Thank you. I'll be here all week.

Person 1: Knock knock.

Person 2: Who's there?

Person 1: Control freak. Now you say, "Control freak who?"

Numbers.

Hemoglobin a1C = 5.6. (Normal is from 4 to 6.)

Miles bicycled yesterday: 70.18. Unfortunately, two flat tires in the space of a mile slowed me down somewhat, but at least I got some practice at changing flats -- not to mention a reminder to equip my bike with new tires before Death Valley.

Photographic evidence available on request.

On the bandwagon.

Yes, it's an internet phenomenon that is probably past its sell-by date. But I couldn't resist posting these Chuck Norris facts here:

• Outer space exists because it's afraid to be on the same planet with Chuck Norris.
  
  
• There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live.
  
  
• Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.
  
  
• Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.
  
  
• Chuck Norris frequently donates blood to the Red Cross. Just not his own.
  
  
• Chuck Norris's tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.
  
  
• Chuck Norris does not go hunting because "hunting" implies a chance of failure. Chuck Norris goes killing.

N.Y. Times mixed-metaphor watch.

The Times saw fit to print this article by Guy Trebay on how acts that once would have been shameful now function as career moves. At least, I think that's what the article is saying -- it's hard to tell sometimes. Here are some bits of truly purple prose. George Orwell, eat your heart out.

It would probably require a stopwatch to clock the lag time between sin and redemption lately, as media disgrace is transformed into a bargaining chip in a celebrity's career often before a bad boy or girl has stumbled home from the crime scene and showered off the taint of shame.

Eh, what? OK, OK. Take a deep breath, and let's take the metaphors one at a time.

1. A stopwatch clocking lag time. OK, we're engaging in some kind of science experiment -- or, or . . . maybe we're timing a race. Yeah, a race! Maybe a high school track meet? Must read on.
2. Sin/redemption/disgrace. The track meet is at a Jesuit high school. I get it.
3. Bargaining chip. Hmm. This first struck me as a metaphor, but then it occurred to me that I don't even know what a "bargaining chip" is. I mean, is there such a thing? Is it a physical object? Maybe it's like a chip that you bet with in poker. OK, I think we're at a track meet at a Jesuit high school in Las Vegas.
4. Stumbling home from crime scene/showering off taint. The athletes at the track meet have now hit the showers, that much is clear. But there was a crime committed by someone, perhaps during the race. I'm lost.

Let's move on to another excerpt, which may clarify matters:

If anything, the bubble-gum divinity apotheosized on the basis of a homemade pornography loop, a moronic catchphrase and a mental vacancy cavernous enough for storing yellowcake appears set to enjoy a media half-life about as long as that of a spent plutonium rod.

1. Whoa, harsh! Hey, I'd be careful throwing around the term "moronic" if I were responsible for this piece.
2. Ok, a "bubble-gum divinity" is being "apotheosized." Is this a memo from the department of redundancy department? To apotheosize something means to deify it. I don't think you can deify a deity. I mean, the deity is already deified, isn't it? Sort of by definition.
3. Whatever. If I were the divinity, I would be less worried about being re-deified than the fact that I am apparently residing in a cavern for storing yellowcake uranium, and at the same time enjoying a "half-life" equal to a "spent plutonium rod."
4. Conclusion: the Jesuit high school is holding its track meet not in Las Vegas itself, but nearby at Yucca Mountain, Nevada, where the U.S government stores highly radioactive nuclear waste in giant caverns underground. Interesting play for home-field advantage there by the track coach.
5. In the end, I'm not really sure how the divinity is involved. Did the coach bring along a crucifix for inspiration? Is there a patron saint of track meets? I'm stumped. Well, you can say this about the Times: It sure expects a lot from its readers.

Moving on:

And even before the model had checked out of the drying-out clinic, she was inundated in attention and work.

I like the contrast between "drying-out" and "inundated" here. I can't tell if it's an intentional attempt at sly humor or not. If I had to guess? Probably the latter. OK, here's the last excerpt because my brain is about to explode:

And so Ms. Moss's cool — the historical cool of bad boys and girls doing things that most of us, being properly middle class, might wish to do but will never get around to, explained Dr. Michael Brody, chairman of the media committee of the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry — becomes something different and better in a marketing sense when one adds a dollop of scandal or edge.

1. I may as well admit up front that I don't understand what this sentence means at all.
2. I pity Dr. Brody, who probably was a respected name in psychiatry before this article was published.
3. All I can think is: Mmmm. . . A dollop of edge. That sounds tasty.

Still here.

And though my lack of posting might suggest a lack of bicycling, that's not true. Not true at all. No, indeed.

Last Saturday, I rode 65 miles. It took me about five hours.

Yesterday, the weather here in Cloud City was improbably gorgeous, and I rode for almost 30 miles after work. Today, I plan to do the same. And tomorrow, too, if the evening rain holds off.

That should be put me in good shape for a planned 70-mile ride this Sunday. Only two more weeks to go!

I hope they paid the sixty-eight women.

Here's some exciting news that the New York Times found fit to print:

Women can unconsciously detect the smell of fear, new research suggests, and the smell improves their performance on mental tasks.

Scientists collected sweat from seven volunteers — four men and three women — who watched horror movies while holding gauze pads in their armpits. Then, their sweat was collected while they watched videos with neutral emotional content.

