Moving Up North

One might wonder why someone of my age would leave the warmth of the south and the readily available access to my favorite past time--- golf and move north. I am not sure I understand it either, other than my wife Connie was never able to move south and two of my grand children are in Iowa. So off I went to Coralville moving in a new way---container method.

Aaron and Darron "Arm-

Strong" third year residents

heading down the road to 

Savannha

 

The other Arm-Strong, this one Jack

A Savannha boy and going back

The strong arms of Aaron, Darron and Jack horsed the weighty items into ABF containers; Connie and I filled in the gaps and got everything we agreed to take to Iowa into two 7 x 8 x 7 boxes. The “Strong Arms aka Arm-Strong's” didn't like my ideal of leaving the glass top on my desk---And they were right. It and one framed picture broke. The rest of the “Stuff” (see George Carlin’s routine regarding “Stuff”) arrived unscathed. Thank you fellows for what you have done for and will do for the specialty of Periodontics! After packing, cleaning out and loading our stuff the containers were hauled out of Martinez July 12 and driven to storage facility in Cedar Rapids until we were back in Iowa. 

Super Ruth with Connie & me

I left Augusta July 31 and picked-up Connie at Jackson-Hartsfield airport about 7:30. We headed north toward Rome, Georgia and had a very nice visit with a special lady, Ruth. Ruth made it possible to get the residency program on track through her dedication, perseverance and sense of humor. It was so nice to have lunch and visit with Ruth. What a nice set-up living in a big house with, can you believe a golf course, in the back yard! I couldn’t get through the “stuff” in the car to recover my clubs, so I will have to get back there and see if I can break 90. Before leaving Rome, Ruth drove us around Berry College, the world’s largest college campus, encompassing 26,000 acres. What a neat layout. While leaving Rome, we drove by the Major Ridge home which we had toured 3-4 years ago. The interesting thing about Major Ridge is that as a full blooded Cherokee leader, he was “hood winked” by the federal government and president Andrew Jackson into signing a treaty, the Treaty of New Echota,  which required the Cherokee’s to migrate from Georgia to Oklahoma. The politically correct term was the Indian Removal but in reality it was definitely a “Trail of Tears”.

Major Ridge Cherokee

Indian leader



Although Ridge thought he was doing the right thing, he realized too late that the white man had duped him and his people. He was considered a traitor by the Cherokees and four years later, 1839, was assassinated along with his only son and a nephew---another tear trail.

 Our goal while driving back to Iowa was to stay off the interstate highways. For the most part, we drove low trafficked roads which gave us a glimpse of discovery. One such discovery was the Chickamauga and Chattanooga National Military Park. Battlefields, where fierce fighting resulted in a back and forth positioning of the union and confederate armies and the eventual death knell of the confederacy. It was interesting to see how open the battlefields were and how too often the troops stood there blasting each other like shooting at target manikins. I was surprised that some battles tactics were similar to the Revolutionary War.

Iowa Monument



 One from Iowa cannot leave northwestern Georgia and southern Tennessee without visiting some of the monuments commemorating fallen Iowans. One very impressive monument is located just off highway US 27 at Rossville, GA only 500 feet from Tennessee.    This particular monument remembers the 4th Infantry, 1557 strong that suffered 402 fatalities. 

After a good night’s rest we headed for Leipers Fork, TN. Leipers Fork, Tennessee you say! Yes a little berg featured in June’s issue of Country Living magazine. Leipers Fork was a bustling town in the late 1800’s into the 1930’s. It served as the only Tennessee town on the Natchez Trace. For anyone who has watched the History Channel program called American Pickers will recognize the name Mike Wolfe. Well, Mike has an abode in Leipers Fork along with the likes of such stars as Kenny Chesney and Tim McGraw. 

We met a very spiffy, energetic lady named Marty in the store she once owned. She now helps the current owner when needed. Marty knows the town folks like the back of her hand given she and her husband were major engineers of the rebirth of Leipers Fork. She told Connie a story of the popularity of Mike Wolfe.  She said when tourists spotted Mike at the local eatery Country Boy, people swarmed around Mike to hear his wisdom and get an autograph. Meanwhile Kenny Chesney sat undisturbed only a few feet away. We found all the businesses except Puckett's Grocery & Restaurant very friendly and helpful. I had to pull one of the Maze traditional dissatisfaction steps for Puckett's, by leaving my selected items for purchase at the counter. It is so frustrating to have an employee and in this case the owner, ignore you completely. They weren’t out a lot of money but they will never see us walk in their doors. I don’t know where the Duke’s of Hazard or Smokey

 

Can't you see Jackie Gleason

flying down the road with

lights and sirens blazing?

and the Bandit originated from but the patrol car sitting outside Leipers Fork caused my heart to skip a beat when I realized I was speeding. Once it was clear it was sitting there with Burt Reynolds car for promotional purposes, Connie laughed and told me to pose for a picture.

