Gator Country Hell Week Day 4: Bucket Brigade

"Excuse me, is this bucket taken?"

Seating was a hot ticket at lunch today as the majority of our riders somehow managed to converge on the same point at the exact same time. It was lunch, and we were situated along the side of the road in front of a small Baptist church. The sun had broken through the early morning clouds, and the section of Rt 565 south of Mascotte was picture-perfect.

Maybe it was the warmth of the pre-dawn hours. Maybe it was the fresh legs we had on the tour that joined us yesterday. And maybe it was the 10-mile stretch on the Van Fleet bike path. No matter how you slice it, thwe day was perfect, and we were burning up the roads.

Yesterday's fog never quite materialized, although for a few fleeting seconds it looked like it might descend on us. Still, as we wound our way out of Plant City and around the bustling city of Lakeland, it was heads-down hammering to Sag #1, and then off to the bike path that led to lunch.

Rock Ridge Road is a great ribbon of pavement heading east from US 98 toward Florida Highway 33. It is a little-used route that leads to the Green Swamp, where the Withlacoochee River has its headwaters. On most days users of the bike path can see giant tortoises, snakes, and even an occasional alligator crawling, slithering, or waddling along the path.

Through some miracle of harmonic convergence we all managed to come together toward the end of the path and descend upon the lunch stop two miles hence. Had it been a Sunday the faithful flock no doubt would have stood in wonderment at these Lycra-clad tourists, but we were a day early for that. Their might oak trees provided shade while Becky and Mark quickly prepared burritos.

And so it was that Jennifer G. found herself scurrying for a bucket to plop down upon to eat her lunch. Rare indeed is the day when the majority of the riders make it to lunch at the same time, so competition for the buckets is hardly ever intense. But not today.

The temptation was high to sit a spell beneath the old oak trees, but the road beckoned. Fifty miles remained before the finish near Brooksville, and the weather was so perfect that a nap could just wait until later.

Mascotte was a short eight miles up the road, and from there we headed toward Tuscanooga and Center Hill, following more lonely central Florida roads. At Center Hill, which we will visit tomorrow from the other direction, we headed south and then west to Webster, where cold watermelon and snacks awaited us at Sag #2.

We were running well ahead of our planned "windows" for the sags and lunch. The strength of the group is making planning challenging, because we keep getting faster by the day. Lunch today could more accurately have been called brunch, while Sag #2 was closer to being at the traditional lunch hour.

After Webster we zigged and zagged to the west, crossing I-75 and passing the Florida National Cemetery, and then zipping through Nobleton. Shortly after crossing the Withlacoochee River we turned left onto the bike path bearing the same name.

And then it got interesting. Rather than simply cruising into the finish at an easy pace, someone threw down the gauntlet and we were off to the races. The nine miles on the path were a blur, and we had to pay attention to not clip other cyclists, pedestrians, and families with kids sharing the path. Sweat in our eyes, we reached the parking area near Rt 50 in under 25 minutes.

With a mile to go the race was over, and we cooled the engines for the approach to the night's lodging near I-75. All told we covered 98.2 miles, which a number of us covered in about 4 hours 50 minutes riding time. It was one of the fastest Gator Week days in the nine years we've been hosting the event.

And I do believe I could have filled one of those buckets had I taken the time to wring out my clothing at the end.

Dr "Sweating Buckets" Gerlich

Gator Country Hell Week Day 3: Fog Gets In Your Eyes

Some folks think that long-distance cyclists live in a fog. While there may be some truth to the sentiment, it was also positively true this morning that all of us were not only living in a fog, but also riding in one.

We awoke to chilly temps in the 40s, along with a dense fog that had settled in just before dawn. Fog is not at all uncommon during Florida's brief bouts of winter. Even though a front had slid through yesterday drying things out, "dry" is a relative term here.
And so we rode in the fog.

The sun was strong and started to heat the air quickly, but the fog persisted until shortly after 9:00am, meaning much of the distance to the first sag was spent peering over misted eyewear looking for obstacles and vehicles.

Shortly before that sag, though, the sun broke through with one final shout of victory, sending the fog to the stratosphere. Blue skies and 70s quickly became the order of the day, with light and variable winds doing nothing but occasionally cooling our warm bodies.

The route was amazingly traffic-free most of the day. Shortly after pedalling through historic downtown Avon Park we lost sight of civilization, the fog our only companion. The windy country lanes were ideal for cycling, and once the fog broke, we could see the beauty on each side of the road. Lakes and streams dotted the central Florida landscape.

About 40 minutes after sag #1 we pedalled along idyllic Lake Wales (in the city with the same name), passing the historic site of the lunch stop on the old Day 6 route. The lake was still up from all the hurricane activity. We rode past many stately lakeside mansions, and then along the old road leading south out of town. Quaint old motor inns speckled the city streets of Lake Wales, harkening to a long-gone era of far simpler (and much slower) auto travel.

Lake Wales also presented us with the first real hills of the tour, and were a welcome change of pace for all. Scenic Bok Tower stood to our right as we entered town, overlooking much of Polk County from its high perch. The rolling hills south of town were covered in orange groves, the smell from the nearby juice factory lending to the authenticity of the moment.

South of town the terrain flattened out once again, and we headed deeper into citrus country. Lunch awaited at an abandoned country store near Lake Buffum, where Bena, Todd, and Kip met us on bike (they'll be with us through Day 6).

After more oranges than most of us have seen in a lifetime, we quickly transitioned to phosphate mining west of Fort Meade. More lonely roads awaited us, each one flatter than the one before. Occasional reclaimed mine pits on both sides of the road lay as testimony to the many years of mining in the area, but it seemed as if no one was working the mines today. Maybe it was the holidays, but no one seemed too concerned, as the riding was great. We had the roads to ourselves.

Sag #2 was just north of Brewster, a "town" that could be missed if you happened to blink at the wrong moment. From there we headed westward toward Nichols, and then north toward Plant City, day's end.

About 15 miles from the finish we left the mines for good and moved into the winter strawberry capital of the US. Plant City is the source for most strawberries in the US this time of year, and the vines on both sides of the road were filled with the luscious red berries.

The final push into town included a few miles of lightly travelled rural roads outside of PC, and then a about 5 miles of easy in-town travel to our lodging. All told we rode 109 miles, and winter became but a distant, foggy memory.

Kind of like this morning.

Dr "Strawberry Fields Forever" Gerlich

Gator Country Hell Week Day 2: The Wind Bloweth

A few years ago the doomsayers said that Florida could never get enough rain to recharge their shrinking lakes. But after two years of intense hurricane activity, all of the lakes are back up to historical norms.

Even Lake Okeechobee.

Today we spent 15 miles on the bike path high atop the dike running the circumference of this huge inland lake. Starting in Clewiston and clinging to this ribbon of pavement to Moore Haven, we had fantastic views of the lake for several miles before the path veered away from the shoreline.

From the path we could all see rain ahead. And it was no mirage, as we all managed to get a good dousing of Florida liquid sunshine on the way to Lakeport. It was a balmy 60 degrees when we started amid mixed sun and clouds, but the humidity was high and The Weather Channel called for some morning showers.

So we weren't surprised when the storm cell hit. We had just gotten spoiled the day before with tailwinds and uninterrupted sunshine.

With a cool front pushing south, we knew we would also face a windshift line. The gusty southwest winds that pushed us through Lakeport gradually gave way as the morning wore on. The brief showers were replaced by brilliant sunshine and a stiff northwest wind.

Which meant that after the Seminole Indian reservation the riding got tough.

Following a pasta lunch in the middle of nowhere we willingly let go of our tailwind and accepted the reality of a rough 50 miles to Avon Park. Whereas we had all gotten ahead of our planned arrival times in the first half of the route, the afternoon portion saw us coming back down to earth with much slower riding speeds.

And so we plodded in the warm sunshine (it was not much of a cool front), finally hitting Lorida FL (how's that for poetic geography?) by 1:15 for the afternoon sag. Everyone was a little tight, having done battle with the wind to keep their bike upright. The break was a nice reprieve from the howling breeze, but only temporary as we had another 25 miles to go right into the face of the wind.