Sixty-eight women next performed a word-association task while smelling the pads. The task involved watching two words flash on a screen one after the other, and then stating whether the two words were related. ("Arms" and "legs" are related; "arms" and "wind" are not.)

The subjects were divided into three groups: the first smelled the sweat pads of sweat collected during the frightening video; the second smelled pads collected during the neutral video; and the third, a control group, smelled pads with no sweat on them.

Without sacrificing speed, the women smelling the fear pads were more accurate than those in the other two groups when processing meaningful related words. There was no difference in speed or accuracy between the three groups when the words were not related.

Denise Chen, an assistant professor of psychology at Rice University and the study's lead author, says she believes that it was the smell of fear that improved performance. "The smell of fear may have made these people more cautious," she said, "and made them better at recognizing meaningful information."

None of the subjects could consciously assert that they could smell fear. "The effect on task performance," Dr. Chen said, "is likely subconscious."

The study appears in the April issue of Chemical Senses.

Heck, no one ever told me that watching horror movies while holding gauze pads in your armpits meant that you were doing science. Where I come from, that's called "any given Saturday night"!

Seriously, though -- this gives me a good idea, which I will generously share with you. For your next high-stress situation, where you may be called on to make snap decisions -- oral argument in front of a federal court of appeals, say (I'm just thinking out loud here) -- prepare your own "fear pads" ahead of time. Make sure to stash them in a closed, airtight container so as not to diminish their potency. Then, on the big day, attach your "fear pads" to your face, just below your nostrils. Be creative. Use colorful rubber bands, or modify the headgear some unfortunate adolescents have to wear with braces. Leave the house, walking tall. If anyone asks what you're doing, just say, "Wouldn't you like to know? Well, riddle me this: Arms! Wind! Related?" Then walk on.

Sure, some will laugh, but didn't they laugh at Newton? Didn't they laugh at Einstein? And so what if they also laughed at Bozo the Clown -- maybe if Bozo had been wearing his "fear pads" like I told him, he'd be having the last laugh.

The sun is a mass of incandescent gas, a gigantic nuclear furnace.

And even when the temperature outside is in the 40s, you still may want to put on sun screen. This lesson I learned on Sunday, when a 4-hour bike ride left me with a little color on my cheeks and nose. I prefer to think of it as a healthy glow. It's starting to fade now.

A fellow Death Valley rider and I drove an hour north to Mercer, Pennsylvania, home of a beautiful courthouse (pictured left), and also Amish people (not pictured -- that would be rude). Together we rode 60 miles over rolling country roads, sometimes going for 20 minutes without seeing a car. I found that I can outsprint a trotting horse and buggy. At one point, we passed a farm where huddled together in the yard, apparently in serious conversation, were several llamas, goats, and at least one potbellied pig. It was like something out of "Charlotte's Web." After we passed, the animals probably made snarky remarks about our goofy cycling clothes.

Only three more weeks of training before the taper in the last week. I'm really looking forward to that -- working on my tapering skills, that is. I've always been a master at tapering, inasmuch as it consists of doing very little on purpose, but there's always room for improvement.

You know which philosopher said that? Dolly Parton.

Believe or not, this is Ricky Gervais, aka David Brent from The Office, circa 1983 when he was in a new-wave band called "Seona Dancing" (pronounced Shaw-na). I kid you not. More here, if you dare.

And keep your karaoke versions of "Guns of Brixton" on the q.t.

So it's been a little while. Possibly this has something to do with the fact that work has been very busy lately. For example, I have to admit that I was awake this morning when the clock hit 01:02:03 on 4/5/06 (and for a while after). I would much rather have observed that temporal oddity in my dreams.

Unfortunately, I had to work both days last weekend, which prevented me from a) fully enjoying the weekend spent with friends visiting from out of town, and b) going for a bike ride. Lame. The weekend before that, I rode a little over 50 miles. During the week in between, I managed to get out twice for about 20 miles each time.

The good news is that Daylight Saving Time has begun! And Pittsburgh being on the far western edge of the eastern time zone, it almost feels like London (in the summer) here in the evenings.

OK, enough whining! It's time to rock!

LONDON (Reuters) - Anti-terrorism detectives escorted a man from a plane after a taxi driver had earlier become suspicious when he started singing along to a track by punk band The Clash, police said on Wednesday.

Detectives halted the London-bound flight at Durham Tees Valley Airport and Harraj Mann, 24, was taken off.

The taxi driver had become worried on the way to the airport because Mann had been singing along to The Clash's 1979 anthem "London Calling," which features the lyrics "Now war is declared -- and battle come down" while other lines warn of a "meltdown expected".

Mann told newspapers the taxi had been fitted with a music system which allowed him to plug in his MP3 player and he had been playing The Clash, Procol Harum, Led Zeppelin and the Beatles to the driver.

"He didn't like Led Zeppelin or The Clash but I don't think there was any need to tell the police," Mann told the Daily Mirror.

A Durham police spokeswoman said Mann had been released after questioning -- but had missed his flight.

"The report was made with the best of intentions and we wouldn't want to discourage people from contacting us with genuine concerns," she said.

To a mouse.

On turning her up in her nest with the plough, November 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell—
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

- Robert Burns