 

One of the places we had been before was Berea, Kentucky. Because we had such a nice experience before, it just seemed right to divert off route and stop in Berea again. There is a nice art community in Berea but the most interesting part of visiting the city is the college.  Berea College, aka BC, is a Christian based school with an enrollment of 1,560. BC was started by a staunchly moral religious leader, John G. Fee in 1855. This was the first interracial and coeducational college in the South. Cassius Clay, not the boxer Mohammad Ali/Cassius Clay, but a prominent land baron that detested slavery. Clay bank rolled Fee’s salary, gave him land and built a house plus a one room school. The school became Berea College. Berea was named after the biblical town whose populace was open-minded and receptive to the bible.  Berea charges no tuition, so students can graduate with very little or no debt. Students must have upper level academic scores, be of a low social economic level and work throughout their educational experience at BC. So one sees students working on the landscape, waitressing, cleaning rooms in the Boone Tavern (a great place to stay) and so on. Some of the talented artists make their contribution to the galleries to repay the estimated $26,000 tuition that is paid by the school.  We had lunch at the Boone Tavern, favorite of the locals and tourists.  While holding the door for folks behind me, a quite distinguished gentleman rushed to take advantage of my manners. Unfortunately, he slipped on a rug and nearly did half gainer into to the door glass. I felt sorry for him yet the chattiest and most optimistic individual I have met in some time, regained his composure and started talking our leg off.  When it came time to pay for our meal, the waitress said the bill was already paid compliments of Judge Wilson, the chatty fellow. We were so impressed that we decided we would gift a reasonable amount of money to the Berea College Education Fund. What a good feeling Berea, Kentucky gave us even though we are not the biggest fans of spoon bread, a famous dessert at the Boone Tavern.

Connie rubs Abe's nose for

good luck along with the

millions before her.

The next stop was Springfield, Illinois, pre-presidential home of Abraham Lincoln. We have been there several times and recommend the trip to anyone who has not been there. As you can see from the photograph, we spent time at Lincoln’s grave site. Mary Todd Lincoln and three of the children, who died way too early, are also entombed there.  The Lincoln Museum is a special treat with wonderful displays and interactive programs. Holograms and unique sound effects give a Disney /Spielberg feel. We noticed the upkeep at the grave siteand the surrounding areas of Springfield had slid since last being there.  Sign of the time I guess. 

 

Springfield is about four hours to Coralville so we headed out on less traveled roads toward Iowa. A place we have been curious about is Antique Archaeology in Le Claire, Iowa. This is the home of American Pickers telecast on the History Channel. When we drove through Le Claire, I thought we would easily find Antique Archaeology but we ended up out of the main drag within a couple blocks. After driving several miles east of Le Claire, I asked someone directions. We drove right by earlier. Probably because we thought the business would be much larger.

 It is the size of an old fashion service station and most of the limited merchandise on display is just that, on display. Mike, Frank and Danielle were not there but I never expected to see the stars of the number one reality show out and about.  Danielle’s sister, a dead ringer for Danielle, was operating 4 Miles 2 Memphis, a clothing boutique. It is obvious that Mike’s interest in motorcycles transcends his interest in bicycles in terms of fan following. There were more motorcycles surrounding the shop by twenty fold compared bicycles. Someday I will need to ride my bike to the shop to represent the bicycling community. 

 

 

We got back to Coralville after four days on the road. ABF dropped the containers in the driveway four days later. Chris and his buddy Brian helped unload. Everything but a broken picture and a glass top on my desk made it fine.  It has been a challenge to squeeze in Georgia residence stuff with Coralville stuff, but it is getting closer. I sprained my left wrist so golfing has been limited but I have ridden the bike with brother Don, niece Susan and her family along the Iowa River and through the campus of the University of Iowa. I decided I will ride my bike to pick up a few things from the grocery store. A three mile bike trail to North Liberty is very handy. Riding back and forth there and early morning walks with Connie are helping me to get in shape. Brother Don and I will knock off a segment of my Traversing America via Rail Trails (TAVRTO) route next week, riding from Marshalltown to Melbourne, Iowa. I will post that ride next.

