We interrupt my travelogue through Egypt for a bike trip across the state of Arkansas.
Why Arkansas? Because my sister has ridden across all the lower 48 states except two: Arkansas and Utah. Now she is down to one: Utah, where I have promised to be the Supplies And Gear (SAG) person because I cannot keep up with her.
There, I have said it. No more sibling rivalry. I have surrendered. I will forever be a half mile behind her — or more.
We started this ride in Fort Smith, Arkansas, right on the Oklahoma border and the Arkansas River, headed to the Mississippi River and Memphis, some 300 miles away by Mary Jo’s route.
Day One: The weather was chilly but clear. My new electric-assisted bike was working fine. It was Sunday morning, and the traffic was light. And for once in my rides with my sister, I cannot be blamed for cutting short the day’s ride. That blame goes to a nail that found itself lodged in Mary Jo’stire somewhere near Midway, AR. We were 54 miles into a 77-mile ride when Mary Jo stopped, walked up to me and announced she had a flat tire. “Front or rear?” Rear. Ugh.
We decided to call the SAG team, otherwise known as our spouses. MJ spouse Don arrived for the rescue, and after a Mexican lunch at our first overnight stop in the town of Dardanelle, three of us spent more than an hour changing the tire.
If it hadn’t been for that nail, I might have shortened the ride.Somewhere in those 54 miles, I discovered that the auxiliary battery I bought to make sure I could make the average of 80 miles a day was not charged. So soon after those 54 miles, my bike would have been without power, and it would have been up to my two legs alone to get us to Dardanelle. The SAG team does not answer the phone on those calls.
After the tire repair, I examined my batteries, found the right slots for the charging tabs to go into and set them up for overnight.
The view from our breakfast table at Mather Lodge. The cliffs across the valley remind me of those along the Buffalo River in Arkansas.
Day Two: We rode 20 miles on a foggy morning before stopping for breakfast at the Mather Lodge in Petit Jean State Park. I’d go back to Arkansas just to stay at the lodge. The website says that the “native log and stone facilities (were) constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) beginning in 1933. The CCC built trails, roads, bridges, cabins, and the focal point of the park, historic Mather Lodge, a 24-room lodge overlooking Cedar Creek Canyon with a restaurant, meeting rooms, and gift shop.”
The story behind why the park is called Petit Jean is a charming — but sad — one. I hope you can enlarge and read it on the menu page I photographed.
Concerned about whether my bike and batteries would last the 90 miles for the day, I did lots of coasting to reserve battery power. Coasting downhill is the only time I can get ahead of my sister, who holds back on the descending grades. So somewhere on Arkansas Route 300, I got way ahead of her, so far ahead that I missed a turn. At the bottom of the hill, Mary Jo told me I had missed it and we had to ride back a mile, adding two miles to the day’s ride. Maybe because of coasting or maybe because the batteries have more juice than I thought, I made the 90-mile ride to Little Rock with power to spare. And I was feeling pretty good about staying less than a half mile behind my sister, until after dinner when she acknowledged that her electric-assisted bike had run out of power. At what point in the ride? About 75 miles, which means that she rode the last 15 miles on her own power. The ego balloon popped.
Day Three: I was slow. I do not like riding in the rain, which started before we got outside the city limits of Little Rock. It rained until we arrived at England, AR, 37 miles into the ride. The only good thing I can say is that Mary Jo’s route had us on beautiful roads: Hardly any traffic, smooth pavements, trees along the route. Besides being a great bike rider, my sister is also a pretty good navigator. She has to stop along the way to dig out her reading glasses to study her Garmin, her written route in a rain-proof folder and check her cell phone if there is coverage. Even when I think she has led us astray, I follow. We turn onto a road that says “No Outlet,” I’m riding behind her (a half mile back). “Road closed”? Who cares? There will be a trail at the end of it. Or a way through a construction zone, as happened in the photo below. “Sometimes it works, sometimes not,” Mary Jo said. “This time, it worked.”
I also do not like riding in the wind, which I thought came up after the rain even though my sister said, “This is not too bad.” So I was slow. So slow that at 64 miles, we called in the SAG team 13 miles short, realizing that getting to Clarendon, AR, before dark could be a problem.
In my defense, I would like to point out that walking 1.8 miles across the heaped-stone gravel “shortcut,” did not help our time. Still some work to do on navigation, sis.
Day four: It rained all night and into the morning. Rained hard. Enough that we walked to breakfast and decided to drive with the SAG team to Marianna, AR, ahead of the rain.
