A Slate.com article verbalizes what I’ve been thinking.
I think the reason why I like Slate.com is because so many of the articles cover things I’ve been thinking about with a level of uncertainty and help me to decide — or at least lean towards one side — of the issue. Michael Kinsley’s piece, The Pursuit of Democracy – What Bush gets wrong about nation-building is a perfect example.
I think a lot of valid arguments can be made that cell phones are out of control. It’s gotten to the point that everyone seems to have one.
Or maybe I should say at least one. I had a real estate agent last year who carried two of them and a pager.
Is anyone really that important?
No matter where you go, you see someone with his cell phone pasted to the side of his head blabbing away, often oblivious to what’s going on around him. Or even funnier: apparently blabbing away to himself because he’s wearing some kind of fancy Bluetooth earpiece that looks suspiciously like communications head gear from the orginal Star Trek.
Do these people really need to be talking while they’re shopping for groceries, standing on line in the post office, crossing the street or — dare I say it — piloting their car through a crowded parking lot?
Does everyone need a cell phone? Even kids have them now. Heck, when I was a kid, it was a real treat to have an extension of the house phone in my bedroom. I didn’t have my own phone number, a number that would reach me any time of the day or night wherever I was.
Am I jealous of today’s kids and their cellphones? Hell, no! What’s so good about being reachable anywhere you are when you’re a teenager out goofing off with your friends?
I do, of course, have a cell phone. It’s for business — and I’m not just saying that. I set up my office phone number so I can forward it to my cell phone when I’m not at the office. People call that published number and reach me. I’ve booked more than a few helicopter flights on that phone.
And I do use the phone when I need information or need to tell someone something. Going to be late for an appointment? I call. Can’t find the street I’m supposed to turn on? I call. Need to know if we have any plans for next Tuesday night? I call. According to my phone bill, more than 80% of the calls I make last less than a minute.
The important word here is need. I use my cell phone when I need to. I don’t use it for idle chatter. There’s two reasons for that. First, I like to be comfortable when I’m chatting with a friend or family member. So I usually do it from home. Second, lengthy chats wear down the phone’s battery. A dead cell phone won’t meet my communication needs.
And no, I won’t buy the second battery pack. Or the colorful face plate or case. Or latest ring tone.
What’s with the ring tone thing anyway? I think that’s the most obnoxious part of cell phone usage.
We’ve all experienced this: You’re sitting in a restaurant with a friend/spouse/family, having a nice dinner, when the cell phone the idiot at the table behind you owns starts playing the cha-cha or the opening bars of a Def Leppard track or some digitized sound effect that sounds like a primal scream. He thinks its funny. Do you?
I don’t. I think it’s a selfish attempt to get attention at the expense of the people around him.
I read somewhere recently that people have no qualms about plunking down $10 for a ring tone but they hesitate when it comes to buying a new CD. (If anyone out there can find that piece online, please use the Comments link to share the URL; I can’t find it.)
My phone, a 1-1/2 year old Motorola flip phone, has a vibrate mode. Since I wear it on my belt, I feel it when it rings. If I don’t pick it up after a few moments, it plays a sound that’s kind of like a doorbell. A simple little chime. I’m not saying its not obnoxious — any sound a device makes in a public place is obnoxious — but it’s far less offensive than some. And frankly, every time I hear it in a public place and someone looks at me, I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to be seen as one of them. (And we all know who they are.)
Mike’s got one of those Razr phones. He says people are envious of him. The phone is extremely thin, has a built-in camera and e-mail features, and does more than my original computer did. (I’m sure it has more processing power, too.) But come on guys — it’s a phone. A phone.
I’d still have my original Motorola flip phone if it would work as well as the newer one. I liked it better. It was simpler and started up quicker. It was plain black and it didn’t have a color screen. It didn’t have to make a sound when you turned it on or shut it off. And it didn’t have a built-in camera, Internet capabilities, Bluetooth, and dozens of ring tones to choose from. It was a simple, small, easy to use phone. Like the original Princess phones. Although it no longer is connected to any network, it’ll still work for 911 calls. So I keep it and its car power adapter in my car, just in case I need to make that emergency call and my other phone is dead.
That’s what cell phones were originally for, isn’t it? Emergencies?
Anyway, what started this whole rampage about cell phones was an article I read on Slate.com about fiction where the cell phone becomes the villain. It’s called “Can You Fear Me Now? – The cell phone goes from annoying to evil” and it’s by Bryan Curtis.
Some of the stories aren’t that farfetched, either.
Because counting backwards makes it go quicker?
Okay. Here’s a Web site that’s keeping track of how much time before George Jr. vacates the White House: Backwards Bush. If you go to the site, you can find a number of goodies:
And more!
It’s a funny world we live in.