Mile by mile we labored along Arbuckle Creek Road, often lucky to hit 15 mph. The small hills near town actually provided a nice break from the incredibly flat terrain we had covered thus far, giving us a chance to stand up on the pedals. The first orange groves of the ride also provided a change of scenery.

The first finishers pulled in at 3:00, with the last one coming in at about 4:40. While the spread was a little larger than yesterday's, it was still very reasonable given the windy conditions.

By day's end we were all sporting enhanced tan lines, and the morning's rain was but a distant memory. Besides, 70 degrees and rain still beats 30 and snow.

Who could complain?

Dr "Blowin' In The Wind" Gerlich

Gator Country Hell Week Day 1: Paradise Found

"I just can't get over palm trees with Christmas lights."

That's what Gloria B. said last night when we walked over to Edison Mall in Fort Myers for a group dinner. Hailing from Wisconsin, palm trees are no doubt a rare sight. Never mind the Christmas lights.

As the sun set over Fort Myers, riders were excited about the prospect of cycling in warmth and sunshine. After all, 23 of the 28 riders came from points north to escape winter's wrath. And Day 1 did not disappoint anyone.

As Becky, Mark (my brother) and I headed out to load gear and cook breakfast at 6:15, a light fog hung over Fort Myers. The temperature was a nippy 46 degrees, but we could see the moon poking through the fog. Things were looking good, and the weatherguessers promised highs in the mid-70s.

By 7:30 the fog had lifted, and the sun started doing its thing quickly. Breakfast was served right there in the parking lot amid the din of inbound traffic on Colonial Parkway. At 8:15 we had the obligatory pre-ride chat and pictures, and by 8:30 the first group headed out. Group 2 followed at 8:42.

Our routing this year is 75% new from the "old route" we used our first 8 years here. This time we used bike lanes and paths the first 14 miles, avoiding the hustle and bustle of Fort Myers quite nicely. Once past the airport we could safely rejoin the roadway, and headed to Lehigh Acres where the first sag stop was located.

Temps were rising quickly at this time (roughly 26 miles by a little after 10), so the "shed clothes" box was full to overflowing. We reloaded bottles and gorged on a variety of snacks and fruits, and headed toward Alva and Labelle.

The roads are flat in this part of Florida, and the only "hills" we encountered were the drawbridges over the Caloosahatchee River in both Alva and Labelle. Otherwise it was tabletop flat. We had to remind ourselves to stand periodically to stretch muscles and relieve the pressure on our sit bones.

After lunch in Labelle our route headed south 11 miles, where we then headed east into some of the loneliest countryside in the state. This area was crossed by Hurricane Wilma last autumn, but there was nary a sign of damage.

That's because there's nothing to damage out there.

By early afternoon we were all in summer cycling gear, and anyone who hadn't the foresight to lather up with sunscreen was in for a surprise come evening. It was warm. It was sunny. And the south wind was starting to twist around to the southwest.

In cycling terms, it doesn't get much better than this.

And so as we headed to our motel in Clewiston, the wind pushed us into the low-20s. We talked. We laughed. And we had a great time. The miles flew by as fresh tan lines slowly etched their way onto our arms, legs, and faces.

It was one of the best first day rides we've ever had at Gator Country. Everyone finished within an hour and 15 minute window. All told, we notched 103 miles. While the elevation gain was negligible, our spirits soared in the Florida weather. Yes, there will probably be a few sore muscles tonight (that happens when you average 19-20 mph), but tomorow's another day.

Maybe we'll take it down a notch or two. Maybe we'll look up a little more instead of following the other guy's wheel. Then again, maybe we'll just ride hard, forgetting about winter back home and driveways that must be shoveled.

But that's why we came here in the first place.

Dr "Frostproof" Gerlich

Gator Country Hell Week: A Prologue

It all started in January 1997 when three friends and I started out to tour Florida by bicycle. Riding totally unsupported (meaning we were either using panniers or towing B.O.B. trailers with our gear), we set out to ride 800 miles in 8 days, and see all the parts of Florida that the tour books overlook.

We found it.

The result was an organized bike tour called Gator Country Hell Week starting in December that same year. The only difference is that we provide full support to our riders, and the only thing they have to do is ride their bikes from one motel to another. It's still about 100 miles a day, but there's a hot breakfast, 2 rest stops, and a cooked lunch along the way.

It doesn't get much easier, does it?

The tour is now in its 9th year, and I sit here on the eve of the eve taking a break from packing the van and trailer. We'll drive down to Fort Myers tomorrow from the Tampa area, where we will meet 27 riders from all over the US who have chosen to put winter on freeze frame while they work on their tan lines.

On the morning of the 28th we'll roll out of Fort Myers headed east, with the final destination that day in Clewiston, the historic sugar town. From there we'll meander across the state to Avon Park, Plant City, Brooksville, Winter Garden, Bartow, S. Lake Placid, and back to Fort Myers on the 4th. All told, we'll have pedalled over 800 miles in 8 days...right on formula as we laid it down in 1997.

This year we're using a new route, with 75% of the miles never seen before on this tour. We'll be incorporating several of Florida's premier paved bike paths, as well as dozens of lonely rural roads through orange groves as dense as Iowa corn in summer.

As I explain to everyone in their folder of maps, cue sheets, and other information, there is no real logic to our route. To see it on a map would have anyone wondering if I was drunk when I laid it out. In a car, one could easily cover the distance in half the miles.

But that's not the point. Our goal is to see the other Florida, and to do it on safe country roads as much as possible. We're not concerned with theme park rodents or rollercoasters. We just want to be able to ride our bikes all day and satisfy that endorphin jones we've been nursing ever since it got cold back north.

And so we zig and zag across the state, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. We'll ride through strawberry fields forever, never-ending orange groves, and oh-so-sweet sugar cane fields.

Hopefully we'll even see a gator or two.

I'll be back with road reports as the trip unfolds.

Dr "Grab My Sunscreen" Gerlich

Clip Joint

I guess one of the signs of an advanced society is its emphasis on youth and the future instead of age and the past. In the US, I have witnessed a transition from the latter to the former in just the last 40 years. Elsewhere, like China or Mexico for instance, there is great respect for one's elders and the past is held with great honor and awe.

And so we have left the era of industrialization and building, and emerged in the era of digitization and global flattening. Youth is in, age is out. Young people have something to add to the conversation, while old people can only tell tales.

Which means I was totally shocked yesterday while out and about with my Dad running errands. As we were entering a supermarket, he stopped to point at a small storefront a few doors down the strip center.

"That's where I get my haircut," he said. "They give free haircuts to World War II vets."

"Really? Free? And what about all the other veterans?"

"Just World War II vets. All others have to pay."

"I suppose you have to tip the lady, don't you?

"Of course. I gave her $5 the other day. A haircut normally costs $9."

In an area populated mostly by retirees, I could see this being a big come-on for business. You could wind up with a long line of old men wanting their free haircut, and never have time to cut other people's hair for money.

But it's actually a carefully calculated risk, because World War II vets are in short supply, currently dying at the rate of about 100 per day. Pretty soon there won't be any left. Dad will be 85 in June, and while statistically the incidence of 80-somethings dying among all deaths is very small, there is a certain 100% factor that we must all face someday.

Like many men in his cohort, Dad spent several years in the military. He was stationed in England, and then later France, where he worked at an army hospital. Every time we visit he regales us with stories and pictures from the war.

While this barber shop may not have to actually pay up on their promotion very often, I think it sends a far greater message to the general public. Tom Brokaw has paid homage to this generation in book form before, but in this small way in a little Florida town, this barber shop is going one better.

It's about revere. Respect. Honor. Here are men who gave abundantly so that we might have a safer world. They returned to the US, built a new America in the 1950s, and shaped the cultural landscape for things to come.

The least we can do is give them a free haircut.

I want my Dad to let me know the next time he needs a haircut. I want to give him $5 so he can tip the lady.

