Fat Man Mountain Biking

I wasn't always a fat guy. At my fitness apex around my senior year of high school, I was in pretty good shape. I and my friends did lots of activities which required a high level of physical conditioning, and to put it frankly, we were all in pretty good shape. Be it extreme mountain biking, running to the "Y" or to the top of Rock Canyon for a jog out of boredom, rock climbing & rappelling, waterskiing, backpacking in the High Uintas wilderness, riding off road motorcycles, or just being dumb teenagers, me and my 3 best friends were able to do it and do it well.

However, as time has gone on, I have let myself go to seed. I have steadily put on a small amount of weight each year. This wasn't a problem for the first 2, 3, or 5 years. Now that it has been over 15 years, with my jobs becoming increasingly sedate, I am in perfect shape - round, that is.

A few years ago, a couple of friends and I were reliving the past and decided to go for a nice bike ride. Rock Canyon, above Provo, is was a great place to ride bikes. However, as we have gotten older, the trail has become increasingly steep. Instead of all the work of riding up, we just want to ride down. So Rob, Zo, and I decided to load the bikes onto the back of my SUV and take them to the top of the canyon by car - an hour drive up a narrow winding road out of Provo Canyon, past Squaw Peak. It was early May, and we were sure that the roads would be clear for the trip.

We were wrong.

Our first problem came when we encountered a still snowpacked portion of the road. After a moments pause, we decided that we would be able to make it across, so into 4 wheel drive we went - about halfway across the snowpack before getting stuck. After forward progress was halted, I tried to back out the way I had came, but with no success - in fact, with every attempt to move my Bronco either forward or backward accomplished little other than sliding sideways towards a 15 foot drop at the edge of the road where it would certainly roll.

We were about 5 miles from the top of Rock Canyon, and with the road being completly snowpacked, we decided to unload the bikes and head back the way we came, planning to ride to Zo's home where we could enlist his brother and his truck to come help get us unstuck. At this point our visions of a leisurely ride down Rock Canyon are crushed, but we could still enjoy the ride down the mostly paved road to Provo Canyon, and from there ride the paved Provo River Trail to Zo's house.

The road from Provo Canyon leading to the Squaw Peak overlook is a very narrow and steep switchback road with sharp drops off to the side. As we began our descent, the first thing I noticed was that my brakes didn't seem to be working very well. I stopped a couple of times to check them, but could find nothing wrong with them. Oblivious to the fact that the real problem is that they have to stop almost 50 pounds more than they used to, I determined to just keep my speed down so that the brakes could function better. Before long, I ended up having to stop again, this time to fix a flat tire which had been punctured during our short ride. A little voice in my head started to question if I had thought things through, but my impatient streak took charge, angered by the 10 minutes we had lost fixing my flat.

We took off again, and in my haste to recapture lost time, I headed down the next hill at a faster speed than was prudent considering my braking issues. This became very apparent at the next switchback turn. I was braking with all my strength, but I still came into the turn at a much higher speed than I would have liked. To compound my error, there was a patch of loose gravel on the road at that turn.

Now stop and imagine watching the next events unfold before your eyes. It must have been like watching Wylie Coyote get into one of his tragic accidents.

Through the turn, the bike was trying to skid out from underneath me sideways, and I struggled to keep it upright. I was successful in keeping it underneath me, but slid sideways as I did so - right off the side with the drop off. (The only thing missing was a small sign saying "Yikes!" I could have held up)

I don't remember precisely what happened at that exact moment. What I do remember is a blurry mixture of the sky mixed with various tree branches rotating wildly around my field of view. The first clear memory I have was after I had come to a rest - about 15 feet down the hill, with the bike stuck in a tree, and myself hanging upside down from the toe straps on the pedals.

After I managed to extricate myself from the bike and cling to the tree, I passed my bike up to Rob and Zo (once they had stopped laughing), and then they helped pull me back up to the road. Surprisingly there was not too much damage - to either myself or the bike.

All in all, I had two more flat tires, a large assortment of bruises, and a fair number of scrapes, including a wound from one branch which had torn through the two shirts I was wearing and had gouged out a 1/2 inch by 3 inch stripe from my chest under my right arm. I was finished with this ride.