We kept dry for 60 miles into Memphis, TN, but were disappointed in the Mississippi River Levee because you can’t see the river from on top of the embankment, which is covered with crumbly gravel.
The Big River Trail was an assortment of trails, roads and turns, one of which I slipped in gravel and came down hard on my side. Two miles from the end of the ride — but better than two miles at the start of the ride, as Josh at the bike shop pointed out.
The bike lane across the Mississippi River is on a converted railroad bridge, fenced in with very few people on it the day we came across.
Despite the flat tire, the rain and my fall, we made it across Arkansas. When the woman at the bike shop, which is shipping my bike back to Seattle, heard about our journey, she said: “It was an eventful ride.”
And we ended it all with a ride in a pink Cadillac limo to a dinner with Elvis at the Marlowe Restaurant (order the ribs).
The lobby of the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs, Ark., serves many purposes. It’s the spillover seating for the bar off to the side. There’s a band shell for music and evening dancing, and during the day it serves as a waiting room for those checking into this majestic and old – mostly old – remnant of the late 19th Century.
The Arlington Hotel bar
The clerk who helped me check in was enthusiastic about all Hot Springs had to offer, although he mostly rained on my ideas for a one-day visit here. Hot springs out in the wilds? No, all the waters have been long ago captured and fed into spas and bath houses. The only place on Bath House Row that still offers “waters” is the Buckstaff Baths. There are spa offerings available at hotel, which did not fit into my schedule.
What’s the most popular activity for people to do at this national park? Get out and take a hike, see the natural beauty of Arkansas. Would it match the natural beauty of the Pacific Northwest?
Let’s face it, I was only being polite. The clerk didn’t need to feel bad about my refusal to engage in hiking or taking in the waters as he suggested. My real reason for coming to Hot Springs was to attend the races at Oaklawn Racing Casino Resort.
I bought a Daily Racing Form (DRF) at the front desk (how many hotels can you do that?) and walked off to my room with the paint peeling from the walls. Clean, but old – mostly old. Studied the form and then headed down Saturday morning to the best use of the Arlington lobby. Every morning before the races, Eddie “Pick 6” Pannell offers his advice on the day’s card.
Eddie “Pick 6” Pannell in the Arlington lobby
He starts out asking if anyone in the crowd bets horse according to the horse’s names. A few raised their hands, and I could have held up a finger or two since it is something I rarely do. But once in a while a name pops up so much like mine that I can’t pass it up. On those races, I accept that I will bet the name, the urge so strong that it will bias my handicapping so much that I can’t get through the past performances without going back and confirming my namesake has the best chance of winning, three-legged horse or not. I settle for the name and hope for the best, which hardly ever comes my way. Johnny Five? How could I pass on that? A moderate bet for a two-dollar bettor like me, and the horse veers immediately out of Seattle’s Emerald Downs starting gate, unseats his rider and hits the rail, rolling over it into the infield. Could be a horse high jumper, but in Thoroughbred racing that is DNF: Did Not Finish. (Next time Johnny Five ran, he won and paid $8.80, and I was nowhere near a track or off-track betting).
Never follow my bets. I could not do what Pick 6 was doing, offering tips on four-legged animals who seem to do what they want not what the Daily Racing Form says they should. I’d feel too guilty about anyone who took my handicapping advice and then a subsequent financial bath.
Pick 6 warned us about betting names and omens:
“I woke up right at five o’clock in the morning, looked out my window and saw five bluebirds singing on the telephone line. I was on the fifth floor of the hotel in Room 555. I put on my pants and found I only had five dollars left to my name. Got out my form and saw that in the fifth race there was a horse named Henry the Fifth. Took the No. 5 bus to the track and used all five dollars to bet on Henry the Fifth to win. Stood in the fifth row up from the rail and watched him come in fifth.”
I paid particular attention to what he said about races two, three and four because I figured on exploring the track on my first visit there, wandering the food stands, restaurants, betting windows and the casino – people watching instead of horse watching. So after a brisk two-mile walk, partly along the Grand Promenade behind Bath House Row, to Oaklawn, I figured I had the info I needed to fill in for what I had not handicapped. I did races one, five through nine, neglecting the last race of the day because it’s usually filled with what’s left over.
Hot Springs Broadwalk
Race one went with my pick, Audacious Angel, showing no interest in racing today while Pick 6 Eddie’s choice, Heavens Whisper, won by one and three quarters lengths. I lose eight bucks on that race. OK, I’m a two-dollar bettor but sometimes those two-dollar bets are times four. Looking at Pick 6 Eddie’s winner, I figured I could rely on him to see me through the next three races I had neglected.