Dr "Skip the Witch Hazel" Gerlich

The Inbound Side of the Street

I read an article recently on how the likes of Starbucks, Panera, etc., are changing the way people do breakfast, as well as how they get to work. Here's the big trend: people are eating breakfast on the run more than ever before, often stopping for a hot cup of coffee and a bagel or muffin on the way to work. Forget brewing your own coffee at home. There's no time for this!

This trend has some people concerned. They worry that we're taking detours on the way to work and actually adding to miles driven and traffic congestion by hitting these java outlets. Often there's a long line at the Starbucks drive-up during the morning drive time.

It's interesting that people find it more economical in the grand scheme of things to pay for coffee and a muffin. But with time in short supply, it really should come as no surprise. McDonald's ushered in the phenomenon of auto-breakfasts a generation or more ago with their Egg McMuffins served through the drive-up window. Now the notion has gone upscale and trendy.

Who is the primary demographic doing this? Middle-aged men. Hmmm...that would be me. Except that I really don't do this on my bicycle commute to WT during the school year (juggling a cup of hot coffee atop my handlebars would be dangerous!).

The article said that Starbucks carefully diagnoses locations so that they can be on the inbound traffic side of the road. Of course, these creates a time-of-day advantage...as well as disadvantage during the afternon. But when your big daypart is breakfast, this makes good sense.

Also to note: SBUX (shorthand for that evil coffee empire) is test marketing a breakfast sandwich on the west coast, with plans to go nationwide shortly. Soon the folks at Mickey D's will have a strong competitor in the breakfast sandwich category.

Make no beans about it, these companies are changing the way we eat, drink, and get our mornings started. Sales of cold cereal (as well as instant oats) are way down. Who has time for all that stuff at home anyway?

And another hot ticket: a new chain called Cereality is poised to rattle the industry with their cereal bars (no kidding--not as in "energy bars," but rather a diner that sells only cereal).

Of course, this all is a reflection of a new fact of 21C life: there really are no set meal times at home anymore. We just grab and go, snack whenever, and if we're lucky, we get to kiss the spouse and kids goodnight at the end of the day.

As for me, I'll have hazelnut coffee on my breath.

Dr "Poverty of Time" Gerlich

You Gotta Pay To Play

Last Father's Day my brother and I took our father to the ballgame, to see the last-place Tampa Bay Devil Rays play the first-place St. Louis Cardinals. It was an honor for us to take Dad to the game. He had turned 84 the day before, and was looking forward to a relaxing afternoon in the stands.

Dad took us to lots of ballgames in Chicago when we were growing up. We saw both the Cubs and the Sox (we figured it would be prudent to spread our allegiances across two teams, since both were perennial losers--until this year!). That was when "baseball was baseball," the "real" players could hit home runs without the benefits of chemistry, players were more generalists than specialists, and salaries were down to earth.

Of course, that has changed...for most teams.

As it turns out, the Devil Rays have the lowest salary amount in the major leagues, and their yearly dive into last place reflects this. Their lack of talent is evident in their won-loss record.
Today, in order to be competitive, the owners' checkbook must be thick and backed by wads of cash. The big-name players earn more millions of dollars in one year than most of us together will earn in our entire lifetime. They could call the Devil Rays the Bad News Bears, and it would fit.

A few days before leaving for Florida I told some friends I was going to a ballgame in Tampa. I told them it was "the Devil Rays versus whoever-is-going-to-win-the-game." And I was right: they lost 8-5, but not before putting up a valiant effort to give away more runs to the Cardinals.

What is true in baseball is also true in other professional sports, from hockey to basketball and even professional bike racing (sorry, I had to get that in there...but check to see how much Lance made riding for his Discovery Channel Team...he's not cheap!).

George Steinbrenner is the exact opposite of D-Rays management in that his checkbook is seemingly always open, and the ink is flowing. His New York Yankees boast a roster that is the envy of major league baseball.

The sad reality is that even money cannot always buy a ticket to the World Series, for this year's Yankees are languishing in third place. It's kind of like having Bill Gates and Donald Trump in the same company, but they forget to show up for work.

Still, if you don't get in line with the big spenders, you're almost guaranteed to buy a bunch of losers or has beens. This is not a charity operation. The goal is to win big, and in order to do that, you've got to ante up some money.

I think I liked baseball better when I was a kid. The Cubs' infield of Santo-Kessinger-Beckert-Banks was incredible, and there were no egos to trip over between the bases. They earned a living, not made a killing, and we all enjoyed it.

On Father's Day the game lingered for over 3 hours. Sheesh...paint dries faster than that.

And I don't have to pay some guy $14 million to do the job, either.

Dr "Let's Play Two!" Gerlich

The Wal-Mart Effect, Part 8731

It seems like it never ends. Who would have thought 40 years ago that a little renegade business from northwest Arkansas would wind up ruling the land (well, at least the retail landscape)?

But that's the way it as, as we all know. And, for what it's worth, I like Wal-Mart. We shop there regularly for nearly everything. I am very much in favor of the free marketplace not only of ideas, but also goods and services. If WM can do it for less and do it legally, then I'm there.

Of course, not all feel that way, and to each his own. I have no problem with these differences. In Chicagoland, there are numerous billboards paid for by various trade unions encouraging all people to not shop at Wal-Mart, Meijer, Sam's Club, and a few other chains that utilize non-union labor. As for me, I keep a copy of the Wal-Mart edition of the Rand McNally Atlas in every vehicle so that if I find myself in a strange town in need of something, I can find a WM quickly.

The effects of Wal-Mart's sheer size are being felt in the grocery industry this year. To wit: Today's paper carried an update on Albertson's, the beleaguered grcoery chain that is trying to sell itself. (In naval paralnce, I think that's an SOS signal.) They've been trying since September, and have thus far attracted several suitors.

Albertson's, like rivals Kroger and Safeway, had formed a triumvirate oligopoly in food retailing by acquiring many smaller regional chains. But Wal-Mart slowly built up steam in its own grocery retailing operations, and several years ago catapulted to first place in the category. Ever since then, the future has not looked good for Albertson's And given what the analysts are saying, they'll probably never be the same, with the new buyer(s) pretty certain to split the company into pieces.

Last June Winn-Dixie, the once-powerful Florida grocer, announced it was closing 322 stores, which is about 1/3 of all their stores. They are exiting the Carolinas completely, and closing many stores in Florida. (You may remember Winn-Dixie in Texas and Oklahoma until a few years ago, but the Wal-Mart effect pinched them before as well...those stores were all closed. Maybe you remember a popular movie with that name in the title.)

Winn-Dixie had always positioned itself as the best meat seller in Florida, but their market position has been eroded steadily as Wal-Mart opens up new supercenters that sell groceries. And, Winn-Dixie is not the first chain to get squeezed out of this market: North Carolina-based Food Lion retreated hastily a few years ago as well.

It's interesting to note what the other big players in Florida are doing. Kash-N-Karry, which tried to compete on price, has now reinvented their entire DNA. They are in the process of renaming all of their stores SweetBay, and positioning themselves as an upscale grocer. They seek to steal Winn-Dixie's meat image, as well as claim the title for the best produce in town (e.g., fruits and veggies), along with giving solid value to customers. Note that I did not say low prices...value is different from low prices.

The other big player is Publix, a hometown favorite if there ever were one. Based in Lakeland FL, they have held their ground through Wal-Mart's insurgence. They continue to build their reputation for high customer service as well as clean stores, good selection, and overall innovation. They are doing so well that other big national players have looked at them seriously as an acquisition target. At present, Publix is exploring the possibilities of entering the organic food market, with tentative plans for a test store based closely on the Whole Foods chain based in Austin TX.

The evolution of the Wal-Mart saga inevitably leads to job displacement, because unless we start eating four meals a day, we simply do not need many more supermarkets. That Wal-Mart has raised the bar on competition cannot be disputed; the problem is that invariably some weaker competitors stumble over that bar and fall to the ground.

But displacement does not always mean job loss. It just means that some workers will have to trade in their apron for the blue vest of Wal-Mart.

I'll be looking for your store in my atlas.