 

 

Retiring Forever



Phil and me 7/31/12. What a great mentor

and friend. He gets my REBL Award

(Richard E. Bradley---like) . Even

 though the 2012 Accrediation shaved

off some locks, he came out looking better

than ever. Thanks for all your support Phil!

This post is NOT about the bike, bicycling or childhood memories. It's about the niceGeorgia folks who have been friends, colleagues and supporters for the past six plus years. The "Retirement" pictures on this post will always remind me of super people who I will never forget. Dr. Phil, as in Hanes, has been one of the best fellows I have worked under. What a loyal hard working gentleman! I award him the Richard E. Bradley Like Award (REBL).  Another fellow who fits the criteria of the REBL is my golf mentor, Randy.

Coach Randy, a tough mentor
and tomato staker---:-)

Not only has he been a great clinician, teacher and friend but he is a super golf partner. The only hic up I had with coach Randy was,  his impatience with my golfing skills, especially my putting and hitting "The Green Stick" (7.5 degree driver). He often threatened to turn the Green Stick into a tomato stake.  Luckily I was able to escape Randy’s disparagement so the Green Stick reminds in my bag.  Although my goal was to break 85 at Jones Creek (JCGC) before I retired, I never made it before leaving Augusta. Now I need to retake a few lessons from Sean, the pro at Brown Deer Golf Club (home away from home). A highlight living in Augusta was my Saturday morning routine beating the white ball around with the guidance of my dental golf buddies: Randy, Steve, Travis, Mike and Mike, Bill, Harry, Dick, and Roger. When snow is on its way in Iowa, I hope to escape to Augusta and join the JCGC dental group, hoping to lower my score. I would be remiss not to mention some really wonderful departmental faculty and staff that gave me support throughout my tenure at MCG (GHSU and soon to be GRU). Keshia will forever be remembered as a favorite, being the first staff that stepped up to help me direct the residency program. What a loyal, hard working person! Ruth, with the same characteristics came on board after my first year and really did a great job helping with the multiple necessities of the program. In fact the program would not have improved without her. Gail  was a champ, dealing with my flack and growing into a MVP in my eyes. Other staff, and there are more than I will mention, were so helpful like Tonya (Dr. Shores), Kim, Annette, Regina, Sonia, Lisa, Brittany, Marlena, Bonnie, Chandra, Dora, Angela to name a few.

Super Stars---Thank you!

Thanks to all these staff and the departmental faculty including the Tar Heal Man, Dr. Pat; terrific smiler, Rany; 200 projects at a time, Kobi and Cristino; and my former Nebraska colleague, Nick. And, last but not least, residents Jack, Trisha, Darron, Aaron, Jabaum, Jamie, Sia, Chris, Brent, Nick, Yolanda, Danny, Josean, Yeritxa and Shahin. What a great group of periodontists! Next post I will write about the trip from Augusta to Coralville. It was quite a project finding room to unload my stuff.



Great Cake--- what I need for the 100 milers.      A compass! Thx Chris. Never lost???

Not Working on the route

Grandson Ian last year on the Broad River, Columbia SC

I was planning to have written more about bicycling and the route but I have been up to my knees in alligators dealing with moving, selling the Martinez house and covering clinics---a load for this old guy. Rumor has it that the sale will close July 19th. But since dates have come and gone, I will believe it when all the lines are signed and the keys are transferred to the buyer. The buyer is a single mom that seems like a good person. I cannot say that about her realtor . Wow this has been a tough transaction.  Nine houses and a dental building later, I have migraines with this one. I guess with a buyers market, the agent believes it gives her license to go for the throat. At least that is the case with this transaction. To date the moving has gone smoothly. Connie packed and packed. Thank goodness the perio residents, Jack, Aaron and Darron are tough guys and they helped me load the stuff going to Iowa in two pods. If everything arrives in good shape, I would recommend moving this way. It is easier to load and you get at least three days to get the job done. We had the pods delivered on Thursday, giving us the weekend and almost four days of stress free loading. Connie will fly to Atlanta July 31.  I will put in my last day at GHSU the 31^st, picking her up at Hartsfield, and then heading north. We will take our time and do some historical stops along the way. I love the history that goes with being in the south. Until I get settled in Iowa, this will be the last post for a while.

