt today.

Today was another perfect cycling day so Mike and I decided to push ourselves and ride Upper Workout.  There's nothing technical about this ride and there is little to take one's mind off the discomfort of the steep climb except the panoramic view as the trail ascends at a granny gear pitch.  Xanga's server seems to be unavailable so I can't upload any pictures of the view from Upper Workout so these will have to suffice.

Thankfully, there are a couple of short descents where the trail drops into a canyon, which gives your lungs a chance to catch up with the oxygen demands of your legs.  I figure if I ride this three times a week for the next two weeks, I should be in better shape for Gooseberry Mesa.  I'll let you know how that works out.

One of a cyclist's favorite pastimes is remembering extraordinary rides of the past.  The best memories are of the most miserable rides with the most hair raising, near disasters.  You will never hear me tell of the lovely, sunny-but-cool day when we rode the manicured trail, and saw a sweet little bunny and some butterflies, and nobody so much as had an unplanned dismount.  Far better fodder lies in the tale of the inclement weather, the startled rattlesnake and the plunge off the precipice.   Oh, here comes one now:

This epic adventure took place on the world famous Slickrock Trail in Moab, Utah, probably in October when summer's heat has spent itself and the winter's storms haven't quite arrived.  The Rutriders had rented some vacation apartments just a few miles from the trail head which provided a nice warm-up to the ride.  It was a splendid fall morning:  warm sunshine, cool breeze, decorative clouds gracing the distant horizon.  We set out with packs filled to the brim with water, cameras, padded knee guards, snacks and tire repair kits.  We were prepared for anything the trail could throw at us.  

The Slickrock Trail is laid out on a labyrinth of sandstone, bounded on the west by the city of Moab, on the north by the Colorado River and to the east the La Sal mountains.  The views, mostly ignored by the intrepid cyclist, are breathtaking in every direction.  

Right from the start it's a roller coaster thrill ride as the white paint marks on the sandstone lead you to the brink of a steep drop off. 

It takes a leap of faith to allow your bike to roll over the edge and trust that your tires will find sufficient traction to allow you to navigate the abrupt turn at the bottom.  Only after you commit to the plunge do you realize a) there's nothing but air beyond that next turn in the trail if you don't make it, and b) there's fly-paper traction and you can do no wrong.  Clearing the turn, your relief is short lived.  The next descent is shorter but steeper and is followed by a treacherous off camber climb that requires some momentum to clear.  The penalty for failure is at best serious loss of skin and at worst, well, it's better not to think about it.  Eventually, what goes down must go up, so the impossibly steep climb begins.  From the base of the great slab of stone the riders at the top look like miniatures and even in granny gear, it seems unlikely that I'll be able to grind to the top.  Amazingly, by hanging waaay out over the bars, I was able to keep the front end on the ground and with sandpaper-like traction there was no excuse to quit.  Besides, trying to step off the bike on a slope that steep, in steel cleated shoes, isn't much of an option.  Gasping for air so hard I was sucking up gravel off the trail, I crested the top to the cheers of my fellow riders.  

Our group consisted of riders of various levels of fitness and ability so we stopped to regroup frequently.  The stronger riders, the racer guys, took a side trail out to an overlook while we half-fast riders continued on the main trail, knowing that it would take all our energy just to complete the loop.  The morning breeze had gained some strength and the aforementioned decorative clouds were darkening as they rolled towards the mesa.  I made an observation that we might want to pick up the pace if we didn't want to get caught in a shower but we couldn't resist stopping for photos and some of us were already getting a bit tired.  What's the worst that could happen?  We had all been wet before and none of us had melted.  Well there was that one oddly green girl, Elphaba...

Rumblings of thunder intruded upon our happy thoughts and the prospect of lightning on this exposed piece of real estate lent some wings to our pedals.  The guys, caught up with us and in an act of pure altruism, volunteered to abandon us, I mean volunteered to ride on ahead to go back to the apartment to get vehicles in which to pick us up at the trail head.  We waved cheerily as they sped from view, leaving our motley crew to struggle against the now howling wind.  One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, we counted between the flash of lightning and the clap of thunder, racing down one ridge and spinning furiously up the next, gusts of wind nearly toppling us as we crested yet another ridge.  One one thou  BOOM!!!  a bolt of lightning smashed into the hill so close we imagined we felt the earth move.  As one, we abandoned our precious steeds where they fell and bolted into the nearest ravine.  Hearts pounding from terror and exertion, we giggled nervously as we huddled in the lee of a sandstone ledge.  For the record, Don Boon, the only male left in our group, did not giggle. 

The rain came hard on the heels of the frontal wind.  Huge, frigid drops pelted our now cooling and scantily clad bodies.  We crawled farther back into the sandy crevice under the ledge, fervently hoping that any venomous residents would tolerate the intrusion.  Water began to trickle down the lip of the ledge.  We snuggled deeper into the alcove.  Soon a stream of water was pouring off the ledge illustrating quite graphically just how this little gully had been formed.  We needn't have worried about anything with any sense living in our shelter because it became obvious that there wasn't a dry spot to be found after a few minutes of precipitation.  At length (seemed long at the time) the storm passed and we climbed back onto our patiently waiting bikes.  We were shivering so hard we could hardly steer and our glasses were mud splattered so we couldn't see where we were going but go we did. 

By the time we reached the parking lot at the trail head the guys were there with the trucks.  Mike had gone to Main Street Grill and picked up a black bean burger and had brought me a dry towel.  What a guy!