Dr "Because of Wal-Mart" Gerlich

Mixed Drinks

Food manufacturers and processors have thus far done a good job in making food products portable and easy to consume. Following World War II, instant coffee was introduced. Fifty years ago TV dinners were quite the rage (as was TV, for that matter). In the 1960s, thanks to a huge endorsement from astronauts, Tang entered the lexicon of food. In the 1970s, potato chips in tennis ball cans (Pringles) meant we never had to let the chips fall where they may.

More recently, we've witnessed a plethora of microwave dinners and foods, some aimed at single adults, with others aimed at latchkey children. We've also got peanut butter in a squeeze tube (thankfully, we'll never have to get our knuckles dirty again trying to scrape clean the inside of a jar).

And today, we have individual serving size powdered drink mixes, like Crystal Light's On The Go. These skinny little packets of drink mix come in peach tea flavor, as well as raspberry, orange, lemonade, and others.

A box of ten costs about $2.50 at grocers (the store brand version at Wal-Mart is about $1.75), and gives consumers the convenience of toting a packet or two in a purse, backpack, or even pocket, to be used later by adding to a bottled water, whenever and wherever.

Which brings me to my point (and like Ellen Degeneres once said, I do have one). These packets are going to hurt restaurant drink sales.

I came to this realization one night not too long ago. Sure, I had recently witnessed my brother use these when we drove around Florida this last summer, but all he was doing was adding this to bottles of Dasani while we drove. But our friend pulled one of these packets out in a restaurant and held it over her glass of "water-with-lemon." I've seen lots of others do it, too.

I can see restaurant managers experiencing shivers down their spine. It's bad enough when customers order only water (opting out of those high-profit soft drinks, or better yet, alcoholic beverages). It's worse yet when they bring their own ingredients.

I can see a trend happening here. It's kind of like BYOP (bring your own packet). What's a restaurant to do? Start charging for the water?

Not that I have a real problem with skipping the sodas. It's just that I can sense a problem brewing for the food service industry. They make their highest margins on the beverages we drink. And, there's no better way to inform your server that the tip isn't going to be big than to start ordering a round of water for everyone. I've done it, and you should see the glare in their eyes.

I'm also guilty of the far worse situation of bringing my own meal to another restaurant. About a year ago I met some guys over at Blue Sky. Not being a greasy burger kind of guy, I brought my own grub from Subway, walked in, and proceeded to eat my meal with my friends. I even brought my own drink. Over the top perhaps, but I've got to keep my boyish figure, you know.

It reminds me of a humorous incident I had back in 1985 while bicycling the perimeter of Lake Michigan with a young man and a young woman. We were a little over half-way through our 1320-mile, 11-day odyssey, and had stopped in a Frisch's restaurant somewhere in northern Wisconsin for breakfast. Students all of us, we were certainly not rich, but my friend Kevin was flat broke. Lou Ann and I scraped together enough for the breakfast buffet, while Kevin meekly asked for a "bowl of hot water."

We were puzzled, but then burst into hysterics when he pulled out a couple of packets of instant oat meal, and proceeded to make his breakfast.

I'm not sure how to react today. It's not like any of us are on the verge of poverty. On the other hand, though, those $1.69 glasses of soft drinks and tea really pad the bill for the restaurant. And those little packets are so easy to tote around. I'm just a little worried, though, that one of my students might see me doing it and take up a collection for their underpaid professor.

Then again, if that's what it takes to get a raise, I'll see you over in Aisle 7. By the drink mixes.

Dr "Make Mine Lemonade" Gerlich

The Amish Bakery

Last summer we led a cycling camp called Cheese Country Hell Week . We hold this every summer in western Wisconsin for 8 days; this time around we had about 40 people in attendance.

The lead-off ride took us north of here into Amish country. I've done this beautiful route before. The countryside is lush in green growth; farmers grow corn by the truckload, and raise cattle. It is as idyllic as it is agrarian.

One group of people who live in the region are a sect of Amish. You know when you're near them when you start seeing horse poop on the roads.

Which makes for interesting riding when it's raining.

The Amish live in small clusters around the US. These Amish are not much different from those in Indiana and Ohio. Their houses are easy to spot, because there's a windmill out front, clothes hanging out to dry, and no electrical lines.

The numerous horse-drawn carriages were quaint, as were the occupants dressed in authentic Amish garb (including the kids). The 19th-century farm wagons and implements pulled by enormous draft horses were almost like we had time-warped backwards 150 years. The little schoolhouses every two miles allow for children to walk to school.

The destination of our route that day was a small Amish household that has a bakery in it. The bakery is now open 5 days per week (May through October only), and Friday is pie day. When I rode this route two years ago my friend John ordered me to sit down and wait while he selected two pies and borrowed a couple of forks. My task was to eat the pie, and then somehow muster strength for the 60 miles remaining. (No taxis in rural Wisconsin. Darn.)

This year the pies were just a little too hot, having just finished baking. My friend didn't mind--he grabbed a rhubarb custard pie and devoured the whole thing. As for me...well, wanting to make it back to my hotel before dark, I opted to split a pie tin full of delicious raspberry cream cheese danishes with another friend. Man-oh-man...we were in heaven. Supermarkets just don't get it.

Yeah, we all made it back OK. But the lesson for the day was simply understanding other cultures, and trying to accept them in spite of their differences. You see, it's easy to make fun of the Amish on TV and the internet, because they will never hear or see it.

But truth be known, these are among the kindest people in America. The matron of this home repeatedly filled a pitcher of water for us. I could hear her drawing the water from the pump room, meaning that she was working for us (a true servant attitude if there ever were one).

We may not ever understand this small religious subculture, but I have a new respect for them. I do not subscribe to their belief patterns and abstinence from modern conveniences, but I respect them nonetheless.

And I love their baking.

Of Pedals and Pubs

Each June we host a cycling camp in Richland Center, Wisconsin. Located about an hour west of Madison ("100 square miles surrounded by reality"), the hills and hamlets make for delightful cycling.

It's amazing the differences in subcultures across the US. In Wisconsin the European influence is profound. The majority religions are Roman Catholic and Lutheran (especially among the many Scandinavian peoples).

For these people, the consumption of alcohol is a non-issue. In West Texas, it is a very contentious issue. Just try to open a restaurant in Canyon that sells alcohol. Good luck!

One thing I find very interesting (as well as charming, in a strange kind of way) in Wisconsin is that nearly every little town (and I mean little) has at least one tavern...and often not even a convenience store. These taverns are places where you can get a beer or stronger drink, as well as a meal. They are gathering places.

One day last June on one of our rides we stopped in Yuba WI, population 77, and the smallest incorporated city in the state of Wisconsin. It has three taverns and one feed store. Guess which we selected for slaking our thirst? (What a ratio! One tavern for every 25.67 people!)

So, we sat our tired bottoms on the bar stools, ordered a round of Cokes as well as Leinenkugel Beers, and sat there watching the Cubbies demolish the Red Sox on TV.

And it was a very cool experience.

There was a "gang" of old folks across the room at a table, drinking beers and coffees, playing cards, and engaging in conversation.

There was another man sitting by himself at the bar, watching the ballgame. And there was our group of 5.

Last year I sat in the same tavern with my friends and watched Ronald Reagan's funeral on TV with several locals. I consider it a "Wisconsin Moment" worth remembering.

That day we went through other small villages...Steuben (population 177), with two taverns, and Mt. Zion (for the likes of me, I couldn't even find a house, but there was a tavern). We stopped at both places and engaged in chit-chat with the locals, cooling off with Cokes and Leinies.

Having grown up in Chicago, I was around taverns all the time. They were just another place of business. In parts of the deep south (including West Texas), people see a tavern and think sin.

I think community.

No, I would never advocate excessive consumption. But I see nothing wrong with responsible consumption.

And I love the idea of deepening our community roots and connecting with people. We could use a lot more of that. Furthermore, many of our religious figures throughout history were connoisseurs of various alcoholic beverages, and they never bore shame for it (Luther, Calvin, etc.)

I guess you could say that the whole alcohol issue has been one of wonderment and frustration for me ever since we moved to Canyon in 1989. I just cannot figure out what the big deal is. It's a sub-culture value system that I may never understand.

