The Stain of January Sixth

That stain won’t come out – or will it? It certainly shouldn’t.  In a sane world, The events of January 6 would ensure that no Republican wins an elective office for the next several cycles; but alas, the GOP might regain control of both houses of Congress. (This is being written ten days before the 2022 mid-term election).

I’ll say it as clearly as I can: Republicans, and those who support them, are endorsing violent, deadly insurrection, sometimes tacitly, but often openly. There are many reasons the GOP should take a sound beating at the polls, but none rise to the treasonous level of insurrection. What has happened to our once great country? 

BIDEN WON in 2020. There is zero credible evidence saying otherwise. Bill Barr, the Trump appointed top law-enforcement official in the land along with Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, ardent Trump defender, both acknowledged at the time that Biden won. Trump launched sixty-two court cases challenging various aspects of the election, many of them presided over by Trump appointed judges. Lawyers and politicians can lie all they like in public, but in a court of law, lying and presenting false evidence can rightfully end a career. Sixty-one cases were thrown out for lack of evidence. Many of Trump's lawyers were censured for wasting the court’s time with flagrantly frivolous cases. Their only purpose was to muddy the waters and cast doubt. 

Mission accomplished, at least among the thick-headed – and it is disheartening how many of the thick-headed are among us. Any thinking person can clearly see that Biden won, fair and square.Those that still think otherwise are either chumps, or seek to gain political advantage by advancing the Big Lie.

 

Let’s briefly revisit the events of January 6, 2021: Members of Trump's own inner circle have testified that he knew full well he lost the election, yet Trump held a rally on the same day that congress was to certify Biden’s victory. He whipped his rabid followers into a frenzy, then commanded them to march to the Capitol and “Fight like hell.” They did just that. The crazed Trump supporters smashed windows and doors; chanted “Hang Mike Pence,” while erecting a gallows; for the first time ever, a Confederate flag flew inside the Capitol; they beat police officers (with an American flag!); and literally shit on the floor of the Congress. (Think about that last one; Trump supporters pulled down their pants, squatted down, and defecated in the very heart of our democracy. The symbolism couldn’t be clearer.)

There were five deaths. Many participants are now rightfully in jail. Trump should be among them. The January sixth insurrection is beyond doubt the most shameful event in US history.

Yet Republicans, cowering at the mere thought of Trump’s wrath, want us all to look the other way.

 

The most frightening aspect of the upcoming election is that dozens of Trump endorsed,  ass-kissing, brazen election-deniers, actually stand a chance to win. Any Republicans who dared speak the truth about Trump and January sixth have been cast aside. Never mind if policy-wise they were staunch conservatives. Sycophants only need apply. Kiss Trump’s ring or be removed.

I wish I had a bright side; our democratic process is perilously close to death. I genuinely fear for the future of our once great republic. Our only hope is that the treasonous GOP will be utterly humiliated at the polls on November 8.

So please vote! Just don’t cast a ballot for the Insurrection party.  

I Did That!

I was filling the tank today, and saw yet another sticker on the pump of President Biden pointing to the price and saying “I did that!” I see them frequently. You probably do as well. They are available on Amazon to wannabe vandals everywhere for just $3.99 per hundred. Ha ha ha! Funny. 

Do these simpletons really think Joe Biden controls gas prices?

I scraped the sticker off the pump and flicked it in the trash – an act I’ve become accustomed to. I consider it a civic good deed.  

This sticker phenomenon fills me with genuine existential dread. Has society sunk this low? Apparently so. Thousands of the willfully-ignorant are applying a stupid sticker to a gas pump as a delusional political statement.  Do any of these knuckleheads stop to think how Biden is controlling gas prices? What about the fact that the price per barrel of crude oil has gone up all over the world? These are the same simpletons always blathering about “freedom.” Freedom includes the free market. But when it comes to gas prices, it’s somehow Biden’s fault. 

They must think Old Joe has a big brushed-metal knob on the Resolute Desk, like something out of Dr. Frankenstein’s lab, marked “Gas Prices.” He cranks it up, while gleefully cackling, “Those pickup truck driving rubes will never vote for me now! Bwa, ha, ha, ha!” 