Zo pulled his cell phone out of his saddle pack and called his brother. After about an hour of waiting, his brother and a couple of friends arrived in a pickup to take us back up to get my Bronco unstuck. To add insult to injury, the brother took a look at my Bronco and said "You're not stuck! Give me your keys!" He got in, threw it into reverse, cranked the steering wheel and floored it. For a few seconds I was sure he was going right off the edge of the road and down the hill. It stopped about 6 inches short of the side, finally gaining traction and moving slowly back with all 4 wheels spinning madly. With my Bronco safely removed from the snow field, I drove very carefully back to town.

I don't ride mountain bikes very much anymore.

A Christmas Story

There are a number of wonderful, heartwarming Christmas stories that get revisited this time each year. One of my favorites is when Allied and German troops at the battle front ended up with an informal truce on Christmas Eve, 1914.
However, my own favorite story at this time of year is the story of the Christmas Pants.
I can't tell the story any better than it already has been, found on Snopes:

The one present Roy Collette wasn't looking forward to getting for Christmas 1988 was those damned pants. Yet he knew he was in trouble as soon as the flatbed truck bearing a concrete-filled tank off a truck used to deliver ready-mix rolled up. Sure as God made little green apples, those pants had to be in there. And he was going to have to fish them out, else declare his brother-in-law the winner of a rivalry that had then spanned 20 years.

Being the sport he is, brother-in-law Larry Kunkel thoughtfully supplied the services of a crane to hoist the concrete-filled tank off the flatbed.

What's this game, you ask? What was the significance of these pants, and why were two grown men going to such efforts year after year to retrieve them, only to send them off again?

It all began in 1964 when Larry Kunkel's mom gave him a pair of moleskin pants. After wearing them a few times, he found they froze stiff in Minnesota winters and thus wouldn't do. That next Christmas, he wrapped the garment in pretty paper and presented it to his brother-in-law.

Brother-in-law Roy Collette discovered he didn't want them either. He bided his time until the Christmas after, then packaged them up and gave them back to Kunkel. This yearly exchange proceeded amicably until one year Collette twisted the pants tightly and stuffed them into a 3-foot-long, 1-inch wide pipe.

And so the game began. Year after year, as the pants were shuffled back and forth, the brothers strove to make unwrapping them more difficult, perhaps in the hope of ending the tradition. In retaliation for the pipe, Kunkel compressed the pants into a 7-inch square, wrapped them with wire and gave the "bale" to Collette. Not to be outdone, Collette put the pants into a 2-foot-square crate filled with stones, nailed it shut, banded it with steel and gave the trusty trousers back to Kunkel.

The brothers agreed to end the caper if the trousers were damaged. But they were as careful as they were clever. As the game evolved, so did the rules. Only "legal and moral" methods of wrapping were permitted. Wrapping expenses were kept to a minimum with only junk parts used.

Kunkel next had the pants mounted inside an insulated window that had a 20-year guarantee and shipped them off to Collette.

Collette broke the glass, recovered the trousers, stuffed them into a 5-inch coffee can, which he soldered shut. The can was put in a 5-gallon container filled with concrete and reinforcing rods and given to Kunkel the following Christmas.

Kunkel installed the pants in a 225-pound homemade steel ashtray made from 8-inch steel casings and etched Collette's name on the side. Collette had trouble retrieving the treasured trousers, but succeeded without burning them with a cutting torch.

Collette found a 600-pound safe and hauled it to Viracon Inc. in Owatonna, where the shipping department decorated it with red and green stripes, put the pants inside and welded the safe shut. The safe was then shipped to Kunkel, who was the plant manager for Viracon's outlet in Bensenville.

The pants next turned up in a drab green, 3-foot cube that once was a 1974 Gremlin. A note attached to the 2,000-pound scrunched car advised Collette that the pants were inside the glove compartment.

In 1982 Kunkel faced the problem of retrieving the pants from a tire 8 feet high and 2 feet wide and filled with 6,000 pounds of concrete. On the outside Collette had written, "Have a Goodyear."