Four of us join Mike on his annual ride to Wickenburg Mountain.
Every winter, Mike takes Jake, his horse, on a ride to Wickenburg Mountain. Altough this mountain is only about 3 miles as the crow flies from our house, there’s no trail that goes right to it. Instead, you have to pick your way along a maze of trails that go up and over or around about a dozen ridges.
Wickenburg Mountain is not named Wickenburg Mountain on any map I have. I don’t know where Mike got that name for it. Someone probably called it that and Mike remembered the name. If you’re looking at a topo map for Wickenburg, it’s the 2977-foot peak at the north end of the Vulture Mountains, south of Turtleback Wash.
I don’t usually go with Mike on this ride. He’s out most of the day and he always brings back stories of bushwhacking through the desert. While there isn’t much bush to whack in the desert, riding off trails (which is what I mean here) can often take you to the edge of cliffs that even horses can’t climb down. I don’t enjoy putting my somewhat neurotic horse through that kind of experience, especially with me on his back.
But yesterday, he’d invited Janet and Steve, who were visiting from Colorado, and Hans, who has recently gotten over a broken ankle suffered when his horse fell on him. I thought it would be nice riding with a small group of friends, so I went along for the ride, too.
Also along for the ride were Jack the Dog and Janet and Steve’s two dogs, Tasha and Maggie. And when my neighbor’s dog, Trixie, saw us leaving, she decided to join us, too. Tasha wasn’t too happy about that and kept attacking her, but after a while, they calmed down and tolerated each other nicely.
We started out from our house, taking the trail beside my neighbor’s property that would take us into the state land south of our house. We rode familiar trails that dropped us into a tributary of Turtleback Wash, where a Jeep trail ran.
The ride up to that point had been pleasant, following trails we knew. It was a lightly overcast day, cool and comfortable. We saw some mule deer, which gave Jack something to chase. As I rode, I began stripping off a few outer layers. My horse was behaving well — which means he was behaving like most other horses, for a change. He was even trotting nicely when we trotted. And he hadn’t bitten the butt of the horse in front of us yet, either.
From the Jeep road, things got iffy. The road ran mostly northeast to southwest, but we needed to go southeast. But we followed the road southwest, looking for a trail or road that would branch off to the left. Steve was leading at that point and he led us right by a possible trail. I’d seen it but didn’t think it was a trail. It turned out to be an old mining road. We followed it in the right direction, climbing a steep hill. We paused near the top to rest the horses and give the dogs some water. Then we continued and, moments later, the road ended.
Dang.
Mike led and the bushwhacking began. We rode over steep, rocky terrain, past nasy cacti and thorny trees. We climbed, we descended. At one point, we reached what I thought was the edge of a cliff. But Mike steered Jake down it and Jake, the good horse that he is, just went. We followed.
Eventually, we ended up on another Jeep road in another wash. We could see Wickenburg Mountain and it was much closer. We even saw a string of four horses and riders coming down one of its old mining roads. But there were more hills to climb over or around. Fortunately, there were also a lot of roads. The trick was to pick the right ones.
We did pretty well. At one point, we rode up a steep piece of road and I heard Hans say, “Oh no. That looks like the kind of place we fell.” He was referring to his recent horse accident, when he tried to walk his horse up a steep hill and his horse slipped back and fell on him, breaking Hans’s angle and chipping numerous bones in the horse’s foot. We hurried up the hill and I was comforted to hear him right behind me.
We reached the base of the mountain and climbed on another road. About two thirds of the way up, on a road that wound past the front of the mountain’s peak, we stopped for lunch. We tied the horses to bushes along the road; they were so tired, they didn’t seem interested in moving. Then we sat down on the rocky slope, opened up our lunch bags, and ate.
Tasha and Trixie had a huge fight right behind my back, nearly knocking me over, but they broke it up when Mike squirted them with his water bottle. Then they settled down and rested. Jack the dog was smart and hung out in the shade.
Our lunch spot had incredible views of Wickenburg several miles to the north and east of us. But for some reason, I didn’t take any of those pictures. I did get one of Jake with the town in the background, far in the distance. But most of the rest of the photos I took were for wickenburg-az.com, my so-called “labor of love,” which features random header images. To get just the right image, the photo needs to have something on the left and nothing much on the top right. Go to the site and keep refreshing the page to get an idea of what I’m looking for. The image changes on every page, every time it’s refreshed. There are about 20 images now and one blank image that I’m trying to remove.
(But Larry doesn’t want to read about this. I’m starting to talk too much about computers. Sorry, Larry.)