No single person can be blamed for rising gas prices, but if it’s anyone, think Valdimir Putin. 

Meanwhile, oil company executives are laughing so hard they need a new supply of gold-plated  Depends. They retire as billionaires – so rich their grandchildren will never have to work –  and their most dependent customers, the drivers of gas-guzzling pick-ups, blame the price on poor old Joe. It’s history’s greatest scam. 

I’ll digress a bit here, but THIS IS IMPORTANT, DAMMIT: The scientific community has demonstrated that one percent of the potential renewable energy available to us is enough to power the entire planet. (Don’t believe me? Look it up!) Furthermore, we have the technology to do it, we just lack the political will. One big reason for this is that the oil companies have a stranglehold on the US government. For decades, they have been consciously distracting us from the perils of climate change for the benefit of short-term profit. They are killing us all, and being rewarded with obscene wealth. This will sound extreme, but I really mean it: All oil companies should be taxed, and/or fined out of existence. Their executives should all be jailed. 

For the record, Presidents can’t raise or lower the price of anything, including gas. The best (or worst) they can do is suggest a tax to congress. And that hasn’t happened. Joe Biden didn’t do this!

Can a society endure when it contains so many proudly ignorant members? 

 

With the Flying Spaghetti Monster as my witness, I swear my next car will be electric.

My Ten Most Influential Albums

I'm trapped in a crypt-like hole in my nominator's basement. I've been charged with naming the Top Ten Most Influential Albums of my life. The instructions say, "Album covers only, no comments necessary," but what's the fun in that? Besides, what else do I have to do? My captor has kindly provided me with the stub of an old crayon ("Vivid Violet" my favorite!) and a piece of discarded butcher's paper.

Here are the results. It was impossible to rank them, so they're listed in order of release date, not necessarily when I first became aware of them. I hasten to add that these are not my current top-ten favorite albums, but the ones that had the most influence on me.

My Top most Influential Albums:

The Beatles (White Album). 1968. All ten of these albums should probably be The Beatles. Hands down, the biggest influence on me, even though they were mostly before my time. They put out 12 official albums in just 7 years (and changed the world at the same time!). Drop Yellow Submarine and Beatles for Sale, and boom, there’s your ten albums. Everything else pales. I was six on February 9, 1964, when they famously appeared on the Ed Sullivan show. I didn’t quite understand what my older siblings were getting so excited about, but I knew from that day that I wanted to be a drummer. I was nine when they played their last public show, so I never saw them live. 
(The “White Album” is not a fan favorite, but I love it; their individuality comes through loud and, but it’s still The Beatles! And I love all the little dribs and drabs between tracks.)

Tommy. The Who. 1969. It was the first album I bought with my own money, after having seen them live 1971 in Schenectady, New York. I wore that double-disc set out. No one had prepared me for the bombast that was Keith Moon, nor the full-on destruction of their live show. That had a huge impact on this 14-year-old. A great band happens when the whole is greater than the sum of parts; two plus two plus two plus two equals nine. Therein lies the magic. It couldn't have been truer of The Who. Moonie was a negative number -- an obstacle that needed to be overcome by the rest of the band for the magic to happen. 

Led Zeppelin II. 1969. I heard this one before their debut (released earlier the same year). WHO IS THAT DRUMMER?!?! It was around 1971 before I heard it. Bonzo was almost as influential to me as Ringo. I had the opportunity to see them live, but never did. Back in 1974, I debated whether I should buy a ticket to their show at the Richfield Coliseum or buy their most recent release -- Houses of the Holy -- and decided on the vinyl. At the time, they were about the same price. Whoops. 

Tarkus, Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. 1971. This one is a little more embarrassing than the rest, but it had a huge impact on me when I was 14. WHO IS THAT DRUMMER!! The rest of the ELP catalog is even more embarrassing, but I knew those albums backwards and forwards. The pros and cons of "Prog-Rock" could be the subject of another entire blog. I saw the supporting Tarkus tour at Wooster College with my big brother. They opened with the bombastic 20-minute-long title track! The opening act was Dr. Hook and the Medicine show. Laughably bad billing.

