Killer Carbs

Dr. Robert Atkins said that carbs can kill you, but I never believed it. Not until August 18, 2007 when I saw the fact demonstrated in front of my own two eyes. Steve, hereafter known as HH (handsome husband), and I decided to head to the local bagel shop via bicycle. You’ve got to admit it, there are no carbs like bagel carbs. Toasted, chewy, unrepentant carbohydrates flooding the blood stream, bringing good cheer to muscle energy-stores everywhere. Or at least that’s my excuse. I really don’t think that the 2.5 mile ride from my front door to the bagel shop probably qualifies as an energy-store depleting event. But I digress…

It is unlikely that anyone living in America since the mid-1960’s is unfamiliar with the Atkins Diet. Controversial since its inception, it is based upon the premise that the food pyramid should be discarded. Atkins claimed that saturated fat was overrated as a nutritional hazard for heart health and contributor to obesity. Instead he prescribed a dramatic restriction in carbohydrate intake in order to switch the body’s energy source away from burning carbohydrates. He claimed that his dietary principles would increase use of stored body fat resulting in lower body weight, improved cholesterol and lipid profile, and lowered cardiac risk. Pork producers all over America greeted the Atkins Diet with open arms. Pork rinds…they weren’t just for rednecks anymore. In fact, those that I know who have used the Atkins approach have lost weight. They also report dreaming about mashed potatoes and pizza crust. In one particularly disturbing dream a giant baked potato chased the dieter through an endless maze of hallways. Revenge of the Spuds.

Now, in a stunning scientific breakthrough, I’ve learned that one doesn’t necessarily need to actually EAT the carbs to run a health risk. As HH and I made the gentle right turn from the road into the bagel shop parking lot, I heard an ominous crrrrrunch, then THUD from behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see HH laying on the pavement. He was still in the riding position, both hands on the handlebars and feet clipped onto the pedals. Laying quite still. As I swung round I heard a moan. Good news from my perspective, CPR would not be needed.

HH wriggled his feet to loosen them from the pedals and struggled to his feet. I knew he was seriously hurting when he abandoned his beloved bicycle, Streak, on the pavement. "This must be critical," I thought. HH loves Streak. I know that in case of a house fire, given the choice between rescuing me or Streak, he’d be sure to hurrry back for me once the bike was safely out of danger.

He shuffled slowly to the curb with his head barely raised above waist level, right elbow and hand dripping blood from assorted road abrasions. The real problem? HH had landed on his right hip and leg…his bad side. The Hip that invariably causes physicians reviewing x-rays to say, “Oh boy! You’ve got some case of arthritis in there!” That hip just doesn’t move in the direction demanded by a sharp fall onto hard asphalt. Consider his hip = the Titanic, and the road = the iceberg. No contest. Our trip toward bagel carb heaven had just sunk.

In case you’re wondering what the worst part of the story is…..it was his birthday.

So read this as a cautionary tale. Apparently the mere intention of carb consumption can now be hazardous to your health. As for myself and HH, we’ve decided that this coming Saturday, we’re playing it safe. Oh, we’ll still go to the bagel shop. And we’ll still go via bicycle. But we only intend to consume some high-fat Atkins-approved product, such as cream cheese. That bagel underneath…it’s just the transport mechanism.

Summertime

One of the best things about riding a bike is that for a few lovely minutes, I am 11 years-old again. Oh, not the gawky, awkward, self-conscious 11 year-old. But the freckly-faced 11 year-old that received a slightly used blue and silver one-speed, coaster brake equipped beauty for my birthday. The 11 year-old who was terrified to ride down the Pine Street hill, but could ride up the same hill - no problem. I feel the breeze in my hair, I remember riding “no hands” and learning to peddle like crazy so that for a few glorious minutes I could put my feet up on the handlebar. That first taste of freedom that a bicycle brought. The first taste of what it might be like to be “grown up” and able to go where I wanted, independently, and f-a-s-t.

It’s only a lovely few minutes, though. Then my _ _ - something body reminds me that there isn’t much fear of how fast I can manage to go downhill, it’s fear of just how slow I might go uphill! But, still…for those minutes, it’s the summertime of youth, and I hear a popsicle calling my name.

Why did the summer days of childhood never seem as hot? I don’t remember ever thinking that it was too hot to ride my bike, go down to the park for crafts and activities, or play with neighborhood friends. I don’t recall heat as an excuse to avoid the 1+ mile walk from home to the nearest city swimming pool. I remember eating supper in the basement, because it was the coolest spot in the house, and watching the water bead up on metal glasses holding icy cold tea.

Summer was clean sheets that smelled like sunshine, Noxzema on sunburned shoulders, a trip to the zoo, Sunday picnics, and my brothers digging a hole to China in the backyard.

Is summer still summer? Have I changed or has the taste of summer changed? Or is it the pace of summer that has changed? I don’t know. But for today, I only need Lil’ Red and a few minutes on the road to take me back. Back home.

