My Attempt at Mountain Biking

One of the first rules for bike riding, if you are big like me, is don’t,
for any reason, ride with a younger and skinnier guy.

I made that mistake last summer.

It was our ward’s turn at girl’s camp. Our girl’s camp was at Cinnamon
Creek. I mentioned to a guy from the neighborhood I was headed up there.
He mentioned he had the same assignment. I was old enough to be the
grandfather to his motley crew. Our job was to eat their food, hang out,
and make sure the girls didn’t get any unwelcome visitors like
rattlesnakes, bears, cougars, or the worst, teenaged boys from the
surrounding camps.

The neighbor is a cabinet maker and must weigh all of about 150 lbs
with his soaking wet coat on.

I told him I was going to bring my Schwinn up to camp and ride it around.
So Skinny Shawn decides he is going to bring his bike and take me on bike
ride to Rosie’s Mine. I’ve never been to the mine, and in my mind the trail was as flat as the road to the campsite.I think to myself, I’ve tackled the hill on Highway 91 at Franklin and didn't die, nothing can be any worse than that.

Skinny shows up at camp with some light titanium bike with shocks on the
front fork and starts spinning tales about him and his dot of a wife
enjoying riding the trails of nearby canyons.

We grab our gear and get on our bikes and head for the mine.
After going over the first bridge and watching Shawn get his bike in a
lower gear and go up this mountain of hill lickety-split, I follow.
About then I figure out I’m in big trouble, but I’m up for the adventure.

With a flip of the lever into the lowest gear possible, maybe a little later
than I should have, I have zero momentum and tip over. I walked up the
mountain. When I got to the top, Shawn was waiting; probably making sure he
didn’t have to call Life Flight or do CPR. When I finally get to the top, he sees I’m going to live and shoots down the hill, literally jumping, both wheels off the ground at a time, over rocks and gullies to the bottom and waits at the bottom of the trail to a steeper mountain and beyond.

I follow, and with no shocks and my size, create my own gullies. When
I hit one of the many boulders Skinny Shawn jumped, they’re huge. My
hands, wrists, arms, shoulders, and even my head feel it. To my amazement I
was still on two wheels at the bottom. The vibration of such a gully riddled hill just about vibrates my head off of my shoulders. Skinny Shawn waits at the bottom of the hill again to make sure I’m not hurt, and then he heads up the mountain.

At one of the stops, Shawn explains the virtues of having a shocks and a
light bike. I think I can probably buy 30 Deseret Industry Specials for
the price of his bike. I try to listen, but the vibration continues. I
put my hands on top of my helmet to make sure my head is still over my
shoulders.

I’m sure he’s right. Unlike me he has no sweat dripping from his forehead
or heart beating out of his chest; he is “calm as a summer’s morn.” I’m
trying to suck what oxygen I can out of the air at that high altitude. I
do, however, try to act calm until he turns around and then I continue to
gasp for air.

It must be because of his light bike with shocks.

We have to cross a raging creek a couple of times more; once we had to
carry our bikes across a fallen log to get across the water.

To me, it must have been two or three hours getting to the mine, but in
reality it was only really about 15 or 20 minutes by my watch.
When you're huffing and puffing and going up these huge, mountainous hills,
it’s not the time to walk through a dark mine with a light stuck to your
head with a large rubber band.

My shoes get soaked with water and mud from the floor of the mine. I
clobbered my head on the rugged low rock ceiling, because I was still
gasping for air.

Our trip to Rosie’s Mine was anything but the glamorous trip I thought
it would be. The journey back to camp was darn near as bad, but seemed
much shorter.

When I got to the log crossing, still breathing like I’m about to croak,
I picked my bike up, which now feels like it’s made of lead,
and try to cross the log. The log shrunk since the first time. I lose my
balance and drop my Schwinn into the torrent. Skinny Shawn, who
patiently waited on the other side, slipped over to the creek and pulled
my bike, with one hand, out of the water. It all happened about as quick
as I caught my balance and got to the other side.

When I got back to camp, out of breath, my heart thumping ready to quit
anytime, knots on my head, my shoes and socks sloshy, I was where I
should have stayed.

Back at camp with the girls.