Working on the Route

While I am cooling (not really, its been 95 + degrees and humid in Martinez the past week) my heals waiting for a decent offer on this house AND in between work at the College of Dental Medicine and golf, I have been scoping out rail trails in Minnesota and Wisconsin to assess which ones will give me the proper north/south coordinates. It appears I will need to ride the Blue Ox trail between International Falls and Bemidji. This might be a major test in that it appears that this trail is not up to standards of most Rail Trails. The Blue Ox trail has not been surfaced with gravel, limestone or other smooth materials. The ride will be rough, with packed dirt, ruts and balast rock trails. The good thing is that this trail is mostly north south and over one hundred miles in length.  If the maps from from Rails to Trails Conservancy and Google are accurate, I can get sixty percent of the north-south route done in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa and Missouri. Then I will need to go further east and west to find rail trails that will give me the proper latitudes to include all north-south coordinates of America's trails.



This is one of my favorite Connie Cards.

Probably close to the thousandth one she

has made---I Love Connie Cards!

Connie's cards are something to brag about. Each one is original and unique. I feel fortunate to have received over one hundred the past 8-9 years. Card making is only one of many talents. There are dozens of needle work pictures donning the walls of our home and the boys homes. I am so glad she had them nicely framed so that generations to come will enjoy her talents. Along the lines of card making, Connie has completed numerous scrap books of the boys growing up days along with the her life, my life and other relatives. Her talents are sequestered by others so she makes cards and scrap books for the cost of materials. The biggest challenge is finding time for her to do all these creative projects in addition to reading more than one hundred books per year and putting together impossible (for me anyway) jigsaw puzzles. Adding to this, she continues to do part time work with the University of Iowa College of Medicine. Gosh, I will really be in the way when I officially retire July 31, 2012.


Selling the Recumbent

Maze Recumbent similar to 3rd from right

As I said previously, after falling off my recumbent on the Maiden Ride, I was ready to rid myself of bumps and bruises inherited from ubiquitous recumbent spills. So six weeks ago I placed an ad on Craig’s List. With no inquires after three weeks, I dropped the price. It took another two weeks for a physician to take a look. Although he had never ridden a recumbent, he thought he could just jump on and start riding. I was worried his coordination was not up to snuff and he would crash on his first try. After a couple tries it was obvious he would hurt himself before he learned the ropes of peddling, slow speed, turning and balance. Thank goodness he decided to discuss the deal with his wife. When his wife said, “Absolutely not”, that took care of the guilt of selling a tough ride to an uncoordinated doctor. A few days later I received an email from Michelle in South Carolina wanting to know if I still had the bike. Her husband Keith, wanted to work on his weight but was too big to ride a road bike---too painful for his tailbone and back. He told me he had lost more than a hundred pounds dieting but could benefit from another hundred fifty pounds shed. Needless to say I fully agreed. He was a big boy but he had the agility of a NFL nose guard. I felt a lot better about selling the bike to him and having driven fifty miles to Girard, Georgia to meet for the transfer. Especially when Michelle emailed; “We aired up the tires, Keith got on it and went through the yard, out to the road and away he went! Thanks so much.”

Driving fifty miles to Girard, half way between my house in Martinez and Keith’s, became a nostalgic trip for me. A rural landscape opens up down that way, with plowed ground, wheat fields and multiple herds of dairy cows grazing away. There were many more milk makers in these pastures than what I was in charge of on the Carroll farm. After brother Dick went off to college, I inherited the daily milking responsibilities. I think I milked 15 to 20 cows every day including Oaky, my favorite cow. She was a Guernsey as were most of our milk cows. Like my brothers before me, I used two Surge bucket milking machines. They were stainless steel so you never knew for certain when they had completed the task. I guess that is why my dad insisted on stripping each cow dry once the guesstimated milking machine ended its cycle. Stripping a cow is not like what goes on in bars and clubs around the world, but it is a way to assure the cow is dry and will make the maximum level of milk for the next milking. I was never very good at hand milking or stripping them dry but I was good with Oaky. In fact the biggest kick I would get out of milking was, squeezing a prime Oaky teat and squirting a stream of milk five to ten feet at litters of stray cats that would come around at milking time. I could squirt a rope of milk into the mouths of the more talented cats. The less talented felines would get their meal from milk soaked fur of their buddies in the line of fire. It was a giant Lick-a-thon. It was so funny seeing kitty after kitty tumbling over each other, battling for a stream of the tasty warm hors devours.