High Five

I am writing this from a slightly different seat. Instead of my usual comfy, aerodynamic Terry® gel saddle, I am perched proudly in the winner’s seat! YES! My High Five Bars won the 2007 Duncan Hines Festival Baking Contest!

I can hear you asking “The what?????” You mean you have never heard of the Duncan Hines Festival? That’s a pity. It is Bowling Green’s annual celebration of one of our most famous sons – Mr. Duncan Hines. We’ve celebrated with the baking of the world’s largest brownie (in about 2001). We have the annual Duck Race, although I have no idea what ducks have to do with Duncan Hines. And, for the last few years, we have had an annual baking contest. Like the Pillsbury Bake-Off®, contestants must creatively use the sponsor’s products to create a delectable new recipe. The Pillsbury Bake-Off® attracts thousands of entrants, national media, and awards a large cash prize. It could be considered the Ritz-Carlton® of baking contests.

The Duncan Hines contest, by comparison is more like a Motel 6®. It’s homey, friendly, small, and basic. Event organizers, the Bowling Green Junior Women’s Club, leave “the light on for you” with their low-key approach. Finalists receive a friendly notification phone call, and you can call the club president anytime with questions. When finalists arrived at the judging with their prepared recipe, we all chatted and then proceeded to help and compliment each other’s creation. That’s my kind of contest.

The recipe evolved from an idea at last summer’s family reunion. My daughter, Emily, along with one of the best cooks I know, my sister-in-law Jennifer, suggested a cake or brownie capturing the taste of a Take 5® candy bar. During the remaining summer months and into fall, I took their idea and baked. Family and friends tasted, tasted, and tasted. Weight Watchers and the American Dental Society owe me a big thank you for contributions to their business growth – excess calories and sugar are hallmarks of my winning recipe.

My thoughts in the week between my notification phone call and the judging can be summed up in three words: two-hundred dollars. The grand prize, and co-incidentally the almost exact price of a dress I wanted to wear to my son’s wedding in October. A dress I would never have purchased. Fame – who needs it? Accolades – overrated. But two-hundred dollars - that I could sink my teeth into! I’ll admit it, dollar signs danced in my head.

Diabetes could have been acquired in just walking past the display of the seven finalist’s creations. Chocolate Indulgence and Banana-Praline Cheesecake were just two of the creative gastronomic beauties that my bars were competing against. Mentally, I started to review my closet and re-think just what I might wear to that wedding. I heard the judges laughing as they tried the entry preceding mine in the tasting. When the tray of High Five bars disappeared behind the wall where the judges were working I heard nothing. No laughter, no sighs of delight, no “pass that over here so that I can have more”. Was that a good sign or portent of bad news? I started thinking about which of my friends might loan me an outfit for the wedding – or – could the mother of the groom wear jeans? Nice jeans?

Well, you know the end of the story. I heard my name announced as the winner and received my check. I’ve already ordered the dress, and the smile on my winner’s face is sure to last a while. At least for the month of August – that’s how long High Five Bars will be the featured dessert at Mariah’s Restaurant, a locale fine dining spot. So, if you are in Bowling Green, or can visit this month, stop in at Mariah’s for dessert. Trust me – it’s worth the drive – after all, a panel of judges said so!

Stoplights

Stoplights are both an opportunity and an irritation when attempting to commute via bicycle. They require unclipping one’s feet from the pedals, deciding whether to advance alongside the curb along the right side of vehicles toward “the front of the line”, or to wait at the end of the pack and risk not making it through the intersection with the next green light. Stoplights break comfortable cadence, force me out of my cycling-induced subconscious ruminations, and typically mean inhaling plenty of auto exhaust. Weight- or magnet- activated stoplights don’t respond to the presence of a bicyclist, leaving me trapped waiting for a car to come along and trigger the device, or risk running the red-light when cross traffic clears.

So, what’s the opportunity? People watching. Specifically, people-in-cars watching. A parade of glass, chrome, plastic, and metal encased humanity. Men, women, and children in the four-wheeled home-away-from-home and, apparently, multipurpose kitchen, office, and bathroom. You’ve seen it…people eating, flossing, dressing, writing, reading, and applying make-up at 65 mph. And why does anyone think that picking their nose is a private affair when the car provides a 360-degree panoramic view through glass?

As I waited at the cross-section of one of Bowling Green’s busiest streets with my relatively quiet road, the view from my seat was quite interesting. For instance, it appears that the size of the vehicle is inversely proportional to the number of occupants. A Hummer® is unlikely to carry more than one or two passengers, and appears to be the vehicle of choice of young, petite, attractive females. Can you say “man magnet”? Also, the age of any given vehicle does not appear to be related to the age of the driver. What happened to sixteen year-olds being the proud owner of a beat-up old clunker? I see kids who wear Clearasil® and can’t grow a sizeable mustache piloting $40,000 SUV’s, while parents travel in a 1984 Honda Accord held together with Liquid-Nail® and prayer. Also, classic vehicles are back. By that I mean that there seem to be a healthy number of well kept 1970-era Volkswagen beetles on the road. Who doesn’t have a memory, and personal story, involving a “bug”?