Furthermore, the whole religious issue of drinking only became an "issue" in the last 150 years. Before then, it was never a big deal as long as one avoided drunkenness. It is an invention of American churches in the last 150 years.

It's time we removed the speck from our eyes. After all, Jesus' first miracle was to turn some water into over 100 gallons of wine at a wedding feast in Cana. I don't recall reading about him being concerned. In fact, as the master of the banquet commented, it was the best wine served all night. He told the bridegroom, "Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now."

If I didn't know better, I'd say that wedding was held somewhere in Wisconsin.

Dr "I'll Have Another" Gerlich

Google to Buy Internet

That got your attention, right? And, since this Blogger site is owned by Google, I'm sure their crawler found it, too.

But that's OK. My purpose is not criticism but rather sheer awe. Today it was announced that Google was making a bid to invest $1 for a 5% stake in AOL. Google is bloated inh cash, with about $5.5B in reserves following two stock issues in the last two years. With the stock trading at $430, Google is the Fat Cat of not just the dotcom survivors, but the entire US economy.

Seemingly Google can do no wrong. Its business model has been pretty simple: Acquire and then give it away for free. Apparently AdWords and AdSense are making so much money that they can just sit around and give the rest of the store away.

And that's good, for Google's motto is "Don't be evil." "Free" is a far cry from "evil."

I do wonder, though, at what's going on with the AOL deal. It seems to me more like an effort to simply keep Microsoft out of the equation. Let's face it: dial-up isn't cool, with over 50-percent of USAmerican homes now on broadband. AOL has seen its share of the market shrivel in recent years.

Yet Google (and Microsoft for that matter) want to be the sole search engine there. It's all about eyeballs, and even if the number of heads is shrinking, Google still stand to make money each time an AOL user clicks one of those ads along the side.

This is all well and good, but I think what Google really needs to be looking into is advertiser-driven free broadband that can be accessed by laptop, PDA, or cell phone. Couple that broadband with search and you've got real potential. Local advertising can guide searchers to the nearest Taco Bell, for instance.

It would be like having the phone book in your hands at all times, and the most eager businesses would be lining up to pay for their AdWords.

Think about it this way. When you're out and about, and suddenly need or want to visit a specific type of store or restaurant, your intentions are already well-defined. You're not just browsing at this point; you're ready to buy. What retailer in his right mind wouldn't pay a little for what is almost a guaranteed customer?

I give it a few years, and then we'll probably see Google roll out something like this. In the mean time, they'll keep buying up new members of their empire. Don't be surprised if they buy a third world country as well.

Just be sure to let me know when they start giving it away.

Dr "Missed the IPO" Gerlich

Coming Full Circle

In my very first campus blog of the semester, on 30th August 2005, I made the following observation:

Does owning all of this stuff make us happier? Does it improve our quality of life? This is definitely debatable. It also causes me to reflect on what I have helped engender through being a paid shill for the Marketing profession. I hope there isn't a special place in Hell for the Marketers.

It would do us all well to consider exactly why we buy everything, and whether we really need it. Ignore the guilt trips people may lay on you for being anti-consumeristic. There's no mandate to be Material Girls and Boys.

I like what Bob Dylan had to say about this. In a 1991 interview with Rolling Stone magazine that marked his 50th birthday, the interviewer asked him if he was happy. After a long pause, Dylan replied in characteristic fashion:

"You know," he said, "these are yuppie words, happiness and unhappiness. It's not happiness or unhappiness, it's either blessed or unblessed. "

Those are words we would all do well to store in our conscience.

As we draw the semester to a close, I'd like to revisit those words. We've covered a lot of ground in all of my classes. As I said at the beginning, this would be a journey. And I'm not so much the tour guide as much as I am Fellow Participant.

It's just that I get to be the Fellow Participant over and over again. I think it's called a career or something.

The reason I bring all this up again is that I think all of us who claim to have taken any Marketing class need to reconsider what this profession is all about. It affects us all, our society, our culture. Whether or not you make a career in Marketing is irrelevant. But whether or not you make your mark in the world is everything.

I have come back to the well of doubt many times in my life. I have drawn many a bucket of questions that must be answered and dealt with. They cannot be avoided. And worse yet, there are questions whose answer changes over time. We live in a time where there are few absolutes. Truth, in many regards, has become a relative concept.

And so I wrestle still with the ideas of buying oneself out of depression, spending with reckless abandon (especially between Thanksgiving and Christmas), wondering whether the guy with the most toys wins, and debating whether Marketers will indeed occupy a special place near the furnaces of Hell.

Is it even possible to live a simpler life? Have the Amish really got it all figured out? Or are we all swept up in the endless rhythm of consumption with no hope of escaping?

It all becomes pathetically clear each time I trek to the dumpster at the end of our rural road. Where does all this stuff come from? I don't remember buying all these things.

And then I take a long look at my closet. What was I thinking when I bought that shirt? Or those pants? And what about my wife with all those shoes? Good grief, we could clothe a third world village just from our his-and-hers closets.

But then the angel in my head takes a break, allowing the demon voice to take over. "You bought those things because they made you feel better about yourself. You were stressed out and needed an escape valve. Who are you to question a person's right to buy things? Who are you to debate right and wrong when a purchase does no harm to anyone or anything?"

It's all very confusing, and quite frankly it consumes a lot of mental energy. But so does shopping. Why, I have spent hours shopping online and in stores to buy Christmas gifts for my wife, ones I hope she loves. Being a shopper is hard work.

But why do I buy her things with the masked hope that she will somehow be amazed with my exquisite tastes, when all she really wants is to just have me around more? For that matter, why do my wife and I buy stuff for the kids with the idea that they actually need these things, when what they really want (and need) is for us to just be there?

Yes, it's tough, and the questions swirling in my head for the 87th time still beg to be answered. But like Bob Dylan, I know deep inside that this is not at all about happiness. Happiness is fleeting, it is ephemeral. It's just a temporary boost to the system, a Prozac moment.

No, it's all about being blessed. And blessed I truly am. No amount of buying can increase the amount of blessedness. There is absolutely zero correlation between shopping and being blessed. And the positive correlation between shopping and happiness are spurious at best and definitely not indicative of a causaal relationship.

While I will remain a Marketer the rest of my days, I do so with great caution and respect for the people I impact. It is important to view the world through a wide-angle lens. In so doing you can gain proper perspective of your life choices and the causes you advocate. Marketing certainly has a place in our society, and we Marketing professionals (I use that term loosely) play a vital role in delivering the wants and needs of our population. It would be an entirely different world without us.

But we must see how this all comes together, how there are both good and bad dimensions of the activity, implications that can boggle the mind.

We all came together a little over three months ago from a multitude of paths, but we all wound up on the same track for a while. And now that our journey draws to a close, our paths will separate. Go forward and be good. Do good. Give good.

Thanks for joining me.

Dr "Back Where We Started" Gerlich

In Color

A Short Story by Nick Gerlich
(and part of the 2005 Gerlich Christmas Letter)

So I was driving along one day through Amarillo and spotted something on the corner ahead. There was an old van parked in front of a defunct business, and the owner had erected one of those cheap awning tents you can buy down at the warehouse club. He was an art dealer, I suppose.

Everyone has seen the shameless hucksters that set up shop at abandoned gas stations, hawking cheesy paint-on-velvet renditions of African animals, bullfighters, and Elvis. I wonder who in their right mind would buy something like that, much less hang it in their living room.

When I'm in a funky mood, I threaten to buy one just to see what kind of reaction I can get from Becky. But I'm smart enough to not follow through. I really don't want to sleep outside with the dogs. Or with a velvet Elvis smashed over my head.

I can't imagine what's going through the minds of these painters. It seems like a waste of a perfectly good picture frame. I can visualize a sweatshop somewhere filled with wannabe artists ever-so-carefully swirling their oils on velvet. I can picture Gas Station Man buying these by the van load in a dark warehouse on the shady side of town.

And suddenly I found myself slowing down to look at them.