Machine Head. Deep Purple. 1972. Essential Hard Rock. Ian Paice is the reason I drum left-handed. I mean, I am left-handed, but it had never dawned on me that the drums could be set up “backwards.” Blackmore’s solo in Highway Star still stands as the best rock guitar solo ever. Sure, “Smoke on the Water” is trite now, but in 1972, to this 15-year-old, it was one seriously BFD. We played SOTW in my high-school garage band (and must have butchered it). I was at the infamous Cloverleaf Speedway concert in 1974, where a riot broke out. It was the first and last rock concert at that venue (Ted Nugent, and Billy Preston were the two opening acts). 

Dark Side of the Moon. Pink Floyd. 1973. I Saw the entire album performed live -- at Kent State - about a month before it was released! It was the first time I saw fog and lasers! My big brother had exposed me to Meddle and Umma Gumma, so I was a already a fan. Chances are very good that if you were between 12 and 30-years-old in 1973, it's on your list as well. All that nonsense about the album lining up with The Wizard of Oz is complete bullshit, though amusing.

A Wizard, A True Star. Todd Rundgren 1973. Whoa! What kind of drugs was HE taking? This was a huge psychedelic departure from the harmless ballads of Todd’s previous album. There was a lot there to digest, even on the jacket and sleeve, but it was worth it! I saw him live in Cincinnati around 1975.

Overnight Sensation. Frank Zappa. 1973. Like The Beatles, all ten of these albums could easily be FZ. Overnight Sensation is far from my favorite Zappa album, but it’s the first one I became aware of. Like so many others, I was lured in by his naughty lyrics and stayed for the incredible music. His instrumental compositions are far and away the best -- and are more irreverent than any of his lyrics. I saw him live six times.

Reggatta de Blanc. The Police. 1979. The first album flew under my radar at the time, But then I had to learn Message in a Bottle for a cover band. Whoa… WHO IS THAT DRUMMER! Stewart Copeland completely changed my attitude about splash cymbals -- and Reggae! I never saw them live.

Discipline: King Crimson. 1981. Four excellent players -- Fripp, Bruford, Levin and Belew -- playing forward-looking, rhythmically and harmonically challenging music. Dr. Bill Bruford remains on of my favorite drummers. I Saw the live show as well, at E.J. Thomas Hall in Akron, OH. It is one of the finest shows I've ever experienced. Both the album and the show gave me hope for the future of music. 

Honorable Mentions (that might have been in the top-ten on another day):

The Yes Album. Yes. 1971
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust... David Bowie. 1972
Jeff Beck Group. Jeff Beck. 1972
Birds of Fire. Mahavishnu Orchestra. 1973
Aja. Steely Dan. 1977
Remain in Light. Talking Heads. 1980
Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This). Eurythmics. 1983
Legend. Bob Marley. 1984
The Downward Spiral. Nine-inch-Nails. 1994
Crazyhorse Mongoose. Galactic. 1998

Top Ten Influential albums synopsis: 
As I write with my bruise-colored crayon on greasy paper, I remain at the bottom of deep hole, eating only the rancid meat and stale bread crumbs provided by my nominator, along with the occasional hapless insect that wanders within range. I’ve become inured to the constant taunts and the random jabbing with a stick but, oh, how I long for daylight!

My captor's commandment that I be brutally honest in compiling this list has not been without merit, however.

• They are all white males. 
• All broadly fall into the rock category. 
• All but two are British, beneficiaries of Beatlemania coattails. 
• Seven of the ten fall within 1969 and 1973, corresponding with the years of my adolescence. 
• I saw seven of them live (and seven of the ten Honorable Mentions). Is that a testament to the power of live music, or a case of correlation vs. causation? 

My list demonstrates how impressionable we are during adolescence. I don’t contend that the music of that period was better than any other, but it was, dammit! (Grumble, grumble...) Rest assured, my tastes have broadened considerably since those heady early-teenage days. 

What's this? A ladder! Freedom! Sunshine! Did I pass the test?