As I watched, it seemed that one out every two drivers held a cell phone to their ear. Whether there were other occupants in the car appeared irrelevant to driver-chat on the cell phone. In one vehicle the driver and passenger were each talking on a phone – do you think it was to each other? I wonder if we will soon have a whole new orthopedic injury called Cell Phone Elbow? The sufferer will be unable to fully extend the affected arm due to hours of flexion holding the gadget to their ear. Surgery schedules will be packed with patients scheduled for removal of wireless earpieces that have become imbedded in the ear canal. Twelve Step programs will spring up as cell phone users realize that their lives have become unmanageable and they need a higher power to relieve them of reliance on cell communication 24-7.

Other observations: Compact cars seem to carry groups of three or four, and at least one passenger is unusually tall. Cars carrying large retrievers or labs have drivers who look like someone I’d like to know. Black cars don’t sport bumper stickers. And someone needs to do an infomercial on how to successfully trap a child in their car seat. Personally, I think extra strength Velcro applied to the child’s bottom and the car seat would be a fine start, but that’s just me.

As the light finally turned green, and I huffed and puffed to get rolling again, an old Willie Nelson tune came to mind. So…with apologies to Mr. Nelson:

Mama don't let your babies grow up to be drivers
Don't give 'em new autos and drive them old trucks
Make 'em be riders and walkers and such.

Mama don't let your babies grow up to be drivers
They'll never stay home and they're always alone
Even with someone they love.

Never Ride Alone

It wasn’t a fluke. While cycling down Veteran’s Drive recently, four – count ‘em – four drivers of pick-up trucks honked at me. Honked! As my future daughter-in-law asked that night at dinner, “Why would they honk at YOU?” Her question, however intended, doesn’t bother me. I am serene in the knowledge that guys driving pick-up trucks have either: #1) great taste in women or #2) really bad eyesight.

But, seriously, let’s talk about daily cycling. Author Jeff Galloway, in his book, “Marathon” writes that athletes have to balance the angel on one shoulder, (who urges them out of bed on early mornings and encourages them to continue running despite leg cramps, shin splints, and blisters), with the devil on the opposite shoulder, (who points out every ache and pain and says “just one day off won’t hurt”). Frankly, I don’t have an angel or a devil on either shoulder.

No. I have a pair of siblings. On my left shoulder is a 6-year-old with attention-deficit-disorder. You know, he’s full of misplaced energy, talkative, and annoying. The kind of kid who would kick the back of your airline seat all the way from Nashville to….oh…Yugoslavia. On my right shoulder is a 13 year-old with PMS and a serious attitude issue. She is armed with an iPod and a cell phone.

On a recent late afternoon ride I had barely left the neighborhood when ADD speaks up, “Are we there yet?”

“Of course we’re not there yet, stupid,” PMS answers. “She peddles so slow, we’ll never get there. Have we EVER gotten there?” PMS continues, “I don’t think she even knows where there is – we just go, go, go and eventually end up right back where we started.” I mentally tell them both to pipe down and enjoy the scenery. It’s not a full minute before I hear a whiny voice say, “I’m boooor-red. There’s nothing to see, except people and cars. I could do that at home and watch TV too.” I ignore ADD and pedal on, after all, soon we’ll be out in the peaceful countryside and there will be cows, corn, and roadkill for entertainment.

Now PMS has turned up the iPod so loud I can not only hear the music but feel the bass vibration. Mentally I say, “Turn it down, Toots.” Seconds later a modified low-slung Honda Civic passes me, the driver practically laying flat in his driving position and thumping music blaring from the car stereo. “See,” says PMS, “You always blame me for everything. I don’t know why I have to go along on these stupid rides. You are so lame. No one else’s Mom decides that menopause is the time to ride a bike. Couldn’t you just get a hybrid car for your mid-life crisis? I want to go home, RIGHT NOW.” I hear her dial the cell phone.

I can’t make out much of PMS’s phone call, although I hear the words “road hostage” and “prisoner”. The reason that I can’t hear is because ADD has decided to entertain himself by playing the alphabet game, you know: “A, my name is Adam and I have an apple.” Except ADD has decided to use body parts in his song: “’A’ my name is Adam and I have an aching ass. ‘B’ my name is Bob and I have a big butt. ‘C’ my name is Calvin and …” I try to tune them both out by counting cadence.

My ride continues. ADD has to use the restroom, needs a snack, has loose shoes, learns how to make fart noises with his hands, and asks “are we there yet” approximately once a minute. PMS pouts, picks fights, criticizes my cycling clothes, helmet, gloves, and camelback, and threatens to call Child Protection Services if we don’t “go home right now.” I feel a bit like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, except I know these kids aren’t real, they are creations of my fat cells desperately trying to avoid eradication.

So, I never really cycle alone. I have a group ride even when I’m all by myself. Who rides with you?