The Revenge of the Tree Rats!

     We previously reported the consideration of harvesting and consuming some of our local tree chickens in a desperate moment.   Unfortunately, we now suspect that a few of the fluffy little pine cone bandits might be able to read, an advantage they would hold over many of the human residents of our proud state.  

     This unnerving possibility was raised just the other day.  As you know from previous posts, Paula and I enjoy cycling and are presently putting in some miles in preparing for an adventure later this year (stay tuned for probably-snarked-out posts on THAT).  

     On a usually-pleasant downhill stretch, I heard Paula screech and when I fell back to see what was wrong, all she could say was, "A squirrel!  A squirrel!  It jumped out and hit my leg and almost knocked me over!!"

     This is not the first time that our fuzzy-tailed arboreal 'friends' have tried to sabotage cyclists.  Here is an example of a felled bicycle with a kamikaze tree rodent stuck in the front wheel.

     And another.

     At this point, we are pretty much convinced that the squirrels have found the internet address of this blog and are out for revenge upon us for suggesting that they might supplement our diet.  

     Unusual times call for unusual measures, such as 

or an airbag helmet, complete with the cute model, Paula says.

or even this, complete with the front Squirrel Guard™ which I am about to patent, by the way (don't even TRY to snipe me on this one!)

     We have considered calling for a truce in the confrontation, but through my binoculars I saw something that made me think that the rodents are in no mood.

     Stay tuned for further developments.  Meanwhile, if you are a local tree chicken reading this, we desire peace and are ready to offer peanuts as proof of our sincerity.  If they seem rancid and/or stale, that's Paula's fault and make sure you go for her bike and not mine.

David

Fixing leaky bladders

     OK, I admit, the headline was click bait.  I really did fix leaky bladders surgically, but I haven't done one of those operations since July 2011.  Now I'm plagued by another kind of leaky bladder.

     This is a (borrowed, stolen) diagram of a kitesurfing kite.  The leading edge is hollow, and the whole thing is given shape in part by inflatable bladders within it and the struts. 

     They are only inflated to about 7-8 pounds per square inch, so not a lot of pressure.  However, they are subject to all kinds of trauma.

     Though probably not a politically correct term, slamming a kite into the water is known as "tomahawking" the poor thing, and the sound it makes causes every head to turn and see who messed up this time.  

     Where my brother kites on the lower Potomac River, there have been forlorn kites in trees, a warning to those foolish enough to brave Mother Nature.  

     Add to that the 'foot cacti' found on the Outer Banks,

and the life of a kite bladder can be hard and short.

     Unfortunately, on our last outing in April to Hatteras, it became clear that my beloved 15-meter kite had suffered a slow leak.  This was not a happy moment.  You see, fixing a leaky bladder on a human is WAY simpler, and I'm close to serious.  You don't actually have to remove the human version, a lengthy and trick procedure on a kite.  The thing is skinny, about twenty feet long (OK, careful, I'm talking about the kite version, not the one in the person), and attached to all sorts of things, and that holds for both kind of bladders.

     And just like with the human version, the bladder is a bit delicate, and you have to make sure you're not making MORE holes while you're fixing the first one.  So, I scrubbed up, donned my surgical gown and gathered my instruments.  Meanwhile, the kite was already unconscious and ready for the procedure.

     Though Paula refused to mop my brow or even address me as "Dr. Henderson," things went well, and after longer than the person version took, I got the bladder out, found the hole, patched it and got everything back together again, which step is also necessary in the human procedure.

     I cautiously blew the kite back up, and was relieved that it held pressure.  Ready for the next "tomahawk" or cactus or whatever awful thing lies in its future.  

     We hope that your bladder isn't leaking, and if it is, that you can find someone to put a good patch on it.

Dave

It's good to have a good brother

     My brother Mark is three years younger than I am, and we have an unfortunate sister trapped between us.  We had the usual love/dislike relationships growing up, and there were times when I was unkind to him, which I sorely regret.  He was usually better to me than I was to him.

     Mark came up with all sorts of lunatic stuff.  At one point in our childhood, he made a rule that if someone was hurt inadvertently while we were playing, someone else could say, "Laugh, my child!" and the injured party had to laugh, which usually set things back on track.

     He convinced our baby sister that there was a secret rail system in the attic by which we could be transported to the neighbor's house, but that she couldn't use it until she was six.  And on and on.

     Mark has always thought bigger than me.  I had a minibike, he had a Yamaha dirt bike.  I had the ratty old VW Beetle, he had the ratty old Triumph Spitfire.  I have five kids, he has eight.  I was an OB-GYN, he was an orthopaedic surgeon.  

