The basis of this title is the children's book "One Duck Stuck", which Jessie has paraphrased to the appropriate. The April 5 bike ride into the countryside began innocently enough as we followed a familiar track crossing the stone bridge, traversing the paddies, and on into new territory, including a new well. The ride was marketed as being 35km and home by 10:30. Marketing! The scourge of the 21st century! The ride turned out to be 48 km, and it was more like 11:30. One of the riders later commented that "epic" was how he described it to his wife as he assuaged his tired mass with cans of Fosters at a local pub - I was thinking more on the order of "The Bridge Over the River Kwai".
I should have realized I had aroused Murphy during a discussion with several of the riding fellows (we were all fellows this ride) in which bike necessities were discussed, as only guys can discuss - like the necessity of a rear fender during Monsoon season to avoid a stripe up your backside. I quipped in response to the discussion (in typical arrogant male style) that unless you come home dirty OR stinky how does your spouse know you actually went biking. It was a John Wayne moment from my more youthful years. Little did I know that Murphy heard me and put a sequence into motion to assure that I returned home both dirty AND stinky, and where else would Murphy be listening to such discussion than India.
I must say that the majority of the ride was exquisite. We had some very nice tracks through eucalyptus forest and sand mining areas, discovered that there are some rather large and nasty looking scorpions in India, but there was this one moment that just, well to say it succinctly, Murphy impaled me upon my words. It was towards the end of the ride as we were tracking back to the stone bridge through the recently planted paddies. I had taken a spill earlier in the day when my front tire stopped in a rather deep piece of sand - throwing me onto some palm fronds for a nicely planned soft landing. Little did I realize that the spill had messed with my front derailleur (I have to blame something, you see). And the ride was the longest I had done in many a year. And we were now into the heat of the day - quite warm (90 ish +) - water was waning. And I was very, very tired. At any rate we were approaching the paddies, and my front sprockets were in the wrong gear. I knew it; I was aware of it, and I ignored that fact. I should have geared down, but I did not. I trudged on like a good soldier at the speed set by the leaders.[In the wrong gear meant that I was traveling through broken terrain too fast.] Then came the moment of predestination where the simplest of an idea gets planted in your awareness, and it grows and grows until it becomes the self fulfilling prophecy.... I believe the Buddhist's call it "watering the wrong seed".
Paddies are constructed to manage water - water is quite precious here. Between the paddies is a 12-16 inch wide barrier, or terracing dam, or whatever you want to call it - to us, it was a bike path. We had ridden this exact path earlier in the day with fresh muscle and in lower gears. Now I was riding it under duress, in the wrong gear, and with very tired and unresponsive muscle. I took my eyes from the path, where I had been very pedantically watching every bump to assure I did not yuck the muck. I looked at the paddy, and I thought "yuck". I looked back at the path only to discover a rather large clod in the path without the time to react - if tired muscle could have reacted. What followed was an expletive, and my sitzmark defined the outcome of yucking the muck. Two French guys (from a different group) passed me, and I am sure that they thought, in French of course, "bummer, dude!" while they kept on the track without stopping. Losers are not to be associated with, you see.
The situation: Paddies are about 12-16 inches of pretty good muck. However, paddy muck is not Montana grade muck, as this stuff washed out of my clothes fairly well where Montana [ Lick Creek Cave] muck is still there 15 years on. I fell on my left side. The fanny pack I was wearing was on my left side under me. It contained the camera, my wallet, and my mobile. I was in perfect riding form as my feet were still on my peddles. All my years of skiing taught me to get my feet under the bike so I could stand up, which I did pretty quickly, but I was now the paddy muck man from the shoulder down on the left side - oozing to be sure.
I got up, got back onto the track and walked the remaining 100 meters to the stone bridge and across it. The rest of the group had stopped for a breather in the shade of a large tree. The stone bridge crosses a small river, and as it was Sunday, it was laundry day. There were several women doing their laundry in the river water. I came up behind our group, and quietly attempted to glean some of the muck off of me, and to get the pack out of the muck, and to get the camera to safety, and to generally gather my wits. It was a couple of minutes before my state was noticed by the fellows. I had been noticed by the locals as I trudged across the bridge - laughter permeated the peacefulness of the moment.