In 1983 the pants came back to Collette in a 17.5-foot red rocket ship filled with concrete and weighing 6 tons. Five feet in diameter, with pipes 6 inches in diameter outside running the length of the ship and a launching pad attached to its bottom, the rocket sported a picture of the pants fluttering atop it. Inside the rocket were 15 concrete-filled canisters, one of which housed the pants.

Collette's revenge for the rocket ship was delivered to Kunkel in the form of a 4-ton Rubik's Cube in 1985. The cube was made of concrete that had been baked in a kiln and covered with 2,000 board feet of lumber.

Kunkel "solved the cube," and for 1986 gift-giving repackaged the pants into a station wagon filled with 170 steel generators all welded together. Because the pants have to be retrieved undamaged, Collette was faced with carefully taking apart each component.

What happened to the pants in 1987 is a mystery, and their 1988 packaging (concrete-filled tank) was mentioned at the beginning of this page. Sadly, 1989's packaging scheme brought the demise of the much-abused garment.

Collette was inspired to encase the pantaloons in 10,000 pounds of jagged glass that he would then deposit in Kunkel's front yard. "It would have been a great one - really messy," Kunkel ruefully admitted. The pants were shipped to a friend in Tennessee who managed a glass manufacturing company. While molten glass was being poured over the insulated container that held them, an oversized chunk fractured, transforming the pants into a pile of ashes.

The ashes were deposited into a brass urn and delivered to Kunkel along with this epitaph:

Sorry, Old Man Here lies the Pants. . . An attempt to cast the pants in glass brought about the demise of the pants at last.

The urn now graces the fireplace mantel in Kunkel's home.


Merry Christmas!
-Ted

If programming languages were religions...

Stolen word for word from here, I only repeat it because I worry that it will disappear:

C would be Judaism - it's old and restrictive, but most of the world is familiar with its laws and respects them. The catch is, you can't convert into it - you're either into it from the start, or you will think that it's insanity. Also, when things go wrong, many people are willing to blame the problems of the world on it.

Java would be Fundamentalist Christianity - it's theoretically based on C, but it voids so many of the old laws that it doesn't feel like the original at all. Instead, it adds its own set of rigid rules, which its followers believe to be far superior to the original. Not only are they certain that it's the best language in the world, but they're willing to burn those who disagree at the stake.

PHP would be Cafeteria Christianity - Fights with Java for the web market. It draws a few concepts from C and Java, but only those that it really likes. Maybe it's not as coherent as other languages, but at least it leaves you with much more freedom and ostensibly keeps the core idea of the whole thing. Also, the whole concept of "goto hell" was abandoned.

C++ would be Islam - It takes C and not only keeps all its laws, but adds a very complex new set of laws on top of it. It's so versatile that it can be used to be the foundation of anything, from great atrocities to beautiful works of art. Its followers are convinced that it is the ultimate universal language, and may be angered by those who disagree. Also, if you insult it or its founder, you'll probably be threatened with death by more radical followers.

C# would be Mormonism - At first glance, it's the same as Java, but at a closer look you realize that it's controlled by a single corporation (which many Java followers believe to be evil), and that many theological concepts are quite different. You suspect that it'd probably be nice, if only all the followers of Java wouldn't discriminate so much against you for following it.

Lisp would be Zen Buddhism - There is no syntax, there is no centralization of dogma, there are no deities to worship. The entire universe is there at your reach - if only you are enlightened enough to grasp it. Some say that it's not a language at all; others say that it's the only language that makes sense.

Haskell would be Taoism - It is so different from other languages that many people don't understand how can anyone use it to produce anything useful. Its followers believe that it's the true path to wisdom, but that wisdom is beyond the grasp of most mortals.

Erlang would be Hinduism - It's another strange language that doesn't look like it could be used for anything, but unlike most other modern languages, it's built around the concept of multiple simultaneous deities.

Perl would be Voodoo - An incomprehensible series of arcane incantations that involve the blood of goats and permanently corrupt your soul. Often used when your boss requires you to do an urgent task at 21:00 on friday night.

Lua would be Wicca - A pantheistic language that can easily be adapted for different cultures and locations. Its code is very liberal, and allows for the use of techniques that might be described as magical by those used to more traditional languages. It has a strong connection to the moon.