Gas Station Man had the whole place to himself. I guess no one had "buy art" on their shopping list that day, for not a soul was there to peruse his outdoor gallery. The lonely look on his face bespoke not just a bad business decision but also a certain emptiness within.

Not wanting to break his monotony, I rolled on, wondering what it must be like to be selling something that no one wants.

* * * * *

About a month ago Becky was shopping at Wal-Mart, and in the middle of her shopping trip had to duck out to go get the kids at gymnastics. She parked her cart by customer service so she could resume shopping in a few minutes. As she hurriedly drove out of the parking lot and onto the street, she saw an older woman in one of those electric wheelchairs sitting curbside. She was nearly buried by her purchases, and had a tired look on her face. "What's up with her?" Becky wondered.

A few minutes later, Becky returned with the kids and started to turn into the parking lot. Wheelchair Lady was still sitting there. For some reason, traffic was light at that instant. Becky slowed down, waved to the woman, and rolled down the passenger-side window.

"Do you need some help?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Do you have a phone?"

"Yes. Would you like for me to call someone?"

"Could you call the bus company? The bus should have been here a long time ago. I've got the number"

Becky called the number and a man assured her the bus would be there soon. In the mean time, Becky and Wheelchair Lady made small talk. The lady lived in a nursing home, had an absentee daughter, and was lonely. With two cases of soda and a mountain of little white plastic shopping bags, she looked like she had the weight of the world on her lap.

With the bus on its way, Becky needed to move on and get back to her cart in the store. As she said good bye, Wheelchair Lady left her with three words.

"Come see me."

* * * * *

I've been doing some painting myself lately. Most of the window frames were in need of a facelift, having peeled and cracked in the dry, relentless solar heating we know as summer. And not being a very good painter, I've managed to get primer and paint on me, the bricks, and the windows.

At least the frames were restored.

In my ideal world, we'd never have to do any of this painting business. For that matter, it would be a lot easier if we never had to change anything about ourselves either. But in the last 20 years, I have had to get a paint job myself many times. It's all about remaining vibrant and alive, ready not just for the "now" but also the "later." The cracks of the past need to be covered in order to give a new lease on life.

Which explains why I've been carrying a brush lately and sporting paint smudges on my fingers. Without a little paint, those windows would be falling out of the wall, and we'd have year-round air conditioning.

* * * * *

A couple of weeks ago Becky and the girls went to visit Wheelchair Lady. Before going, they baked cookies at home and wrapped them up real nice. It was just before Thanksgiving, and Becky figured the woman might need some visitors.

As the three of them entered her room at the nursing home, the woman's eyes perked up and the color came back to her face. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, bringing a nearly lifeless old woman back to life. They talked and talked, shared stories, talked about family members and Thanksgivings past, and all that.

It was a happy time but one that would only last an hour or so. Becky eventually gathered up the girls and their belongings, and prepared to say goodbye. As they were walking out the door, Wheelchair Lady said something with a slight quiver in her voice.

"I knew you'd come."

* * * * *

There's a story in the Bible about Jesus sitting at a well, and along comes a woman in the middle of the day. This was not the normal time for women to collect water, but as became apparent later, she was a woman with a history. She wanted to avoid others.

The woman, a Samaritan, was surprised when Jesus asked her for a drink. Caught off guard, she did not know that Jesus could have offered her a drink of living water. Jesus went on to amaze the woman by telling of her past and present. In spite of all her sin, Jesus accepted her just as she was.

Stunned that a Jew would even speak with her, she stood in awe of this man who clearly was not ordinary at all. With the weight of her sins bearing down, she tried to change the subject and instead said to Jesus, "I can see that you are a prophet." She went on to discuss the disagreement between the Jews and Samaritans concerning worship.

Jesus then set her straight by dismissing both viewpoints and said, "The time has come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and in truth."

The woman then said, "I know the Messiah is coming. And when he gets here, he'll explain everything to us."

To which Jesus replied, "You're speaking to the Messiah right now."

Sometimes I feel like the woman at the well, mindful of my past and uncertain of my future. Sometimes I feel like I should go to the well alone. Sometimes I'd like to say to the Messiah, "I knew you'd come."

* * * * *

I wish I could say that the painting is behind me. The scary thing is, we're never really quite done. For just as you make it around the whole house, you find that where you began is already cracking and in need of more paint.

And so Gas Station Man sits there by himself pondering the market for velvet paintings, wondering why no one comes, while Wheelchair Lady basks in the glow of surprise visitors. One needs a fresh coat, while the other has already received hers.

The same is true of each of us. If anything, we need to walk around with a "wet paint" sign stuck to our forehead, a painting in progress, one that will look far different in 20 years than it does today, or 20 years ago. It's all about being restored.

With a little luck we won't wind up on display at some abandoned gas station. Next to a velvet Elvis.

And now may the God who came to earth in living color, restore the color in the portrait of your life. You knew he'd come, didn't you?

Give Peace A Chance

Twenty-five years ago today, one of rock music's biggest influences was gunned down outside a New York City hotel. John Lennon, former Beatle and one-half of the legendary Lennon-McCartney songwriting duo, lay dying in the foyer of his residence.

I'll never forget that night. It was a Monday, and like all Monday nights, I was working with my newspaper staff in college doing our weekly all-nighter preparing that week's edition. The glaze on our eyes was lifted when the radio announcer interrupted the song to tell us that Lennon had died.

To a generation that grew up on the Beatles, Lennon's death was no less significant than were the deaths of Buddy Holly and James Dean for the generation before. Lennon helped usher in a new ear of rock music, one tinged with philosophical and political messages. His death ensured that he and his mates would never reunite.

Lennon was a clever songwriter. Playing upon the whole "Paul is dead" rumor that circulated for years, Lennon included oblique "clues" in his lyrics that only fueled speculation that McCartney really was gone. "I Am The Walrus" featured some of Lennon's best writing. Drawing heavily upon Lewis Carroll's The Walrus and the Carpenter poem in Alice in Wonderland, as well as Finnegan's Wake by James Joyce and other obscure songs and books, Lennon provided the set-up. In "Glass Onion," Lennon resolved: "Here's another clue for you all, the Walrus is Paul."

Ah yes, a PR master. Keep the folks guessing, and sell a few million more albums.

Four years ago I viewed the John Lennon exhibit at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum in Cleveland ("Cleveland rocks! Cleveland rocks!"). There I saw handwritten lyrics to many of Lennon's songs, photos of him with or without the Beatles, and pictures of him with his beloved Yoko Ono. It was a fitting tribute to one of the greatest musicians of the era, one who recognized his influence and went so far as to say in 1996, "We're more popular than Jesus right now." He was right in a twisted kind of way.

And so one cold December afternoon in the Big Apple, a deranged fan by the name of Mark David Chapman met Lennon outside The Dakota hotel. Lennon was on his way with Yoko to the recording studio. Chapman begged Lennon to autograph his copy of Double Fantasy, to which Lennon obliged.

Chapman hung around the hotel the rest of the evening. A little before 11pm a limousine arrived, and Yoko exited first, followed shortly by Lennon. With Yoko already in the building, Chapman, who had been lying in wait, startled him and called out "Mr. Lennon."

Lennon turned, and Chapman fire five bullets. Four hit their target. Lennon crawled inside the hotel and lay there dying, while Chapman sat down and proceeded to read a copy of Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye.

At the ripe young age of 40, Lennon died in the ER.Today we mark another day that the music died. While Lennon may have espoused ideas contrary to what many believe and had an ego the size of a deity, few can argue that his music wasn't good. He and McCartney set the stage for rock music for many years to come. Today their music sounds as fresh and clever as it did over 35 years ago.

Had he lived, would the Beatles ever reunited? Would Lennon and McCartney write one more song?We can only imagine.

Dr "Strawberry Fields Forever" Gerlich

We'll Be Closed For Christmas

Imagine a retailer being closed on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. Imagine them shunning the very pinnacle of their retail being. Contemplate the possibilities of a storekeeper sympathizing with Adbusters' "Buy Nothing Day," and tossing in "Sell Nothing Day."

Scratch your head and wonder why anyone would do something so silly.