What a disaster. Not only did Pick 6 let me down, but the teller at the betting window seemed to be in cahoots to make my day at Oaklawn a bust. Eddie liked Rosemary Beach as one to pair up in the Exacta (betting the top two horses to finish in order) with others he thought would be in the top two. I’m sure I told the teller I wanted #11 (Rosemary Beach) paired with Eddie’s five horses. I’m sure I told the teller I wanted #11 (Rosemary Beach) paired with 1, 2, 5, 7, 10. That would be five one-dollar bets (11 with 1, 11 with 2, 11 with 5, etc) or $10 in bets if you reversed the bet or “boxed” it (1 with 11, 2 with 11, etc), which I did. If the 11 comes in first or second, I collect winnings, hoping for the longest odds to pair up with Rosemary Beach to enhance the payoff. Instead, the teller seemed to have written it as all six horses boxed together, or something like that. I still can’t figure out how my $10 bet ended up costing $30. Maybe I did not speak Arkansese well enough. Like the sign says at the window, “Always check tickets before leaving.”
I did not.
The #12 (Dabinawa Dove) came in second to Rosemary Beach, and Pick 6 Eddie had overlooked this 68-1 long shot who had only run one race so poorly it earned no Beyers points (you can look that up). The Exacta paid $56.80, the Trifecta (top three horse in order) paid $325 and the Superfecta (top four horse in order) paid $595. And we had not a cent of any of it. Only a dove would bet that horse.
I had not abandoned all hope in Eddie just yet. He had suggested another bet that seemed worth doing – betting the 50 cent Pick 3, naming the winner in three consecutive races. Put in three horses in each race as possible winners and the total bet is $13.50 (my two dollar bet times 6.75), but the payoff, Eddie said, could be grand if something other than a favorite won one of the three races. My picks for races 2, 3 and 4 were (11-7-1) with (8, 6, 5) with (2, 4, 5). Rosemary Beach came through in the second, Frost or Frippery won the third and all I needed in the fourth race, thanks to Eddie, were to see Trail Boss, Wild Haven or French Dancer cross the line first. Eddie did not recognize the worth of #3, Ludington, who won the fourth race and had me down $51.50 after four races, the Great Recession all over again for a wayward two-dollar bettor.
What would the Pick 3 pay? Who cared? I had none of it, although Eddie and I got two thirds of the way through it before our trio refused to play along. Maybe if I used his bets with my horses. I could climb out of this recession with a few wins, which, as soon as I thought it, struck me as the losing gamblers’ fatal flaw and phrase: ”Stay and win back my losses,” which usually means losing everything in your pocket and, hopefully, never have an ATM card anywhere near you.
There’s always some truth in those sayings about what the “normal” gaming addict would do: Like bet $22 on the next race and win $10.80, a normal routine for me at the racetrack. Flatoutcountry came through to win, but all my horses in my exotic bets (Exacta, etc) never made the tote board thanks to Flashy Biz at 14-1 and Letters to Belle, which “couldn’t last,” according to the DRF. In it’s last race, a DNF and 0 in Beyers. Never finished better than sixth. Will the one person named Belle stand up and share some of the money they won on this 47-1 horse?
Down another $12 and figured out what I could lose: no more than $100 or I would have to check out of the Arlington and sleep in the truck.
In for $10.40 in the race with all depending on B.B. Dude, running his first race since getting gelded. Always bet those horses since now they can keep their minds on racing. The Dude did not abide. He finished sixth, perhaps fretting over love’s labors lost.
We’re up in the 70-dollar range now in money lost, $73.10 to be exact, although they say to never count your money at the table, especially if doing so makes you want to faint or break down weeping. But I bucked up, or maybe start that “uck” word with an F. Time to go all in or go home. Into the seventh race we march, armed with a win ticket on Box of Chocolates and a 10 cent Superfecta boxed filled out by Better Charge It, Kinetic Swagger and Rocknroll Rocket. Plus, we have renewed Eddie’s Pick 3 idea for races seven, eight and nine. In for a total of $27.50, including the Pick 3. We’re 60 cents over saying goodbye to a Ben Franklin, and thank God I have legs enough and don’t need bus fare to walk to my overnight accommodations in my truck.