After lunch, we mounted up again and continued on a trail that led to the back side of Wickenburg Mountain. The trail climbed up through beautiful Sonoran desert to a saddle between the mountain’s peak and a lesser outcropping. This is where I took my favorite photo of the day — this vertical shot of the peak’s side and some saguaro cacti. I was very surprised to see a fence and drag gate up there. Mike dismounted and handled the gate for us and we all squeezed through. On the other side of the fence was just a tiny bit of level ground before the land dropped off on a steep downhill slope. There was a trail and Mike led the way down it.
We wound around the back of the mountain and joined up on some old mining roads again. We followed those back toward the main Jeep road. And that’s where we made our wrong turn. If we’d gone right, we would have hooked back up with Turtleback Wash and, from there, we could have found easy trails back to our house. But we went left, following the Jeep road back toward where we’d bushwacked down the mountainside.
How do I know all this? It isn’t because I have an excellent sense of direction and keen eye for landmarks. My sense of direction is good but my eye for landmarks sucks. That’s one of the reasons I had my GPS with me. And my GPS has a moving map with the local topo maps loaded in. I could see exactly where we were and exactly where we needed to go to avoid bushwhacking.
But Mike wasn’t interested in any of that. “We’re not in a hurry,” he told me.
Well, I wasn’t in a hurry, but I was interested in getting home. Especially since most of our water was gone and I was worried about Janet’s dogs, who seemed to have some trouble keeping up.
So we went left down the road. There was a gate across the road and Mike opened it so we could all go through. And we continued along the wash while the hills rose ever taller on both sides of us. Soon, we were riding into a narrow canyon. And then the canyon ended with a steep rocky cliff carved out by the force of water over thousands of years.
Dead end.
We paused there to give the dogs more water and explore the cliff face. There was a neat shelf where you could imagine water gathering in a pool after coming down a flume. (This photo doesn’t do the place justice.) The horses got goofy in the narrow area and Steve’s horse almost ran off. So we mounted up and backtracked, looking for a place where we could — dare I say it? — bushwhack over the ridges to the north.
So the bushwhacking began again. This time, the hills were steeper and, for some reason I can’t comprehend, we managed to get separated. Steve was the first to get down to the wash on the other side. Hans made it soon afterward. Then Mike and I, together. Janet was trapped on top of the ridge, unable to find a safe way down. I think the problem was that none of the ways down looked safe and Janet just happened to be a lot more cautious than the rest of us. So Steve rode back up and she followed him back down.
More bushwhacking. I really don’t like it. Cherokee, my horse, managed to cut his nose on a tree or something, so he wound up with a bloody nose. Janet’s dogs were definitely trailing behind. We stopped to give them water again and pretty much finished off all the water. We’d been out for about five hours.
We finally climbed onto a ridge and saw a familiar Jeep trail ahead of us. A few moments later, we were on the trail. We took turns leading the way. Soon, we were coming back through the gate by my neighbor’s house.
We unsaddled the horses and hosed ours down. (Cherokee hates getting hosed, but he really needed it. Of course, he got us back by rolling in horse manure right after his “bath.”) Hans and his horse hurried home while Janet and Steve put their horses in one of our corrals and joined us up at the house for drinks. Trixie went home. Janet’s dogs were walking on very sore feet. They admitted to us that their dogs had become “couch potatoes.” Our dog, Jack, was obviously tired, but didn’t seem quite as sore.
According to my GPS, we’d travelled 10.6 miles in about 3-1/2 hours of riding with about 1-1/2 hours of non-movement time. (I figure that Jack the Dog and Trixie must have covered at least 50% more distance.) Our average speed was 3 MPH; our top speed (on a gallop, I suppose) was just over 10 MPH.
This morning, it was me who was sore. You don’t realize how many muscles you use when you ride a horse. I think I can feel every one of mine.
My Ducati comes out of the shop and hits the road.
Before I started flying, before I started horseback riding, I learned to ride a motorcycle. In fact, it was one of the four goals I set for myself when I was in my 20s. (The goals were: learned to ride a motorcycle, learn to fly a helicopter, learn to speak Spanish fluently, and learn to play the piano. I got the first two done and haven’t done much with the others. But I have added a fifth goal: learn to juggle.)
My first motorcycle was a 1980 Honda CB400 Hawk. It was a standard bike and although it was 11 years old when I bought it, it only had 421 miles on it. The previous owner, a woman, had been diagnosed with cancer not long after buying the bike and had died soonafterward. Her husband, a motorcycle dealer, had held onto it for years before finally selling it to me. The bike was nice and good for learning. But I soon wanted something a little sportier.
I found that something at an Americade motorcycle rally at Lake George, NY one year. I went for a test ride with Yamaha and rode one of their Seca IIs. It was a 600cc bike with an upright riding position but sporty fairings. Later that year — 1992 — I bought one. (Oddly enough, the Yamaha dealer was next door to a BMW dealer and Mike bought his second bike there the same day. We certainly made a few folks green when we showed up at a motorcycle camping trip along the Delaware River on two brand new bikes.)