Ruby would be Neo-Paganism - A mixture of different languages and ideas that was beaten together into something that might be identified as a language. Its adherents are growing fast, and although most people look at them suspiciously, they are mostly well-meaning people with no intention of harming anyone.

Python would be Humanism: It's simple, unrestrictive, and all you need to follow it is common sense. Many of the followers claim to feel relieved from all the burden imposed by other languages, and that they have rediscovered the joy of programming. There are some who say that it is a form of pseudo-code.

COBOL would be Ancient Paganism - There was once a time when it ruled over a vast region and was important, but nowadays it's almost dead, for the good of us all. Although many were scarred by the rituals demanded by its deities, there are some who insist on keeping it alive even today.

APL would be Scientology - There are many people who claim to follow it, but you've always suspected that it's a huge and elaborate prank that got out of control.

LOLCODE would be Pastafarianism - An esoteric, Internet-born belief that nobody really takes seriously, despite all the efforts to develop and spread it.

Visual Basic would be Satanism - Except that you don't REALLY need to sell your soul to be a Satanist...

Fat Guy Post - Granato's Deli

Those of you who know me know that it is very obvious I love food. You don't get an impressive physique like mine without a very real appreciation for different foods. Sure, some guys get fat off Burger King and Funyuns, but those are the exception. Real fat guys know good food.

Today's post deals with the marvelous experience I just had at Granato's Deli in Salt Lake City.

I've been to Granato's before, but each time I go I am overwhelmed at just how awesome this place is. The only thing it doesn't have going for it is the location. The south west side of Salt Lake City (bordered by West Valley) is the armpit of the Wasatch Front. (What does that make Ogden? A discussion for another time perhaps.)

At any rate, although the location for the Salt Lake Granato's is less than desirable for most people, it is close to my office and is possibly even in a nicer neighborhood. (My apologies in advance to those poor souls who live in the Chesterfield neighborhood of Salt Lake/West Valley. I try to not let the three shootings & untold number of stabbings which have occurred within a half mile of my office during the last year reflect poorly on you.)

When you go to Granato's for lunch, you will likely be greeted by Sam Granato, a middle fifties, well dressed man who looks the part of a very successful business man. Sam's father Frank started the importing company bearing the family name, which in due course spawned a few of these deli's. The deli started as just a side off the main shopping area where you can purchase all the imported foods and supplies, but it has steadily grown over the last couple of years to the point where tables are all around the deli counter in the middle of the very large room.

The fare is very authentic deli sandwiches, salads and soups. Instead of some generic "Italian salami" listing, the menu lists sandwiches containing Genoa, Mortadella, and Parma Prosciutto. Most all of the meats are imported from Italy, along with most of the cheeses, olives, and various other ingredients. The breads and rolls are very authentic as well. No "Herb and Cheese" Subway-prepared bread here. Instead you smell and taste the same breads you would find if you were to visit Calabria or Tuscany.

Today, I ordered a Meatball Calzone and a bowl of Chicken Pot Pie soup.
I was very hungry, and thought a little cup of soup would be a bit of a pick-me-up on a cold & dreary day. I was little prepared for the entire tray full of food I received.

My Calzone fully filled one half of a dinner-sized plate, while the other was full of a great salad topped with prosciutto, chunks of mozzarella cheese and crumbles of fresh feta. That was in addition to the large bowl of magnificent Chicken Pot Pie soup, complete with a large roll & crackers. In all, it was far too much food to eat at once, even for a man such as myself.

When Sam wandered by to check on us, I told him that it was too much food, and that I would need to find a box or something. His voice boomed across the room as he jokingly told me to be a man and finish it before moving on and chatting with other diners.

When I had finished my calzone, I rose to go back to the counter and see if I could find some sort of cup in which to take my uneaten soup. I had only taken one step before Sam stopped me and offered to help. I asked if they had something I could use, and he took the tray from me saying "I don't know, but I'll find out!" Within a couple of minutes, he had an employee bring me a wonderful to-go bowl of soup, along with the roll & some crackers all wrapped very nicely in a paper tray.

Once again, I came away very impressed, and can wholeheartedly recommend Granato's to anyone who happens to be in the area. (And even for those who aren't in the area but are feeling adventurous.)