     There has been somewhat of a fun arms race since we've grown up.  We had always ridden bikes, but he got a nice one in residency, so I had to find one also, and we've had some classic rides together since, and while I've done a lot of 'century' rides (100 miles), for a while he was doing 'double dimes,' meaning 200 miles at a throw.

     During residency in Philadelphia, Mark noticed someone windsurfing at a nearby park lake, and he had to do it.  That meant that I needed to figure it out also, and we had great fun windsurfing together for twenty-five years, all over the East Coast and even internationally.

     Scuba diving slipped in there somewhere, along with underwater photography.  

     We shared whitewater kayaking with our sons, and did many of the great and challenging rivers in the East, though again, he was always up for bigger stuff than I was.

     From what I've said, you could think that it was all fun stuff.  Mark has become a solid pillar in his community and the Church, and we have paralleled each other in many assignments and activities.  

     The latest chapter in the fun category has been kiteboarding, which we picked up at the end of windsurfing a dozen years ago or so.  We've had a lot of laughs doing that together, though as usual, Mark gets 25 foot jumps while I'm lucky to land fivers.  

     It's great having a good brother.  He's always someone I can bounce DIY engineering plans off of, or revel with about some new activity, or use as an excuse with my long-suffering wife; "Well, Amy let Mark do it!"  Doesn't always work, but it's worth a try.  

     I hope that your siblings are anywhere near as good as my kid brother.

David

Crazy ideas of (fairly) old guys

       When we lived on a 'gentleman's farm' in then-rural Fairfax County, Virginia, my parents raised lots of different animals, including goats, specifically milk-producing Saanens.

     Mom had a friend named Bob Black who raised Saanens also, and who owned a Piper Cub.  One day he noticed that our fields might make a decent runway.  He flew his plane in, and Mom charged him $5 instead of the $10/mo. tie-down fee at Manassas Airport.  

     OK, maybe not so flattering a picture (that's me in the middle, probably not destined for swim suit model), but that's the cub in the back field.

     A normal Cub only has a 65 horsepower engine and no starter, so when I was about seven years old, Bob taught me how to sit in the front seat, hold the toe brakes and operate the engine controls while he swung the propeller to start the thing.  That was terrifyingly cool, and although Bob never had a license and couldn't take anyone up (and was probably not to be trusted anyway) I became an airplane nut.

     When I was fifteen, my friend Lloyd Hill and I convinced our parents that we should get a job at the Warrenton-Fauquier airport and in a weak moment they said OK!  We would open the office of the Fixed Base Operator on Saturday mornings, and we were often the last ones to leave in the evening.  We fueled and washed airplanes, changed runway lights and of course cleaned the bathroom, but in the end, we both earned our Private Pilot license, mine when I had just turned seventeen, the legal limit.

     I flew some that summer, and a little in Utah when I went to college that fall, but less and less because of the cost.  When I returned from my two-year mission for the Church, I visited Lloyd in Florida, and one of my last logbook entries involved flying to one of the Keys with him.

     Then life intervened with college, marriage, medical school, residency, kids, private practice, etc., etc., etc. and when I brought the subject up once, Paula wisely put it back down; "You've got five little kids!  Are you nuts?!"

     She must have picked up a brain-eating parasite in South America, because while we were there, she mused one day, "You know, I think I'd rather have you auger in flying when you're 75 than change your diapers when you're 90."  I wrote it down, but didn't actually make her sign it.

     Over the last year or so, the idea has entered my mind again, though for what reason I'm not sure.  

     Luckily, I know a guy.  One of my four close friends from back to Cub Scout days, almost 60 years ago is a fellow named Dave Nelson.  I had the honor of giving him his first flight in a small plane, although he had flown plenty commercially, his dad being head of operations for United Airlines at the (then) Washington DC airport and Dulles.  He liked it, did Air Force ROTC at BYU, and eventually ended up as one of the chief test pilots at Edwards AFB, with the most hours in the F-22, which was being developed at the time.  After retiring, he was hired by Lockheed and became the chief test pilot of the F-35, from which he retired about four years ago.  He has flown, as far as he can tell, seventy-seven different aircraft, and actually flew with Chuck Yeager.  Twice.

     For my 68th birthday (that many?!) Paula let me travel to Palmdale, California where Dave lives, and we went flying! 

     He turned out to be the best instructor I have ever worked with and he did a lot to tune me up and get me back on track legally.  With that good start, I've been doing some local flying here.  Again, the reason for all of this is unclear, but it feels like a good thing to do at the moment.  It has at least led me to study a lot, never a bad thing for an aging brain.  

     So, I guess the moral of the story is this - if you want to learn to fly, tell your mother she needs to get some goats.  Saanens, that is.

Dave