Eddie had liked Box of Chocolates because of breeding (by Candy Ride – the sire – out of Lady Godiva – the mare). When talking in the Arlington lobby, he hadn’t said anything about breeding until handicapping the seventh race. He said he mostly used it when judging first time starters. This is what he said about breeding:
“Three people were sitting in a bar, each having a glass of wine. When the Frenchman noticed a fly in his glass, he drank the wine right down. When the Englishman saw a fly in his wine, he ordered the waiter over and said this was an abomination and demanded another glass. Then the Irishman noticed a fly in his wine. He immediately reached in, grabbed the fly by its hindquarters and held it over the glass, shouting, ‘Spit it back! Spit it back!’”
That’s what I know about horse breeding.
I liked Box of Chocolates for having the best Beyer numbers in the field at this distance (a mile) and at this level: Maiden race for 3-year-olds with $47,000 in purse money. Also drew the top jock at the meet, Ricardo Santana, Jr.
Whether breeding, best Beyer, top jock or all of the above, Box of Chocolate won, and the supporting cast in my Superfecta also played their parts very well, making it into the top four places. Payoff for that race was $27.09, just 41 cents short of what I needed to cover my bets, including the Pick 3, which as still alive and now paid for.
We’re only down $73.51, but almost winning back what I bet seemed almost even. What would it take to make me even? Eddie asked that question once to another top handicapper he knew. “How far ahead are you?” the handicapper asked right back.
I had No. 3 to win (Bebop Shoes. Who could resist?) in the eighth. Not just for the name, of course, I rarely do that. First, second and third in the last three races, including a stakes for $100,000 and two races at $83,000. The race today is an allowance (you can look it up) for $91,000, and Bebop Shoes has won at a higher level with higher Beyers numbers.
He was beaten by a neck by J.E.’s Handmedown. Which turned out to be a good thing. I had bet J.E. Handmedown, with longer odds, in my Exacta, my Superfecta and in my Pick 3, which had one more race to go. Bebop Shoes and J.E. Handmedown paid $21.60 in the Exacta, and the Superfecta completed by Bandit Point at third and Absolutely Aiden at fourth, a horse I had on my loser list – yes, I keep lists. I had seen his last race when he came in eight out of eight, fading badly from an upfront position. Pannell was high on him because of his first-time-starter win at Saratoga. I included him reluctantly after someone in the Arlington lobby that morning said he saw the loser race and thought he saw the saddle slip when the horse started going backwards.
I won $85.99, which put me $2.08 ahead. As much as I wanted to take credit for this – filling Eddie’s betting system with my horses – I realized that without his backing of Absolutely Aiden in the Superfecta I would have missed the payoff that made me a little bit ahead.
In the ninth race, all I had to do was hope that Nos. 3, 4 or 7 won the race. I didn’t handicap this race because of Classy John, No. 3 in your program. Had to go with him, and forget facing the past performances with a clear head. Back to relying on Pannell’s picks: five of the eight horse in the race got commented on, with this on Classy John: “Maybe. . . maybe, No. 3.” Added his top two with No. 3: Nitrous and Frosted Ice.
Many of the horses in this race had been in prep races for the Kentucky Derby, running in the Rebel Stakes at Oaklawn and other stakes. None of them had moved on to Louisville and Churchill Downs but were here competing in the Bachelor Stakes for $150,000 in purse money. Classy John had come in seventh in the Rebel and no one but someone named John would bet him.
He got to third early in the race and then started falling behind. I watched him fade to fifth and then saw him cross the finish line in sixth. Frosted Ice was nowhere in the top four, and I said out loud, “What happened to No. 4?”
“No. 4 won. Didn’t you see?” said the unknown person beside me who probably was not named John or busy watching No. 3. Turned out that while Classy John was fading, Nitrous was closing the gap from sixth with a half mile to go, to fourth at the start of the stretch and on to win by one and three quarters lengths.
Thanks, Eddie “Pick 6” Pannell, for the $75.50 Pick 3 payoff.
Valorie Lund with the red hair.
And there was more to come. Pannell had mentioned Valorie Lund as a great trainer. She used to train at Emerald Downs and is, in fact, a great trainer. I might have noticed that if I ever handicapped the last race of the day. But picking this winner would mean overturning some deep-seated belief that horse bettors carry around like ticks embedded in some hidden folds of skin they can’t see; I’ll not say where. Betting Ship it Red, trained by V. Lund, to win added another $12.20 to my wallet for a total winning for the day of $85.78.
A profitable use of the Arlington lobby for that Saturday, and every time I wear my “Bringing Up the Rear” tie that I bought at the Oaklawn gift shop, I’ll thank Eddie “Pick 6” Pannell for my best day at the track and his good advice on horse names, omens and breeding.