Holstein Cow

The cows I saw on my drive down to Girard were Holsteins, known for their high production and lower butter fat. Holsteins are the most common milk cow today. Their black and white patch design is readily recognized becoming a logo for such businesses as Gateway computer. We did not have Holsteins on the Maze farm.

My dad had a thing about Guernsey cows. Probably because they had a Scottish or Irish heritage, being bred and developed in 1700 on the Isle of Guernsey, near Normandy. Before I was assigned head milker, my job was to “go get the cows”. Essentially I was the herder, bringing the cows from the pasture to the lot by the barn. I would take my favorite dog Carlo (some time I will write why he was a favorite) and my beat up football along to entertain myself. I loved football and kicking punts as high in the air as I could, would give the necessary hang time to run underneath and catch it. The cows meandered ahead while Carlo and I lagged behind. Once the cows were in the barn and locked into their stantions, I forked hay in their feed trough. Winter feeding was a challenge for this boy. We had hay and corn silage feed bunks in the lot that were about six feet high. It was all I could do to trudge through five inches of mud and then lift bushel baskets of silage above my head and dump them into the mangers. It was a particularly ugly event when we had to feed the cows silage when it was raining and snowing. The silage that one of the brothers shoveled down the silo chute, would quickly become water logged making the weight of this cow food more than double that of normal silage. To add to the misery, stinky fermented corn juices would run out of the wood baskets as I carried them on my shoulder; drenching me to the bone. God I hated that feeling of being cold, wet and smelling like some moonshiner that had fallen in his mash.

Shamus-like Bull

Another cow story, actually a bull story; I should share while I am on the cow topic involves Shamus. To maintain a heard and propagate new milk cows, a bull is necessary. We occasionally paid a veterinarian to perform artificial insemination, but the bulls were the big story. One particularly mean bull, Jim, aka Shamus, was a particularly potent inseminator. He darn near killed or at the least seriously injured my brother Don. We were all scared of this bull. He would snort around, throw his head side to side and dart for any opening he saw. My dad seemed to think he could train him to be a good boy but the only way he could handle him was with a pitch fork. It was my dad’s routine to release Shamus from the bull pen and let him run to the west cow lot and drink from a large water tank. On one particular occasion, while my brothers and I were working on the silo, Shamus decided he would charge brother Don. Don had a hammer in his hand so he swung at Shamus’ nose to turn him away. Don missed and the bull snared his coat, flipping and dragging him like a whipped bull fighter. Don grabbed Shamus’ neck, keeping the mean old bull from goring him with his vicious horns. My dad came running with his pitch fork, jamming it into his back leg. The bull was distracted briefly and Don was able to slip out of his coat to free himself, only to get trampled. It could have been a lot worse. But if that was not enough, my dad decided to let Shamus run with the herd for short period. It was easier for my dad to round up the cows and bull with our new and only pickup truck. It was a 1950, green, Studebaker with big round fenders. One time while herding the cows with Shamus in charge, the bull  decided he wasn’t having any motorized herding in his pasture. He charged the truck full force, spearing his horns into the fenders; ripping metal and crushing the once polished dome fenders. And, if that were not enough, Shamus turned around a rammed the other side. Since insurance did not cover such damages, the truck looked like a demolition derby wreck. We drove the beaten truck for twenty years; not the way I wanted to get around town and be kidded by my rich “friends”. I figured if I didn’t get a drivers license, I would not be embarrassed behind the wheel of a beater. I got my license when I made enough money working for the railroad and Langes Diary. I bought a 1956 Pontiac and gave it to my mom. She was forever grateful not needing to drive the truck, so was I.