Sympathy for the Drummer; Why Charlie Watts Matters. By Mike Edison

Sympathy for the Drummer, Why Charlie Watts Matters, by Mike Edison explores why the Rolling Stones couldn’t have existed without their publicity-shy drummer, Charlie Watts. Along the way, the author light-heartedly details the importance of all drummers. 

Full disclosure; I’m a drummer, but not much of a Rolling Stones fan. I like a dozen or so of their tunes, stretching across their career, but I don’t really know that much about them. I can name all the current and former members, but that doesn’t make me a fan, I’m just minimally observant of pop-culture over the decades.

Being a drummer, I know a little more about Charlie Watts than the average non Stones fan. I’ve always appreciated his approach to the drum-set. He serves the song first and foremost. I’ve never listened to a Stones track, and thought, “that drum part sucks.” No, Charlie’s loping, about-to-lose-it playing is always just right for the song. He knows when to lay back, and when to step on the gas. He is a master of the magical space between swing and straight time. I’ve been drumming for 50+ years; It’s harder than it sounds. (Anyone who slams Charlie’s playing is showing their ignorance about what makes a great song.)  

But I was ready to learn more.

I enjoyed the book. Quite a bit. Edison -- a drummer himself -- impressively researched the Rolling Stones and their early influences. Charlie and his bandmates were in awe of the early American Blues and R&B scene. I consider myself fairly knowledgeable about rock’s roots, but I still learned a lot.  For example, I did not know about Fred Below, who was the drummer on Chuck Berry’s biggest hits. He also played on many recordings by Muddy Waters, Howling Wolf, Buddy Guy and Jr. Wells. Charlie claimed he owed his living to Fred Below. That’s a drummer worth examining a bit more closely. Even beyond that, Edison makes succinct and wry observations about drummers from Gene Krupa to Dave Grohl. He knows drummers and drumming. The book is a fun romp through the history of the drumset -- from blues through Metal -- and of course, Mr. Watts’ place in that history. 

I knew Charlie was a jazz aficionado, his traditional grip and jazz-sized drum-set telegraph that (Gretsch, no less; a popular brand among classic jazz drummers).  But I didn’t know to what extent. Jazz legend Charlie Parker is one of Charlie’s personal heros. He has released several albums paying homage to his various jazz idols. Nor did I know of his general disdain of the rock ‘n’ roll life-style, despite it being fully embraced by his band-mates. He shies away from the media, and has been married to the same woman since 1964. 

Edison takes aim at the dubious virtue of virtuosity. Charlie Watts is clearly not a technical virtuoso. Despite his admiration for jazz players, Charlie’s technique is minimal, albeit perfect for the Rolling Stones. The author attempts to redefine “virtuosity” as less about technique and more about groove. True, a virtuoso’s main message is often “Look at me!” Conversely, groove-masters say “listen to this music.” That may be true in many cases, but it’s not universal. Under Edison’s new definition, Charlie Watts clearly qualifies as a virtuoso. Even his modest drum-set embraces that concept.  I’m inclined to agree, but it’s a false dichotomy; it’s possible to admire both. But Edison falls hard on the “groove” side. In fairness, a true technical virtuoso will have to master groove to a large degree (think Steve Gadd), yet the opposite isn’t necessarily so (think Ringo, or Watts). 

Which is why Edison repeatedly pokes at Buddy Rich. When writing a book that will be largely read by drummers, it is unwise to slam Buddy Rich, and Edison goes out of his way to take several jabs at him. While I actually agree with his points, doing so doesn’t further his thesis, and only serves to turn off a large number of potential readers. It doesn’t make the book better. 

Not surprisingly, he is also disdainful of “Prog-Rock.” But here, he refrains from naming names (perhaps because many famous Prog-rock drummers are still alive?), yet his point is still made. 