Second day on Buffalo River, Arkansas, Part III — We were up early – around 6 a.m. – but spent a long time at breakfast, getting our gear in order, loading the boats and finally launching around 8:45. We had pored over our maps and figured out that we had paddled up Big Creek on the first day while searching for the Cold Springs schoolhouse, which we never found. The paddle upstream was a hard one, probably because Big Creek is the second largest tributary to the Buffalo River adding nine percent of the full load. Still, it was nice to figure out where we were.
Some wind today but the current kept us going whether we paddled or not. A couple of ripples that kept us on our toes but nothing like at Clabber Creek Shoal on the first day.
Standing in front of Elephant Head. I think I am looking serious because of the huge responsibility of taking the selfie.
We used Elephant Head rock as a place we would know exactly where we were on the map. How could anyone miss a 210-foot high rock shaped like an elephant? We paddled another mile or two and stopped in front of Grayface Bluff. Ian suggested we set up the tents first, and it was a good thing we did as we retired to them as some big-drop rains fell on us.
Our second camp, up high in the sand and rocks.
Once outside in the evening, Ian put his book away and watched the buzzard and occasional eagles overhead. “I can read anytime, but when can I watch buzzard playing in the thermals on a bluff over the river” We wondered if they were scouting for carrion to make a group meal or if they were drifting back and forth over the bluff for fun, which is what we agreed we’d be doing.
(Ian admits the sound in the video above is terrible, but what I am saying is we are starting a 30-mile float trip on the Buffalo River in Arkansas and the bridge behind me was underwater in the 1982 flood.)
The guidebook describes the Clabber Creek Shoal as the “wildest rapids of the lower river.”
That’s a lie.
It’s the wildest rapid on all 135 miles of the Buffalo River in Arkansas, from Ponca down to the White River. I know because after my third trip there recently, I have floated all those miles over all those rapids.
The book “Buffalo River Handbook” by Kenneth L. Smith, talks about Clabber Creek Shoal current going right, then left, don’t get swept into the right bank and don’t get swamped by the haystacks.
Haystacks? Odd thing to have in the river.
Since then I have learned that “haystack” waves are not like the riffles, wave trains and strainers and stags I had glided happily over or have avoided on previous trips on the Buffalo. Haystacks don’t move downstream as you do; they stay right there where some underwater rock – or rocks – put them.
I, in my ignorance and hubris, figured I’d have no problem. Even a 275-prop will come down if you aim your tackle low enough.
No problem avoiding the right bank. On to the haystack waves, bow first and over the top as I always once did. I got up and over one. Sloughed through another and looked into the base of a Cecil B. DeMille wave. Sometimes the prop runs over you, and the Red Sea wave wins no matter where you aim your attack.
It flicked my kayak over to the left, and I remembered two things as the kayak turned: Stay with the boat and don’t lose your paddle. Fortunately, all my belongings were well attached. Dry bags, water jugs and carabiners all held to my new shock cords. My hatch cover leaked some, but tent, sleeping bag, camp chairs and coats (a bit damp) all stayed aboard.
The only things dumped into the river were unattached: the map case, my Stanley coffee thermos and me.
I pulled myself up over the overturned boat with my paddle in hand and peeked over the hull to see my thermos headed for the goal line. Kicking for shore with two legs and one arm as down the river we went.
Ian, my partner, took his kayak to the left of the haystacks, stayed upright and then did things in the right order. First getting the map case, then the thermos and finally towing me and kayak the last few yards to shore.
Mostly wet and checking my fogged binoculars. Photo by Ian Gunn
The underwater camera seems to be working fine, but looking through the binoculars (in the pocket of my life vest, which I was wearing) is like examining a one-celled animal swishing around on a fogged microscope slide.
Up until then, the trip had gone swimmingly. We launched at Dillard Ferry, upstream from Buffalo Point, and got to what we thought would be our first night’s camping spot at noon. So we decided to push on to the second night camp spot. We needed the rescued maps and Ian’s GPS to try to find it, and never did. But it’s hard to get lost when the river is pushing you downstream.
First night’s campsite.
We found a great campsite but unfortunately followed some awful campers. Fire still smoldering, cigarette butts everywhere, soap and other trash strewn around and the TP flowers nearby with their white and brown blossoms.
Rekindled the fire, dried out clothes in sun, cooked, ate, read and to bed in skivvies – although the long johns are nearby.
When the level of Arkansas’ Buffalo River hits six feet at Buffalo Point, the National Park Service restricts access to experienced paddlers. When it’s at 10 feet, the river is closed.