The comment from the fellows I remember most was "Well,
I guess you're going home both dirty and stinky", and that was when I realized the sequence of events that I had caused by my earlier arrogance. I humbly cursed and headed to the river to clean off my hands. The women offered to wash my clothes for me, but I'm a little to bashful for that; so I declined the offer. It was several minutes later that I remembered my cell phone, and I fished it out of the pack. Yuck, it was full of muck. I slipped it into a clean pocket on the right side and continued on.
We were about 10 km from home. I rode through the village, humbly. Those who noticed, and there were many, had a good chuckle as our riding group have ridden through this village many times, and my bike being orange is quite memorable against the landscape of Indian bicycles, and my grey hair with ponytail, and my size - well, let's just say they have witnessed me many times tracking through their village. Now, I was the paddy mud man on the left side, tired, plodding along like the bullock pulling the carts aware of their plight, but unable to do anything about it. The laugh was on me.
Alli triaged my clothes. I bribed Jess into washing my bike while I took a shower. The clothes got
two washes with soap before drying. Jess and I spent the next two days tearing the bike down, greasing, oiling, and cleaning. The camera was ok. The cell phone was not. I took it apart and it was full of muck. Alli cleaned it with a tooth pick and we put it in the sun to dry. Later in the day, I reassembled it to see if it worked. It did! However, the mud in the microphone must have dried overnight, because the next morning I could not transmit. Our cook, Mrs. Pinto, offered to take it to the Nokia dealer. They reported that yes they could fix it, but they did not provide and estimate - translation: buy a new phone. So, after a couple of days, with nothing to lose, I decided that if it was trashed, I would not be ruining by giving it an enema. So, I got out a syringe and did just that - followed by a decently executed snake bite triage. After drying, it works fine. This is the second Nokia phone that has survived duress under my watch. The first one survived a complete wash - dry cycle in Minnesota, and this phone survived the paddy muck. So, good job to Nokia manufacturing quality, but their service in Bangalore could be a bit more forthcoming with information.
The reason this post is a bit late is that it was only this past weekend (Easter) that Jess came up with the title to this piece, and I have developed the public humility to share my story. So, One Daddy Stuck in the Paddy diligently reports on the trials and tribulations of ThorneInIndia.
I should have realized I had aroused Murphy during a discussion with several of the riding fellows (we were all fellows this ride) in which bike necessities were discussed, as only guys can discuss - like the necessity of a rear fender during Monsoon season to avoid a stripe up your backside. I quipped in response to the discussion (in typical arrogant male style) that unless you come home dirty OR stinky how does your spouse know you actually went biking. It was a John Wayne moment from my more youthful years. Little did I know that Murphy heard me and put a sequence into motion to assure that I returned home both dirty AND stinky, and where else would Murphy be listening to such discussion than India.
I must say that the majority of the ride was exquisite. We had some very nice tracks through eucalyptus forest and sand mining areas, discovered that there are some rather large and nasty looking scorpions in India, but there was this one moment that just, well to say it succinctly, Murphy impaled me upon my words. It was towards the end of the ride as we were tracking back to the stone bridge through the recently planted paddies. I had taken a spill earlier in the day when my front tire stopped in a rather deep piece of sand - throwing me onto some palm fronds for a nicely planned soft landing. Little did I realize that the spill had messed with my front derailleur (I have to blame something, you see). And the ride was the longest I had done in many a year. And we were now into the heat of the day - quite warm (90 ish +) - water was waning. And I was very, very tired. At any rate we were approaching the paddies, and my front sprockets were in the wrong gear. I knew it; I was aware of it, and I ignored that fact. I should have geared down, but I did not. I trudged on like a good soldier at the speed set by the leaders.[In the wrong gear meant that I was traveling through broken terrain too fast.] Then came the moment of predestination where the simplest of an idea gets planted in your awareness, and it grows and grows until it becomes the self fulfilling prophecy.... I believe the Buddhist's call it "watering the wrong seed".