And now consider how some mega-churches have opted-out of having services on Christmas this year. Thanks to the whims of the Gregorian Calendar, Christmas falls on a Sunday this year. And rather than treat it like the Holy Day it is, some mega-churches are treating it like a holiday.

Perhaps the biggest and best-known of the taking-the-day-off churches is Willow Creek Community Church in suburban Chicago. Various others around the country have followed suit. Amarillo's Trinity Fellowship Church is also canceling regular services on Christmas Sunday.

The arguments for closing are pretty simple. Pastoral staff deserve time with their families. If Christmas had fallen on a Monday, the church would be shuttered anyway. Regular services would have been held over the weekend, and then everyone would go home for the holiday.

And that's the problem, for it seems the holiday is taking precedence over what is a "normal" working day for clergy. Sunday is still the primary day of worship in Christianity. What about the church family these clergy serve?

To Willow Creek's and Trinity's credit, they are hosting numerous worship services for several days leading up to Christmas, but this gesture just pales against the backdrop of the most holy of days in the Christian year.

And so the sanctuary will be noticeably dark come Christmas Day.

I fully recognize there has been a huge time-shift when it comes to going to church. Saddleback Church in southern California has a Friday evening service, two on Saturday evening, two on Sunday morning, and two on Sunday evening. Willow Creek worships on Saturday and Sunday. Locally, Trinity Fellowship has 2 Saturday services and three on Sunday morning. Churches are not as bound to traditional days and times as they once were. To their credit, they have dropped the legalism that once drove many churches into cultural irrelevance.

Never mind that for roughly 60% of the US population (the folks who are technically unchurched) the two times of the year they are most likely to darken the doors of the church are on Easter and Christmas. Some churches have just cut church-going in half.

I like the way the Catholics observe church. They just do it. It matters not what day of the week Christmas falls on, for it is a Holy Day, and mass is held. Maybe it's germaine to the discussion that in the monastic life, priests and nuns have little else to do on Christmas, but I give them credit for making it possible for everyone else to worship. I doubt the Pope would ever sanction skipping Christmas.

Critics and bloggers have seized on this PR boondoggle, and say that these mega-churches have gone a little far in adopting culture in order to remain relevant. The truth is, churches should be busy trying to create culture, not bending to it. It's great to have lifestyle churches, but whose life are we worshipping anyway?

This Christmas I'll attend mass with my father, and then worship with my mother at First Baptist in Plant City FL. At one place or the other I'll be lining up for communion, waiting to shake the hand of the priest or pastor, and then filing out of the parking lot to head home for family time.

It's Sunday. That's when my parents' churches meet. And it's Christmas. So be it.

Dr "Minding My Pews and Queues" Gerlich

Stay In Your Lane

On November 9th a letter-writer in the Amarillo Globe-News derided the city's new bike lanes as being "silly" and "too far out in the street." Furthermore, she questions the expense of installing them because "I haven't seen a single bike on them."

Sims' thinking reflects many misconceptions about bike lanes, which are a recent phenomenon in our city. Many residents probably do not have much experience cycling or driving in such systems, unless they have spent time in Denver, Portland OR, or Los Angeles. These cities have had extensive bike lane and path systems for many years, and motorists and cyclists alike are comfortable in their use.

I was a member of the Amarillo Hike & Bike Committee a couple of years ago. Our charge was to develop a master plan for cycling facilities in the city. To wit, we created a network of bicycle lanes and paths that we are now beginning to see laid across the city. When it is completed we will have about 90 miles of dedicated cycling facilities.

The lanes that Sims criticizes are indeed installed correctly. They are supposed to be adjacent to the lane(s) used by motor vehicles, and should only be near the curb when there is no parking lane. Compare, for example, the bike lane on Teckla Blvd. just north of 45th Ave., a section with no streetside parking. The bike lane is between the motor vehicle lane and the curb, as it should be located. But on Fulton Lane, the lane is sandwiched between a motor vehicle lane and a curbside parking lane. Again, this is as it should be located, because streetside parking is allowed on Fulton.

There is nothing inherently dangerous in riding in such a lane. The website BicyclingInfo.org contains a wealth of information about bike paths and lanes, and reports a study that shows that "...striped lanes encouraged safer behavior by cyclists. Cyclists using the roads with a striped bike lane were less likely to ride on the sidewalk, were less likely to ride against the flow of traffic and were more likely to obey stop signs and signals."

Notice that the lanes caused cyclists to operate their vehicles more safely. This is a direct benefit to motorists as well, because everyone is acting in a more predictable manner. Without lane markings of any kind (car or bike), a free for all ensues among users. The solid and dashed lines function to maintain order for all.

I have ridden extensively in many large cities across the US, and can vouch for the veracity of our bike lane system. In fact, Amarillo will be a premier city in the US when its bike lane system is complete. For a city of this size to have 90 miles of dedicated lanes is practically unheard of. We are in the process of transitioning from being hopelessly behind the rest of the nation, to being far ahead of the curve.

It takes forward thinking to implement such a system. Los Angeles, Portland, and Denver have had extensive bicycle facilties for many years. On a recent trip to Denver, I was able to cycle safely and quickly from the south side all the way downtown. In Los Angeles I have ridden for hours on bike lanes and paths that go to the ocean, Disney Land, and farther inland. Las Vegas is a recent addition to the ranks of bike-friendly cities. I spent several days there this fall on business and cycled daily on busy streets with bike lanes without ever leaving city limits.

Cities such as these are helping themselves by encouraging more people to ride their bikes to work and on errands, as well as for recreation. It's not just about sports and fitness, because the bike is also transportation. The advent of high gasoline prices is forcing us to reconsider the notion of a motor vehicle being a statement of our economic well-being. Cycling (or walking) are not just for people without the means to drive a car; saving money by using human transport just makes good sense.

Of greatest benefit to the city is the fact that our children will be able to cycle more safely to school. The network will link our schools by bike lanes, helping rid ourselves of unnecessary congestion at schools twice each day. The National Safe Routes to School Partnership has as its goal a nation in which children everywhere will be able to ride their bikes to school, thereby establishing healthy lifestyles at an early age. Never mind all the gas we'll save. Amarillo will be at the cutting edge of this movement when our network is complete.

It will take a little time as we ease into our new facilities. People can now rethink their transportation options and figure out how they could actually ride to work (and still take along the requisite wardrobe), or go shopping. As with all things new, there is a period of misunderstanding and questioning. To imply that the current lack of usage (from her perspective) suggests a failure and waste of money is not only premature, it is flawed. One would not tear up a road that has little or no traffic. Nor should bike lanes be scrapped.

I for one ride the bike lanes every time I cycle to Amarillo, which is several times each week. Knowing that I played a small part in helping design the network gives me great pride in our city and the leaders who saw fit to move Amarillo forward, not backward.

Dr. "Ride On" Gerlich

All Grits, No Glory

(Note: This essay was the 2004 Gerlich Christmas Letter)

I like Waffle House.

A few weeks ago I was sitting at the local House, indulging myself in a breakfast that no doubt took a few days off my life. Those tasty scrambled cheese eggs and pecan waffles are not for the faint of calorie.

I was on my way to a class at church on the devotional classics. I had left home early, textbook in hand, savoring the thought of a little quiet time with a good book over a greasy breakfast. John of the Cross, say hello to my raisin toast. Teresa of Avila, would you like syrup on that waffle?

Waffle House is a funny kind of place. If you're from the north and/or have never travelled south, you've missed out on a rare cultural landmark. The hearty chorus of "Mornin'!" that greets everyone as they enter is so last century that it's actually kind of cool. And you always know the company is doing well when they give you two packets of apple butter without you having to ask for them.

The folks who work and eat at the House are a mixed lot, more likely than not to smoke cigarettes and live in a trailer park. My students hang out there after the bars close. It's kind of like a convention of minimum wage earners who spend most of their money at Wal-Mart.

A cross-country trucker sat behind me. He chatted with the waitress as if she had served him many times before. It never occurred to me that the House could be another man's Cheers, but she seemed genuinely interested in his exploits and the fact that he had a band on the side.
There was the young, somber looking family across the room whose kids had to suck stale air as their parents fed their nicotine jones. I wonder why they looked so sad. Maybe it was all that smoke.