Stylistically, Edison’s prose is Gonzo-esque. A bit too much so.  The over-the-top hyperbolic superlatives wore on me. It worked for Hunter S. Thompson, but with Edison, it comes off as contrived. The rapid-fire colorful analogies are fun at first but slowly turn into groans. (Here’s one that made me laugh out loud, though: “[The drummer] drove that song like it was a stolen car.”) About the 50th time he called musicians “cats,” I started yelling at the book. Even the profanity  got wearisome and felt gratuitous (and I’m no fucking prude). 

All those down-sides are easily outweighed, however, by the entertaining details about Charlie’s playing, his influences, and his band. 

So why does Charlie Watts matter?

• His laid-back grooves provide an unshakeable foundation, which allows room for Mick’s antics.
• His push-pull interaction with Keith Richards gives the Stones their unique feel.
• His modesty (on stage and off, both playing and personality) balances and enhances the brash swagger of Mick and Keith, and is a necessary part of the Rolling Stones’ magic. 
• Watts is an integral part of the equation of a band whose whole is greater than the sum of the parts -- like all great bands. 

Reading the book inspired me to listen to a handful of Rolling Stones records again; it had been a long time. Am I now a bigger Stones fan than before? Well, no. There are many things about them I don’t care for, but the drumming is not among them. I liked the book more than I like the Rolling Stones. Am I now a bigger Charlie Watts fan than before? Very much so.

Rolling Stones fans will get a host of insights into what makes the band tick. Drummers will learn about the evolution of Charlie’s playing and his influences. Everyone will gain a better understanding about the importance of all drummers.

Bottom line: Mike Edison proves that Charlie Watts really does matter. 

But Keith Richards said it best, in just five words: “No Charlie, No Rolling Stones.”

Seven Acts of Kindness

Seven. It's practically everyone's favorite number. It looms large in virtually every culture’s mythology. Seven days in the week. Seven deadly sins. Seven heavenly virtues. The most likely roll in a game of craps. Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Seven continents and seven seas. Seven notes in a diatonic scale. The Seven Dwarfs.

During my cross-country solo bicycle adventure, I received many acts of kindness. Most people are nice.  But one day stood out, as I counted seven.

I awoke in a fleabag motel (FBM) in Red Wing Minnesota on July 20th, around 6am and peeked outside. It was raining. I was 42 days, and 1988 miles into my trip. 

The day before had been miserable. It was only a 51-mile ride, but on and off rain and cold temperatures marred the day. My route followed the Mississippi downstream, which one could be forgiven for assuming to be flat and gently downhill, but no; there was no idyllic trail along the river and the roads were all surprisingly hilly. Steep hills in the cold rain. Then my bike, “Cassie,” developed an intermittent squeak coming from somewhere near the front wheel. Annoying squeak. Cold. Rain. Hills. I was not a happy cyclist. 

I arrived on the other side of the river from Red Wing at Hager City, Wisconsin. The campground I had researched previously, “Mister Sippy,”  was more of an RV parking lot with a bar. (“Mister Sippy,” as opposed to “Missus Sippy” ha, ha, get it? Groan.) It was still drizzling and getting dark. Worse, the campground was down-wind from the only other feature of Hager City, a Purina Factory. The stench was ever present. I could already hear one of the RV denizens at the bar saying, “you get used to it after awhile!” 

Not exactly optimal camping conditions: Purina “aroma”; rain; crammed between RVs; Microwaved pizza and a Bud Lite at the bar. 

I had already spent far too much on cheap motels -- they add up --  so with a sigh, I checked my phone for a room across the river. I found an FBM, and noted the address. It appeared to be in downtown Red Wing, just over the bridge. 

The bridge was narrow and under repair. The lanes were so skinny I had to walk Cassie over most of it -- in the rain. The address turned out to be Lutheran Church! No sign of the cheap motel. I telephoned. Google had it wrong. The real address was about two miles outside of town (at least in the right direction), next to a prison. Honest. And now the rain was coming down harder. 

Not only was the motel right next to the penitentiary, there were no restaurants anywhere near. Who stayed there? 

After several phone calls, I found a sandwich shop that delivered. At least I didn’t have to make a meal of my reserve Clif-bars and Slim-Jims. 