I liked that bike. I took it on a trip that Mike and I made from our New Jersey home down Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway into Tennesee. From there, we rode east to the coast and rode up the barrier islands — taking a few ferries along the way — on our way home. That was a camping trip; you wouldn’t believe how much gear we were able to bring along. Later, I got Givi luggage for it — expensive, Italian hard luggage that’s perfect for long trips. And a Corbin seat, of course. Comfort is important.
But I fell out of like with that bike on another one of our motorcycle camping trips with the gang. The ride was to a campground in the Finger Lakes district of New York. In trying to keep up with the guys, I found the top end of the bike. There’s nothing so disheartening as turning the throttle and finding that it won’t turn anymore as the guys you’re riding with start to leave you behind. I kept up okay, but I wasn’t a happy camper. I needed a new bike.
By that time, it was 1995 or 1996. I went to my local motorcycle dealer and, on a whim, test rode a Ducati Monster. I was very impressed, especially when I turned the throttle what I thought was a conservative amount and almost pulled a wheelie. Egads! That bike had testosterone! Of course, I didn’t like the styling of the Monster. I wanted something sportier looking. So I wound up with a Ducati 900 SS CR. (The letters stand for SuperSport Cafe Racer.)
This ain’t your auntie’s motorcycle. This is a street-legal race bike. It’s absolutely terrible at speeds below 25 MPH, making it a real drag to ride in city traffic. But get the RPMs over 4500 on a twisty mountain road, and you’re in for the ride of your life.
That’s if you can ride it.
I got pretty good at riding it. Leaning into the tight turns, keeping the RPMs high, keeping my hand and foot off the brakes. Downshift to slow down — that bike is made for engine braking. Not that the Brembo brakes do a bad job at slowing things down when you need them to.
I made only three customizations on the bike. First, I replaced the painfully uncomfortable seat with a Corbin saddle. Second, I had the gears changed slightly to make it easier to shift — I can’t remember exactly what they did, but it really helped out when I had to ride slowly. And third, I replaced the stock mirrors, which did a great job showing me my shoulders and arms, with aftermarket mirrors that actually showed the road behind me.
Not long after buying the bike, we moved to Arizona. I brought both bikes — the Ducati, for sport riding and the Yamaha for touring — with me. (The Honda was long gone; I sold it when I bought the Yamaha.) We did a lot of riding on Yarnell Hill, White Spar Road, and Mingus Mountain. But that’s all the interesting riding there was around here.
I remember when a friend of ours from back east came for a visit and rented a BMW for the day. We rode on a 350-mile loop on some of the nicest back roads in central Arizona. I took the Ducati and had a blast. But my shoulders were sore for the next few days. That bike just isn’t made for touring.
We also went on a trip with Chrome Caballeros. They do motorcycle camping tours. I rode the Ducati and Mike rode his BMW; all the other guys in the group rode Harleys. (They wore the Harley clothes, too. What’s that all about?) I took the bike as far northwest as Zion National Park and as far east as Page. One day, we rode over 300 miles. But I was in better shape then and didn’t stay sore for long.
Over time, I rode less and less. I started horseback riding instead. Then I started flying. The motorcycles spent some time in a storage shed, then moved to my hangar. The batteries always seemed to be dead when I wanted to ride them. The Yamaha needed work on the fuel system; I had it taken care of, then put it back in the hangar. Time passed.
This past autumn, I took the bikes out to ride them. The Yamaha wouldn’t stay running. The Ducati was leaking fuel from its muffler. Both bikes needed attention and I was neglecting them.
So we brought them to Dan. You may have read about Dan in another article here. He does motorcycles, too. In fact, he’s a Harley guy (although I don’t hold that against him).
I picked up the Ducati on Wednesday.
“Did you take it for a ride?” I asked Dan.
“Yeah,” he said. “That bike is fast. It surprised me.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking: heck, it’s not a Harley.
I rode it on 93 to burn the oil that had been in the muffler out of the system. It rode good. I came down Vulture Mine Road from 93 to 60, following a car. The speedometer said I was doing 70. It didn’t feel that fast and I doubted that the car in front of me would be doing 70 on that road, so I figured the speedometer was screwed up. Then I put it back in the hangar.
I had it out again today. I stopped at the airport for a latte and some chatting at Stan’s Latte Cafe. Dave volunteered to lead me down 60 toward Aguila at a steady 65 MPH to test the speedometer. We did this little test and the speedometer registered 70. (I guess I should have trusted my speedometer a bit more than I did on Wednesday. Some people just drive too fast on Vulture Mine Road.)
When the Yamaha comes back, I’ll have two bikes that need attention again. Maybe it’s time for another road trip. One I can take on two wheels.