Seg #1 Maiden Ride Epilogue

                                            Seg #1 Maiden Ride Epilogue

Geoff reminded me of a funny (not at the time) dog versus bicyclist story on our Chief Ladiga-Silver Comet ride. We were on the last leg of our ride. Our water was on the low side and we were looking for a place to get buy drinks. I don’t know if the “town” had a name or not but it could have been Hiram or Powder Springs. We followed a hand scribbled sign proclaiming “Drinks”. Geoff and Chris were ahead of me, jawing with each other, when I heard barking. Immediately a pack of dogs shot out into the road; circling Geoff’s bike, barking profusely and threatening to bite. The persistent yappers were not interested in Chris or me. I was concerned that one of the more aggressive dogs would bite Geoff in the butt; like what happened to Connie years ago in Nebraska City, Nebraska. One scraggly mutt leaped toward Geoff but only yipped at his buddies and acted like a big shot. Eventually we rode through the obnoxious bags of fur and found a place to buy drinks. It was a small back room casino that I wondered if it was legal. At least we all got the stare of death when we walked into the smoke filled, dimly lit, noisy back room of a converted gas station. After buying some much needed sodas, Powerades and water, we headed back toward the dog pack, only to find the mob had moved on, completely vacating the scene.

Another epilogue to the Maiden Voyage is a response to Ruth’s questions regarding history related to these two trails. Chief Ladiga (La dee ga) was the Creek (name given by white settlers to Muskogee Indians) Indian leader that was “hood winked” by Andy Jackson (7^th President) and his boys to sign the 1832 Cusseta Treaty; contributing to the displacement and death of thousands of Indians on a “Trail of Tears”. Ladiga and his wife also “sold” a chunk of land to a group of speculators for $2000. This land later was used for the town of Drayton which was renamed Jacksonville after our illustrious president. In 1990 with funds from a Intermodal Surface Transportation Efficiency Act (ISTEA)  grant, the first 8.9 mile section of the Ladiga rail trail was built on the railroad right of way abandoned by the Seaboard/CSX and Southern Railroad. The Southern is the same railroad that sold its abandoned line in Georgia to make the Silver Comet Trail. These two trails make for the longest (95 miles) hard surfaced recreational trail in America. We Maze boys did the 95 and a little more during the Maiden Ride.

The Silver Comet Trail in Georgia is named after the Silver Comet passenger train that ran from New York City to Birmingham, Alabama. The modern, full service line was operational from 1947 to 1969 when passenger and mail service dwindled below “make money” levels. Thank goodness some forward thinking leaders such as Ron Griffith, director of Cobb County Parks and members of the Georgia Rails Into Trails Society, procured the right of way, the rest is history.

Maiden Ride Segment # 1 19/105 sm

Start	Anniston, AL	N 33:44:16.00 W 85:49:04.88	N-S miles 18.7
End	Smyrna, GA	N 34:00:32.31 W 85:15:24.79	Total miles 105

As you can see from these pictures the Mazes got the job done, riding the Chief Ladiga and Silver Comet trails a total of 105 miles. Unfortunately we were too pooped to remember to take a picture at the end but I know we would all nail a lie detector test if someone wanted to challenge our claim. Ruth came through by shuttling the car back to Smyrna and taking start photos like the one above. The weather was perfect and we pretty much stayed on schedule. I believe this is the longest hard surface trail in the country. At least it is the longest paved or asphalt rail trail I have ridden. I feel good that I was able to get my recumbent bike up all but two hills. The first knoll I could not pull off was just out of Cedartown, Georgia, after I had carbo overloaded with a big breakfast at the Holiday Inn. The stomach needed to churn food rather than fuel the leg muscles. One could easily ask why there were hills with 20% or more slope on this trail? Apparently the trail builders east of Cedartown could not buy the rail road right of way; therefore a circuitous route with hills and curves was the only way to get the job done. Chris and Geoff “manned up” and rode up all the hills, some of them three hundred feet of elevation change. If we Maze riders worked as hard as Daring Darron, my aspiring periodontist friend, then our little bodies shrunk by burning six thousand calories. We thought the Georgia part (Silver Comet Trail) was the prettier of the two trails, with tunnels and high bridges, coupled with peaceful country scenes. I only crashed my recumbent once. Good thing I wore football pants with hip, thigh and tailbone pads. The pain from my spill in the ditch was bothersome the next morning. I have fallen off the recumbent dozens of times so that is why I have listed this animal of a bicycle on Craig’s list. One interested individual asked if I wanted to trade the recumbent for a guitar, banjo, mandolin or amplifier. Given my inability to play a baritone, ukulele, and harmonica, or of all things, a set of bagpipes, why would I want to trade a bicycle for something I would just look at?