And then there was the guy who intercepted me in the parking lot. He hopped out of an old Dodge van with South Dakota tags towing a decrepit travel trailer, and asked me for money. I told him I had no change (no lie), and hurried into the House. Don't you just hate it when people bum money? Besides, I needed to read that book about all those saintly writers.

The women who wait tables are a cheery group, many of whom have been there several years. My favorite is the British lady, whose accent is a pleasant alternative to the local drawl. I don't see how they could make much money serving omelets and burgers a few million different ways, but they stay anyway. They must like each other.

And then I noticed the Brit's t-shirt. It was a Waffle House official uniform issue, boldly proclaiming "All Grits, No Glory."

If you've never had grits, they are the ground up meal from dried and hulled corn kernels. They're boiled and served as a breakfast side dish. Some people add butter and sugar, while others salt them. Either way, this southern staple is low prole, and not likely to be served by Emeril.

What a cute slogan, I thought. These ladies spend their waking hours slinging grits, eggs, and hash browns (I like mine smothered and covered), refilling coffee for a menagerie of diners, automatically shouting "Mornin'!" whenever the door opens, and calling their customers "dear" as if they were family.

There's just not a whole lot of glory, though, in $1 tips.

While munching on raisin toast, I considered how easy it would be to compare Jesus to the staff at the House. After all, Jesus hung out with a rough crowd, performed a few dozen miracles, developed relationships with people, and all that stuff. As my eyes circled the room, I thought, Yeah, the Brit and her sisterhood are a lot like Jesus.

I looked at my watch, and quickly chased the last of my eggs with a gulp of coffee that warmed my soul. I had just met Jesus, and he's working at Waffle House.

Off to class I sped, with a trace of breakfast stuck on my book. Those saints were already starting to work on me. It's easy to be smug when you've got things figured out. It's even easier on a full stomach.

But it was only after the teacher told an illustration that I did a mental rewind to my 30 minutes at the House. Wait a minute. Jesus may have been at the House, but he wasn't serving tables.
I replayed the Gospel of Matthew (chapter 25) in my head. Jesus liked to speak in terms that rural poor people could understand. He told a story about sheep and goats to describe his followers. One group fed and clothed him and took him in, while the other did nothing. The sheep will inherit the kingdom, and the goats will not.

And then Jesus lowered the boom. "In as much as you did this for these, the least of my brothers, you did it for me."

Somewhere along the way, I had gotten it all wrong. I thought it was my calling to serve a big bowl of Jesus to those in need. Feed them. Clothe them. Show them hospitality. And in so doing, I would become a little more like Jesus.

No, the Brit and her friends were not a metaphor for Jesus after all, because Jesus was on the other side of the counter.

I remembered the trucker, the somber family, and the man in the parking lot. In my quest to be more like Jesus, I had missed him. The trucker spent many lonely miles on the road. The somber family looked like they may as well be alone together. And the man in the parking lot needed money for something. All grits...and no glory.

Maybe the Brit knew this all along. Jesus is not the one doing the serving as much as he is the one being served. It's all kind of confusing at times, but I do know that I'm headed back to the Waffle House. I want to see Jesus.

And I'd like a big bowl of grits.

Dr. "Bowl Me Over" Gerlich

It's In The Cards

My younger brother has two kids, a boy who is 17 and a girl who is 14-going-on-21. We never know what to buy them for Christmas or birthdays. So, like a good many Americans, we just back out of it somewhat and buy gift cards. They're easy to find. They're in any denomination we please. And one size fits all.

The only problem is, the retailer is the primary beneficiary of our gift giving.

Retailers love to sell gift cards. In fact, some stores have taken to selling a wide array of gift cards from unaffiliated chains, like United Supermarkets is doing with their smorgasbord of options.

Assuming the gift card isn't lost or misplaced (like our nephew did with ours last Christmas), it virtually guarantees the recipient will be trudging over to the local store to do some shopping. If the card is lost, that's a 100% profit for the store. And if they show up to spend it, the store is still going to gain.

How's that?

It's called add-on sales. One of my former students works for a major retailer in Amarillo, and he told me how they know that for every $3 on the gift card, the customer will add in $1 of his own. Thus, give a $75 gift card, and the customer will buy $100 of stuff. You don't want to leave a small balance dangling on the card, because that becomes pure profit for the retailer if you never use it.

To add to the profiteering, consider also that some gift cards carry fine print that says there is a "dormancy" charge if the balance is not spent by a certain date. In other words, use it or lose it.

Furthermore, remember that the money you give to the retailer to buy that gift card is in essence an advance on their allowance. They have the money and can earn interest on it long before the merchandise is ever sold.

In our debit card society, the idea of gift cards has a lot of currency (pun intended). It makes sense to a lot of people, and the extra piece of plastic is not seen as an inconvenience in the billfold (although some may wind up with George Costanza's wallet if they're not careful).

Similar problems occur with some of the pay-as-you-go cell phone plans. You can buy a cheap phone for $35 at Sam's. You buy airtime in 300-minute blocks at 10 cents per minute (an outrageous amount!). But the minutes are only good for the month or as long as you keep buying something on a monthly basic. It all begins to sound like a service plan without the hassle of a credit check, and exploits the poor who have a lousy credit score. I guess we won't be buying one of these for my mother-in-law; she'd wind up hating us for the ongoing expense of keeping it activated.

Which brings me back to my main question: Is a gift card an impersonal gift, an easy way out for someone who doesn't want to take (or make) the time to shop? Or is it a wise choice in an era when we often do not really know the recipient well enough to make good gift purchases for them?

Critics will argue that if you're going to skip the tangible gift and buy a card instead, you would be better off just giving cash. That way there's no dangling leftover balances, dormancy fees, or other things that benefit the retailer.

As for me, I'll keep giving the cards. They look nicer than dirty old paper money, and they save me a lot of time.

Dr "Paper or Plastic" Gerlich

It's Not A Purse!

It's official. The must-have accessory item for men this year is The ManBag. Having slowly built critical mass through the years, and carried on TV by Fox & Friends' Brian Kilmeade, The ManBag is not a gender bender but rather a haute tote for the fashion-conscious man.

I can just hear Jerry Seinfeld in The Reverse Peephole episode defending his bag: "It's-Not-A-Purse!"

And women seem to like the idea, as long as it...um...doesn't look too much like a purse.

Which may be a monumental task, for a purse by any other name smells the same. Sure, you could take away the feminine styling, and just make it available in one or two colors (presumably to match the guy's brown or black shoes, right?). But it's going to have to look more like a tool belt before some guys buy in to the idea.

I'm not sure about this. While I don't mind the idea of a guy carrying a handbag (ooh, that sounds terrible, doesn't it?), I'm more concerned about falling into the same trap my wife falls into (and by virtue of common property, me too).

I can just hear it now. Man tries to get ready to leave for work, and frantically cries out to Woman: "Where's-my-ManBag?"

I kind of like having my pockets full of enough keys to start a locksmith business, flanked by George Costanza's wallet propping my behind up on one side to the point that it affects my posture and causes lower back pain. I'll even take the occasional ink pen disaster and the clank of a few bucks worth of coins.

And if it won't fit in my pockets, I'll wear a backpack. At least then I'll look like I'm going on an adventure instead of shopping.

Of course, men could just be content to carry a briefcase, but those get clunky, too. While they may bespeak occupational prestige, they become portable filing cabinets for more junk than you need to be carrying around. Besides, that's why we have jump drives for our computers so you can stash all your work in your pocket...of course!

No, the ManBag idea may be nice for some guys, but I don't see it happening around here. It's not that I'm afraid to be seen with one (God knows I've been seen enough times already carrying either my wife's or daughter's purses). I just don't want to put all that valuable stuff in one easy-to-steal container for a would-be ManBagSnatcher. He's going to have to stick his hands in my pockets first.

Which will only occur over my cold dead body.

Dr "It's In The Bag" Gerlich