Paddies are constructed to manage water - water is quite precious here. Between the paddies is a 12-16 inch wide barrier, or terracing dam, or whatever you want to call it - to us, it was a bike path. We had ridden this exact path earlier in the day with fresh muscle and in lower gears. Now I was riding it under duress, in the wrong gear, and with very tired and unresponsive muscle. I took my eyes from the path, where I had been very pedantically watching every bump to assure I did not yuck the muck. I looked at the paddy, and I thought "yuck". I looked back at the path only to discover a rather large clod in the path without the time to react - if tired muscle could have reacted. What followed was an expletive, and my sitzmark defined the outcome of yucking the muck. Two French guys (from a different group) passed me, and I am sure that they thought, in French of course, "bummer, dude!" while they kept on the track without stopping. Losers are not to be associated with, you see.
The situation: Paddies are about 12-16 inches of pretty good muck. However, paddy muck is not Montana grade muck, as this stuff washed out of my clothes fairly well where Montana [ Lick Creek Cave] muck is still there 15 years on. I fell on my left side. The fanny pack I was wearing was on my left side under me. It contained the camera, my wallet, and my mobile. I was in perfect riding form as my feet were still on my peddles. All my years of skiing taught me to get my feet under the bike so I could stand up, which I did pretty quickly, but I was now the paddy muck man from the shoulder down on the left side - oozing to be sure.
I got up, got back onto the track and walked the remaining 100 meters to the stone bridge and across it. The rest of the group had stopped for a breather in the shade of a large tree. The stone bridge crosses a small river, and as it was Sunday, it was laundry day. There were several women doing their laundry in the river water. I came up behind our group, and quietly attempted to glean some of the muck off of me, and to get the pack out of the muck, and to get the camera to safety, and to generally gather my wits. It was a couple of minutes before my state was noticed by the fellows. I had been noticed by the locals as I trudged across the bridge - laughter permeated the peacefulness of the moment.
The comment from the fellows I remember most was "Well,
I guess you're going home both dirty and stinky", and that was when I realized the sequence of events that I had caused by my earlier arrogance. I humbly cursed and headed to the river to clean off my hands. The women offered to wash my clothes for me, but I'm a little to bashful for that; so I declined the offer. It was several minutes later that I remembered my cell phone, and I fished it out of the pack. Yuck, it was full of muck. I slipped it into a clean pocket on the right side and continued on.We were about 10 km from home. I rode through the village, humbly. Those who noticed, and there were many, had a good chuckle as our riding group have ridden through this village many times, and my bike being orange is quite memorable against the landscape of Indian bicycles, and my grey hair with ponytail, and my size - well, let's just say they have witnessed me many times tracking through their village. Now, I was the paddy mud man on the left side, tired, plodding along like the bullock pulling the carts aware of their plight, but unable to do anything about it. The laugh was on me.
Alli triaged my clothes. I bribed Jess into washing my bike while I took a shower. The clothes got
two washes with soap before drying. Jess and I spent the next two days tearing the bike down, greasing, oiling, and cleaning. The camera was ok. The cell phone was not. I took it apart and it was full of muck. Alli cleaned it with a tooth pick and we put it in the sun to dry. Later in the day, I reassembled it to see if it worked. It did! However, the mud in the microphone must have dried overnight, because the next morning I could not transmit. Our cook, Mrs. Pinto, offered to take it to the Nokia dealer. They reported that yes they could fix it, but they did not provide and estimate - translation: buy a new phone. So, after a couple of days, with nothing to lose, I decided that if it was trashed, I would not be ruining by giving it an enema. So, I got out a syringe and did just that - followed by a decently executed snake bite triage. After drying, it works fine. This is the second Nokia phone that has survived duress under my watch. The first one survived a complete wash - dry cycle in Minnesota, and this phone survived the paddy muck. So, good job to Nokia manufacturing quality, but their service in Bangalore could be a bit more forthcoming with information.The reason this post is a bit late is that it was only this past weekend (Easter) that Jess came up with the title to this piece, and I have developed the public humility to share my story. So, One Daddy Stuck in the Paddy diligently reports on the trials and tribulations of ThorneInIndia.
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