The Paper Route

By RODNEY D. BOAM
Citizen editor

Riding the bike on the paper route

I’ve been delivering papers for the mother ship (Herald Journal) even
before they became our mother ship. Some five years ago my son, Jon,
wanted to deliver papers to earn some spending money. It was about the
only thing he could do for a job as a nine year old.
I was with him every step of the way.
While some parents get their kid up early and kick him out to do it by
himself, for me it was a chance to work together doing something
meaningful. He got the money; I got close to my son. I was criticized by
some who thought he should be responsible enough to do it himself. He
bought all kinds of worthless stuff. His friends thought he was rich. He
had his own bank account and when he wanted money, instead of asking his
parents for money he just went to the bank and got what he wanted.
He got the money; I got the greater reward.
We found that when we used bicycles we could cut down the time by
covering more ground faster.
When Jon got into sports, he was less interested in working with his dad.
He became too old and sophisticated to go around the neighborhood early
in the morning dropping papers on the door steps with the old man.
I decided to keep doing it.
The old bike is pretty handy for throwing the news. For a guy who needs
to keep active, it’s a fairly good gig. During the summers I’m usually
out there about the same time as the neighborhood joggers. One thing
about paper boys is they are out there rain or shine, summer or winter;
it has to be done and done at an early hour.
If you know someone who is looking for motivation to get up early to jog
or exercise, get a paper route. You’re paid for the pain of getting up
every morning to exercise.
For the most part I get up at 4 a.m., shower, and get my lunch ready. The
papers are usually on the door step about 5 a.m. I fold them, get out the
door and try and make the bus stop. I can usually catch the bus at the
end of the road if all goes well.
It snowed recently and the old bike didn’t quite act the same on ice as
it does at other times.
It does fair on snow, but on ice, any lean to make a turn is one of those
magical moments, when life goes in slow motion. The bike goes down and it
kind of separates from the rider. The rider slowly slides down the
driveway on his back in sort of a halting motion, while the bike picks up
this cosmic energy and shoots out into the street.
The good thing about this kind of display of cosmic energy is it’s dark
and early enough, no one is awake to see such an embarrassing thing
happen. There is not enough light for even the best of video cameras to
record the incident.
I’m sure a trick like that would make the sweepstakes winner on any of
those submit your funniest video television shows.
Unlike a beetle on its back with its legs working to get it turned back
up so it can get going and live, when a big guy hits the pavement on his
back, he just lays there stunned at what just happened. About the time
you figure out you are no longer on your bike, but on your back, you
wonder if you are still alive; then you see if you can wiggle your toes.
As soon as the guy figures he is stilI in one piece, he is still alive
and there is nothing bruised or broken, it’s time to look around to see
if there was anyone within viewing distance that could have possibly seen
what just happened.
Then it’s off to the next house, glad for the cover of darkness.
I had two of these glorious experiences and still made my bus.

D.A. Nash lunch express

These are photographs from a story about D.A.Nash that Robert Merrill wrote. The 85 year-old gentleman, volunteers to deliver lunches to "shut-in's" around the southern end of Franklin County. Three days a week Nash gets to the Preston Sr.Citizen Center at 9:30 a.m. assembles the lunches, loads them into the mini-van and delivers them to 20 to 27 houses in the valley.

Meet Mister Mockli

This is a picture of Philip Mockli, he is suing the State of Idaho because he cannot by liquor by the drink. We ran the story is in the March 30, edition of the Preston Citizen. The photograph was taken in the State Liquor Store in Preston.

 Philip H. Mockli has made quite a name for himself recently by filing a
lawsuit in the United States Court District of Idaho Eastern Division for
violation of some of his constitutional rights. Mockli filed four
lawsuits for The Ethereal Enigmatic Euphoric Movement Towards Civilized
Hedonism LTD (Three E), his new found religion, for which he is the
official representative.
The lawsuits were first noted by the Idaho State Journal and quickly
spread to other print and online publications.
Under Mockli's title, Bugga-Bugga, he is suing the State of Idaho because
he feels his religious beliefs of drinking on Sunday are being violated.
The Constitution of Idaho guarantees the freedom of religion and that the
consumption of distilled spirits is the right of every American.
He also said in his suit that his Civil Rights are being violated. The
Civil Rights Act of 1964 states everyone is entitled to the full and
equal enjoyment of goods and services, facilities and privileges of any
place of accommodation without discrimination or segregation on the
grounds of race, religion or national origin.
Three E members believe the consumption of distilled spirits is both a
moral obligation and a sacred right.
Mockli claims The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, by use of
its political power, has made It so the Three E members cannot practice
their religion in Preston because they can't buy spirits on Sunday. He
refers to his congregation as Pleasure Piggies.
The leader of the Three E religion and the Pleasure Piggies has published
his first magazine, Side Channels, chapter one, "Where Pigs Fly." The
magazine printed on newsprint came out last Wednesday. It would not be
considered G or PG rated. In the publication he talks about his
conversion to his religion. He was studying political science, history
and literature in hopes of becoming a lawyer when he had a change of
heart.
While hanging with hippie friends at the bottom of Lake Havasu Canyon he
had a mystic experience.
"Suddenly, there she was an ethereal vision of beauty, The Old Lady Who
Runs Things," he writes. One of the things she taught him was that,
"telling right from wrong is not the moral dilemma it was cracked up to
be. It's not fun and probably wrong."
The cost of his publication is $10 and he does not take e-mails. If you
want to talk to him write him a letter at Three E, at E Box 54, Preston,
Idaho.

