An ac/dc
sorta bike day, today; a gale going in, a zephyr coming out. Most cyclists, I think, prefer a day with no
wind. True, one gains no advantage on a calm day; equally true, one suffers no disadvantage, either.
Downside
of a strong tail wind, of course, is a strong head wind.
Today, I maybe averaged 12 MPH into this hurricane east wind, but
murder! I was flying on a magic carpet when I turned west. I have always dreamed of starting somewhere
down in south Texas in April, then letting the south wind carry me on the back roads north to
Canada. The winds
blowing up the treeless plains and funneled by the Rockies would carry me along as if I
were on a racing cloud. That's my idea of heaven.
Alas, many
strangers to the island still see me--and all cyclists, I suppose--as moving information centers. Although I have not mentioned it lately, I have
one or two such requests per month for “Which way to this beach or that beach?” “Where
can we three party beasts buy beer?” or “Do you know where Donna Summers’ home
is?” These lost souls stop their cars in
the middle of the road, generally on a jungle curve, hold their hands out, wave
their arms, then expect the cyclist to screech to a halt and give them
directions. They obviously have not done
much bike riding. If these folks had
done much bike riding they would know just how difficult it is to regain momentum
once you’ve lost it, especially if there is a strong head wind. I never stop any more, for anyone; I simply ignore ‘em.
Maybe someday when they try biking these people will understand.
____________________________________
Rant
Therapy--Honestly, a blog—and a very big blog, at that--could be devoted solely
to pit bull attacks in Florida alone.
Two pit bulls, appropriately named “Rage” and “Grinder,” attacked and
killed a pony and a pet goat the other day; another pit bull tore a
ten-year-old’s arm off; the mother who defended her child the other day against
a pack of pits is back in for more surgery (“Full-Time Mom,” 5.9.13); and so
on. Now, over at Daytona Beach the other
day. . . .
Two
fun-loving pits were out early trying to break the all-time pit bull speed record
in the “Most Victims Killed or Hospitalized in the Shortest Amount of Time”
category. First up, cops found
69-year-old Frank Andrisano leaning against a telephone pole, more dead than
alive, spurting blood from virtually every pipe in his body. "Call the ambulance, O’Malley." Next, cops tracked the blood trail until they
found 42-year-old Billy Boles on top of a utility box balancing on
his last good leg (the other was nearly sawn off). "Call the ambulance, Clancey." Trailing the blood
and bones a bit further, the cops found another poor dodger who had been attacked
and knocked to the ground while riding his bike to work. The blood-soaked victim was barely alive and
. . . well, really, this does get downright repetitive after awhile. "This is a rush order, O’Malley, call the chopper."
We
could go on and on, not only with this canine crime wave, but a dozen more some
such similar attacks around the state. Although
Daytona was beginning to run out of ambulances and helicopters, all the victims
were rushed to hospital ERs, of course; both the dogs were found and killed, of
course; and, of course . . . so what?
This crap goes on and on and on like the days of our lives, like the
leaves of a calendar, like the cycles of the moon—full moon, half moon, new
moon, pit bull; full moon, half moon, full moon, pit bull. I can just as easily be reporting tomorrow or
the next day on an entire family of albino dwarfs living in the woods near
Lakeland who are attacked, killed and eaten by a herd of “loose” pit bulls as easily
as I can be reporting on the sunny weather—both are about as common.
I guess
Harley-Davidson motorcycles are a good analogy.
If most Floridians ride these outrageously loud things, whose gonna
complain? Likewise, if most Florida “families”
own four-legged food blenders known as pit bulls, whose agonna stop the
slaughter?
Just
curious. Wonder what the names of the
two “great with children” killers above were?
“Shredder & Sugar”? “Mauler
& Mindy”? “Rager & Rosey”? “Bonnie & Clyde”?
____________________________________
Rage
Therapy--Another pit bull, the two-legged kind, was put down yesterday here in
Florida. Back before the dawn of time, convicted
child molester, Elmer Carroll, 56, raped and strangled ten-year-old Christine
McGowan. The dead man had been kept
alive on Florida’s Life Row these past 22 years because of constant appeals and
the argument that he, the convicted man, was clearly, patently, and beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubtly,
insane.
“As far
as I’m concerned,” said Carroll’s pettifogging attorney, Michael Reiter, “he
was mentally ill at the time of the offense.
He has had mental illness all of his life.”
My
question, nay, my comment, to Councilor Reiter is: “And? And your point is? So what if your client is nutz? Most of America is mentally ill, to a great,
greater or a much greater degree, yet most of us don’t go around raping and
killing children. I could care less if
your client, this POS, that you wanted to keep breathing for another twenty-two
years had bad potty training as a kid or heard (and answered) voices as an
adult or believed in alien abductions or that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone or can’t
count to two with his fingers or toes. His “insanity”--if that’s what maniacal lust and murder
is being called these days—is even more reason to get rid of him. A pity he was not strangled in the cradle.”
Twenty-two
years! 264 months! 7,920 days!
190,080 hours! 11,404,800 minutes! 684,288,600 seconds! That not only looks like a mountain of time to me but it IS a mountain of time; a
mountain of time since the victim of this devil’s rage breathed her last.
“Five
of Christine’s family members were among those witnessing the execution,”
concluded the report.
Five
relatives of the dead child show up and a dozen more have themselves died in
that mountain of time that passed between the commission of the crime and the
punishment. No mention of the other people
who may have loved the little girl and who have lost their minds from grief while
waiting for justice.
Sadly,
justice is something in short supply in post-civilized America.