I was unable to reproduce the squeak in Cassie. I knew it wasn't in the drive-train, as it continued even when I coasted. In the motel room, with no load, it wouldn’t happen. Maybe it would just go away?

I vowed that tomorrow, I would be a Happy Cyclist. 

The next morning it was still raining, so I dawdled. I slowly packed up my stuff, noodled around on FaceBook, ate the awful “free” FBM breakfast, finished packing, wasted more time on Facebook, idly watched out the window for escaped prisoners, worked on my journal. 8:30 rolled around and it was still drizzling.

There was no choice but to ride in the rain. I had a modest goal of Winona, 67 miles away. 

The wind had shifted, and I could smell the Purina factory from way across the river in Hager City. Last evening, I had vowed to be a Happy Cyclist, but today wasn’t starting that way. Yet, the rain soon stopped. The same foul wind turned out to be a pleasant tailwind, and I was soon out of range of its stinky source. The mystery squeak that had vexed me yesterday wasn’t as irritating. The hills on Route 61 headed Southeast along the river were gentle. Things weren’t so bad. 

Throughout the day, it looked like rain up ahead. My first break was at a gas station in Lake City, right on the banks of the Mississippi. The river widens considerably at that point and they call it Lake Pepin. 

Cassie, at Lake Pepin

I sat on the sidewalk under the overhang drinking my coffee, casting a wary eye to the ever-present rain-clouds. I was still not feeling quite like the Happy Cyclist I had vowed to be. A battered old pickup pulled in. Out of it emerged a matching battered old man.

He eyed Cassie and all my gear as he shambled over to me, “Where you headed?”

“The Atlantic Ocean,” I replied.

His tired eyes widened, “You got a ways to go.”

“I know,” I said. I waved vaguely eastward beyond the river, “It’s over there somewhere.”

“Are you riding for a cause?”

“Yes, I’m supporting SMARTS, Students Motivated by the Arts. It’s a free art-school…”

“Can you take donations?”

“Sure, but you can also donate online.” I started digging in my handlebar bag for a card, “for kids in Youngstown…”

He cut me short again, pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket, and handed me a twenty. 

I said, “Thank you!” as I handed him the card. “What’s your name?”

“Kirby Veke. You’re gonna need some nourishment. You should get a hamburger.” He tapped my belly with the back of his gnarled hand. 

“You can count on that!” I said, “Thanks again, Mr. Veke.”

Out of the blue, a complete stranger totally changed my mood with an act of kindness. It was a big step towards the Happy Cyclist.

Most people are nice.

The sky still looked like rain as I made my way downstream. I had checked the night before and was surprised to discover there was a bike shop in the tiny riverside town of Wabasha. I wanted a professional opinion on the squeak. 

Dave at River Riders Cycles was happy to help. I removed the front panniers, and we took the front wheel off. The hub appeared fine. The disc brake appeared fine. Dave decided to give both the disc and the pads a good cleaning. We put the wheel back on and the squeak was gone! Dave and his wife live in an apartment behind the shop with their two cats(Guido and Tormantoso) and two dogs (Maybelline and Rufus). 

“How much do I owe you?” I asked.

“Let’s see… You have to sign our guest book.” I did, and left a SMARTS card. And a good thing I did. 

It was another act of kindness from a stranger, and another step towards the Happy Cyclist.

Most people are nice.

Then I pedaled a couple of blocks down to the riverside and had some lunchtime snacks, overlooking the Mississippi.  I was having trouble finding a place to camp in Winona. Plus, it still threatened rain. It was looking like I might end up in another FBM. Just then, my wife, Jena, texted and said she remembered a college friend, Patrick, whom I didn’t know, who now lived in -- Winona! She wanted to know if she should contact him and ask if he could put me up. 

Yes, please!

I took a picture of Cassie at my lunch spot. Jena texted back. It was all set. I had a place to stay. THREE acts of kindness from strangers! Patrick had asked Jena if I like kids, as he has five. Jena told him that I liked kids more than I liked camping in the rain! (True!)

Lunch Break at the Mississippi. What's wrong with this picture?

Most people are nice.