How it all began...

Below is one of my many trademark "Fat Man on a Bike" columns I do for the Preston Citizen, and the reason for the title of this blog. Enjoy!



I’ve gone green.
When gas went to $4 a gallon the last time, I thought to my self, why is
it some joker sitting behind a desk at a large petroleum company or some
sheik in Iraq can determine how I lived my life. I needed to take control.
I figured if I could stop spending money on gas and support people I
don’t like , I would be a much happier guy. Why not take a bicycle
instead of a gas guzzler. It wouldn’t matter what a gallon of gas costs,
it would be money in my pocket.
I decided to ride a bicycle part way home then catch a bus for the rest
of the ride.
My wife thinks it’s my age. She thinks I’m getting old and crazy. She not
only laughs at me, she tells the people where she works and they laugh at
me too.
I don’t care.
I started last March and my goal was to ride until it snowed or
Thanksgiving, whichever came first.
I did until it started to snow in December.
I’m on my third Deseret Industries mountain bike. The first one, a
Schwinn, I road until the rear wheel bearings began to grind so loud the
dogs began to bark about a mile before and after got near them. The bad
bearings also made it hard to get up enough speed to make it up the hill
just before Franklin. I retired the thing and went on to my next DI bike
another Schwinn.
It wasn’t long before the back bearings went out of it too. It has
nothing to do with Schwinn’s, both of the bikes were old as dirt. They
were probably some of the first mountain bikes ever made. I found another
D I bike recently and I’m quite happy with it. Total investment to this
point is 3 X $15 per bike, $45 plus sales tax, about the same as a tank
of gas.
Why a mountain bike with thick knobby tires and a higher gear ratio
instead of the faster more sleek ram horned racer used by celebrity
racers like Lance Armstrong and similar pros with slim smooth tiny
tires. The same bikes used in the LOTOJA would make a faster ride.
My friend Dan said it best, “there is something obscene watching a fat
guy on a bike with skinny little tires going down the road.”
And what about the thin bright colored spandex clothing pro bikers wear.
I don’t have any spandex. I’ve often wondered why cyclists wear such
attire. I’ve come to the conclusion they wear it for three reasons. One
to impress the passing cars, they are so skinny. Two it makes them worthy
to crowd the highways and next to their buddies four bikes side by side.
Third maybe they wear the stuff so they can be noticed by passing cars.
Who knows?
A big body guy like my self in spendex should be against the law. Every
wrinkle and roll would vibrated down the pavement as peddle down the
pavement. Think of the traffic accidents caused by the laughter of
passing motorists.
I figure an enormous guy like my self on a bike needs no spandex to be
noticed, people can see me for miles. I wore a hole in a brand new pair
of jeans, so I purchased some nylon athletic warm-ups from the same
place I bought my bikes. I tucked the warm ups into one sock to keep them
out of the gears. I also wear a long T-shirt to protect drivers from
plumbers crack. That’s the kind of attire expected for a large bodied man
making time along the highway on a mountain bike.
It looks so hideous, what motorists cant see a big ball of dark blue on
two wheels with a red face inching down the highway at a slow rate of
speed. Two years later, I'm still doing it.

By RODNEY D. BOAM
Citizen editor

Idaho Trout can be found all over the United States

Here are some photos I did for a trout story I worked on recently . Sherman Wright owner of Wrights Rainbows lives in Thatcher, Idaho. He ships live trout to private and public ponds throughout the West.

The other part of the story was from Clear Springs Foods, the largest producer of trout for restaurants and food distributers in the United states. The eggs for the company are produced in their Soda Springs location. The photographs are of employees checking eight pound rainbows to see if they were mature enough to lay eggs.

Learning to be a "techie"

I grew up in the ink and paper publishing age, I'm just trying to enter the electronic publishing era. With the help of my my Generation X family members, I hope to electronically tell stories and post photos in the coming weeks. Check back and see some photos and stories of life in the Cache Valley Area.