Bagpipes? Yes, my dad thought at least one of his eight sons should represent the Scotch Irish side of the family and learn to play the pipes. Guess what, being the last of the Mohicans, Glennie was handpicked to take chanter lessons from Mr. Harris and to play in the grade school band. The idea of a Maze playing in the band and not blocking and tackling on the football field was unheard of by all brothers that preceded me. Playing the baritone in the band and going to music contests was kind of cool, especially when I would get out of work on the farm to take a trip to places like Sioux City, Iowa, a place that seemed like another country to me due to the three hour bus ride needed to get to Morningside College. So I tooted away for a year until Mr. Robosh gently suggested I try another extracurricular activity. Actually I was getting bored by then, so after sixth grade I was out of the baritone business and pacifying my dad by pretending to practice the chanter at home. I was able to fake it up to the start of my senior year in high school, when my dad laid down the law and proclaimed I would not be able to play my final year of high school unless I played the bagpipes. When you are the age of a high school senior, you don’t embrace what your parents say so I said to myself that I was not going to play bagpipes. Since I had a good junior year and the Carroll Tigers were expected to have another good year, I figured Coach Macomber would talk some sense into my dad. But to talk to the coach and expose the whole thing, I had to participate in the preseason physical exams. The night of the exams I went down to the barn and turned on the lights to give the impression I was shooting baskets in the hay loft. However, I took the opportunity to run across the fields and then down Carroll street to the high school gymnasium. I was late, really late. The doctors had already packed up their equipment but they must have felt sorry for me and one of them looked me over and checked my blood pressure. After running a mile to get to the school and with tons of anxiety because I skipped out, my blood pressure was sky high. I don’t know what it read but the doctors had a conference and then ordered me to go lay on the wrestling mats in a dark corner of the stage. After laying there for what seemed to be forever, the coach came and pulled me out of the dark. Apparently my next reading was lower so I was cleared to play football my senior year. Unfortunately there was not a good time to tell my coach of my dilemma of not being able to play without bagpipe skills. The next morning on KCIM, the local news station, reported that the Carroll Tigers had their preseason football physicals the previous night. My dad said, “Well I guess you won’t be playing football this year.”  “Ok” I said. “I promise to play the bagpipes when the season is over.” And I did. I learned to play the Marines Hymn, my favorite, Blue Bells of Scotland and Wearing of the Green. But because I tore my medial meniscus against Sac City my junior year, I was even slower than I was the year before. It is too bad that arthroscopic surgery was not available back then although I am certain my dad would not have let the orthopedic surgeon touch me. My dad was certain; Doctor Joe had botched a broken leg years prior, causing an exceptionally talented five star collegiate prospect, to lose his leg. George Maze was not about to allow me to get the chunks of cartilage floating in my knee, removed by Dr. Joe. So, I headed into my senior year of football with a weak and painful knee. To protect it I wore a leather brace with a metal hinge. Talk about limitations in speed and agility! Even with the brace on the knee would pop out of joint and I would require help to pop it back in. It wasn’t until I was in the Air Force some ten years later; I got the knee surgery I needed to make life a bit more comfortable.

My knee has never bothered me riding a bike or swimming but I did aggravate it running. After two marathons and all the associated training miles, I gave up running and the pain associated to ride bicycles.

GLENN’S PEDALING HISTORY: TODAY TO THE BEGINNING

Sunday April 1, 2012 is the maiden ride of the Maze Boys. The ride will start the border to border bicycle ride Dad Maze is embarking upon. This will likely be the last time Chris and Geoff will visit Georgia. It will be the first time we will ride a trail together and certainly the first ride together on the Chief Ladiga and Silver Comet trails. The forecast is for warm weather (80-92 degrees is my definition of warm and anything above 92 is hot) and 20% chance of rain. I hope this epic trip isn’t affected by miserable weather. Following my two week posting plan, I should have a dissertation of the ride posted once we are back in Augusta. While I write, the boys can attend the Masters. I hope they will be able to get my favorite PGA golfer’s autograph on a 2007 Master’s pin flag. Iowa boy Zach Johnson won that year and I was blessed with getting through the gates on Thursday, Friday and Sunday. What an upset and what a neat deal for me to be able to follow Zach for three days, and then witness him don the green jacket. Wow that was a special deal for my first ever Masters. For this year, it was great that my pal Steve let me purchase two Wednesday par 3 practice round tickets at face value, and for favorite patient Francis to give me two Thursday competition badges. Geoff came to the Master’s last year, but this will be Chris’ first time inside the hollowed gates of Augusta National.