 As I made my way out of town, I went right by the River Rider Cycles store again, and stopped to take a picture. I was several steps closer to The Happy Cyclist. Now, if I could only make it to Winona before the rain -- 30 miles away. 

River Rider Cycles

About ten miles outside of Wabasha, the squeak came back. Damn. Dave did his best, but it was for naught. I was scheduled to roll into Winona earlier than expected, so I contacted Patrick and told him I was going to ride downtown to yet another bike shop -- Adventure Cycle and Ski -- and then make my way to his house.

Just on the edge of Winona, there was a deluge.  I dashed into a McDonalds and had a chocolate shake while I waited out the downpour. Checking email again, I was shocked to see a message from Dave at River Riders with the subject of “Front Panniers.” He had my front panniers. Disbelieving, I glanced out the window at Cassie, staying dry under the overhang. No front panniers. I had left them in front of his store THIRTY MILES ago. I and I didn’t notice!!

If you go back and look at the picture of Cassie at my lunch spot, you’ll see no front panniers. And if you look closely at the picture of the River Rider Cycle store, you’ll see them on a chair to the right of the door. 

I’m still amazed that I didn’t notice.

In the email Dave very kindly said he could drop them off wherever I wanted once he closed the store at six. It was now four. Had I not left my card, Dave wouldn’t have had my email address. I’m not sure when I would have noticed. He was saving me 60 miles of round-trip to retrieve them on my own. FOUR acts of kindness from three strangers (Dave gets double credit).

Most people are nice.

The rain had stopped by now and I headed into town to the next bike shop. Brad at Adventure Cycle and Ski was also very helpful, dropping everything to check out Cassie’s squeak. I obviously didn’t have to remove my panniers this time. Had I not already known they were missing, I think I would have noticed at that point. 

Brad checked the hub. No problem. He checked the front brake. Everything looked good. It was still a mystery. Of course it wouldn’t squeak there in the store. Every time I stopped, it would go away for a couple of miles, then slowly return.  

Brad also declined to charge me. FIVE acts of kindness from four people.

Most people are nice.

As usual, the squeak was gone for a few miles, and then started creeping back in. On my way to Patrick's house, the phone rang. I stopped and answered. It was Dave. He had a customer who was headed to Winona right now. After hearing my story from Dave, Sid offered to deliver the panniers. Dave put her on with me. I gave her the address, she gave me her cell number. Done. Sid would be there in an hour. 

SIX acts of kindness from five strangers.

Most people are nice.

I arrived at Patrick’s house about five. He and his wife, Lindsay, have five wonderful children ranging from two to eleven, for a total family of seven (not including Finton the dog).  I don’t have any kids, and never wanted any. I’m usually uncomfortable around them. But Camille, Gwenevere, Nora, Vera and Martin were a joy. They were well behaved, and asked intelligent, interesting questions about me and my ride. Patrick and Lindsay are doing something right. Sid arrived with my panniers shortly afterwards.

Finton, the Dog

We all sat down to a wonderful meal of make-it-yourself tacos, with loads of options, so the kids could custom tailor their meals. I stuffed myself silly. (One of joys of long-distance cycling is one can eat as much as one likes.)

After the chaos of getting five kids to bed, Patrick came into the dining room where I was working on my journal.

“Would you like an adult beverage,” he asked.

“I wouldn’t turn it down,” I said. “What do you have?”

“Do you like whisky?”

“Sure.” I was expecting the usual mid-line bourbon or scotch blends. Patrick then produced several very nice, very high-end, single-malt scotches and we had a tasting while we solved the World’s problems. Things will be different when he and I are Kings. 

Sharing high-end single-malt scotch with someone you just met is certainly an act of kindness. That made SEVEN acts of kindness from five strangers, all in one day. 

I may not have started out that day as The Happy Cyclist, but it sure ended that way.

Because most people are nice.

(NOTE: The next day, from Winona to Norwalk was my birthday. You can read about it here. Also, the squeak never went away until I got all the way back to Ohio, where my local mechanic, J.D. at Kent Cycle took care of it in 30 seconds flat. The other shops weren't inept, J.D. is just that good!)