On Wednesday morning, when we were to start our four-day canoe trip from Buffalo Point to the confluence with the White River, the level was 16 feet.
On Thursday, it was 22 feet.
“We blew that one right out of the water, so to speak,” said the lady at the counter of our canoe rental office.
We never got on the river, and we are now dodging continued rain, possible flash flooding and wind and thunder storms as we head north to Kansas City.
Disappointed, but the power and danger of the river was brought home when we learned on Thursday morning that a canoeist on Wednesday had gone missing upstream of us.
Inside the Indian Rockhouse at Buffalo Point
Kept off the river, we turned our attention to other pursuits. We walked the Indian Rockhouse Trail in the Buffalo Point State Park and then drove over to the Blanchard Springs Caverns for a tour.
We hope to be in Independence, MO, tonight for a visit to the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library and Museum.
And we are starting to point toward Seattle and home.
“You walked into the party
Like you were walking on a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf, it was apricot
You had one eye on the mirror
And watched yourself gavotte . . .”
So you walked into the party wearing your photographer vest and cargo pants because one can never have enough big pockets for phone, notebooks, pencils, pens, bandana, keys, wallet, coins, utility knife, nail clippers and — what’s this? — a camera. It’s practical. It’s comfortable. Lots of people dress like that in the Pacific Northwest even before Maria Semple wrote “Where’d You Go, Bernadette.” (Why no question mark in the title?)
It’s gotten so it seems normal to some of us until we walk into the party and someone asks, “Did you just come off a safari?”
Well, no, but . . . you look around and see that not everyone dresses like Jungle Jim. He would be the lead character in films on the 5 o’clock movie that gave you reason to go back outside and try keeping the Hula Hoop going for 100 loops. The only thing worse would be a rerun of Peter Lorre in another Mr. Moto movie. Jungle Jim movies were a waste of film and Johnny Weissmuller, who happily showed up more often at 5 swinging from grape vines and calling wild animals to his aid.
Jungle Jim wear is a lot more practical though than Tarzan’s loin cloth. But if you aren’t in the jungle or on safari and you dress like it, are you exhibiting nerd behavior?
These are questions that give us a break from should our president wear a pants suit and delete emails or wear a red tie and force his way into women’s pants suits.
On Arkansas’ Buffalo River in 2016.
So let’s say you paddle down a river and you are dressed like Jungle Jim floating the Limpopo — life jacket, quick-dry shirt and pants (with BIG pockets and lots of them), neoprene booties and river sandals. Tent, freeze-dried food, sleeping bag, water bladders all secured behind your seat. Suddenly you are in the middle of floaters hardly dressed at all — bikini-clad women, men in bathing suits, all stretched across inner tubes, toting radios and towing floating coolers. The party seems to go on forever and you, Mr. Moto Nerd, are way overdressed.
The biker on the right has bad B.O.
Kinda like bike riding. Most American bicyclists dress the same whether they are riding 100 miles or going down the street to the post office. They show up in all kinds of places — the post office for instance — looking like they’re stopping by for a drug test or blood transfusion before the next leg of the tour. And, Mr. Skinny Pants Moto, you’ve got B.O.
Of course there are times when unusual dress is appropriate. The croquet court would be one where one should never neglect wearing whites (Captain of the Yacht, you are welcome here!).
Time behind the barbecue? A ridiculous apron is a must.
Hope we never find out.
But these are special occasions where we all agree to be a little weird. If we all dress the same, then we can’t be nerds, right? Not necessarily, as Amazon workers prove daily in the streets of Seattle.
So perhaps this is a question that should be left for quieter times so that we can rejoin the ranks of fellow citizens either packing their bags for their trip to Canada Nov. 9 or stirring up a pot of tar and feathers for dressing up the losers.
It’s been a great year, with lots of fun activities with good friends, and I’ve enjoyed bringing you this silly review of those activities. America seems pretty great to me, and I know I am fortunate to be in a position where I can say that. Whatever we do on Nov. 8, I’m hoping it’s for the best for all of us, no matter how we are dressed, how we look, vote or pray. I also hope it is good for Earth, this place we call home and yet don’t pick up after ourselves. We need to do better.
Til then, anyone know where I can get a hat like Jungle Jim’s — with a big pocket in the back?
this winner would mean overturning some deep-seated belief that horse bettors carry around like ticks embedded in some hidden folds of skin they can’t see; I’ll not say where. Betting 
“You walked into the party