But I digress on my other passion. This post is to be about the pedaling part of my life. I started pedaling when I was a very young fellow, probably four to five years old. It was a tricycle that was incredibly difficult to ride on the farm, especially with the driveway being a rut ridden dirt path, often filled with mud puddles that could swallow up a medium sized pig. So little Glennie decided if he would ride his tricycle on the gravel road that ran past our farm; now paved and known as Northwest Street in Carroll, Iowa; it would be more fun and allow me to go really fast. Well it was fun to raise some dust for only a very brief moment. One of the neighbors, I think Al and his wife, were driving up the road and noticed this little urchin on his trike. Being responsible folks, I guess they thought they needed to scare the living crap out of me. Al laid on his horn and blared me into total panic. I kept pedaling, trying to ride on the edge of the road. There is something significant about gravel roads at the outer edge. The packed midroad gravel switches to soft loose stones, which immensely affect stability of any vehicle, let alone a little boy’s three wheeler. Panic struck. I hit the gravel; throwing me head over heels into the ditch. In a nanosecond I learned how painful the needles of bull thistles can be. If that wasn’t enough, the neighbor man continued to blare his horn incessantly. He just kept insanely blasting it at me. Maybe the horn was stuck, a common occurrence of cars in the late forties.  Of course I did what most four year olds would do at this point, proceeded to pour buckets of tears. I cried and I cried. The tears stung my face and made little ripples in my dust laden face. That was not the end of it; the horn honking awakened a grizzly bear, better known as the Old Man, the endearing name my seven brothers labeled dad. The old man was taking a Sunday afternoon nap. When I heard him shriek my name with several expletives added in for good effect, somehow my urinary sphincter let loose. The warmth was a bit of a relief yet I guess looked a little freaky to bother Dick. He ran up the road to rescue me, yelling back to my mom that he would get me home safely.

There are other early pedal stories that are forever carved into my mind. For example, the bicycle I wished was mine: a freshly painted blue and white bike that just sat there in the back of a house in town. I was convinced it could be borrowed without anyone caring, satisfying my desire to be like my friends who had wonderful bicycles. So I snuck behind the houses to find this blue and white beauty. It was an adult bike, too big for an eight year old to ride. Stealthishly I wheeled the gem back to the farm. When my mom asked, “where did that bike come from?”, the mastermind of all my bad luck, transgressions and mischief was immediately uttered. “George T” I said. Well God had a plan for that untruth. When I tried to ride this oversized horse of a bike down that rutty driveway, my feet not touching the pedals, I lost control and crashed with the full force of the handle bar impaling me. Not only was there unbelievable stabbing pain in my gut but the collision left me out of breath. Had I died? I thought yes but it just scared the bejeebers out of me, to the point that I immediately wheeled the bike back to town and placed it where it belonged.

When I got old enough, probably twelve or thirteen, I took a paper route with the Des Moines Tribune, an afternoon and evening paper. I needed a bicycle to pick up and deliver about thirty five papers. The only bike in the Maze family was a hand me down coaster brake machine. I believe my oldest brother George bought this bike some fifteen years before I was able to ride it. Given seven brothers used this bike, it would now be classified as a “beater”.  Each brother repaired, splashed paint on spots and crashed it. I inherited a pretty trashed bicycle, which I fondly named Ol’ Unfaithful.  I remember repairing the coaster brake mechanism multiple times. Sometimes being frustrated to tears over not placing bearings, coaster discs or the axle in the proper place or order, then having to disassemble all the parts and start all over again. It was especially stressful when mechanical malfunctions occurred at key moments, like the time I had to repair O’Unfaithful, before pedaling a couple of miles to the newspaper office. One such frantic day of repair, I was late to pick up the papers, resulting in a mad dash to town one hour late. This was the first time I was hit by a car. Riding hell bent for leather, I just started to stand up to pedal when a lady backed right into me. Wham, I hit the street like a dead pigeon. In pain but not thinking I had any broken bones, I slowly got to my feet. The lady got out and asked me if I was hurt. Of course I said no, even though I was. The bike was bent but I could ride it. After limping around with the route, I returned home to get a scolding for not getting the lady’s name. Most of my other crashes have occurred later in my biking years.