Katy Trail Adventure

Even though we enjoy traveling far away, some of the most delightful trips have been close to home.  I wrote the following poem in May of 2009, on a trip to Rocheport, Missouri.  We stayed at a bed and breakfast, and the weather cooperated for two wonderful days of riding on the bike trail.

Gretta at Rocheport trailhead

KATY TRAIL ADVENTURE

by Greg Larson

Purple tandem on the trail
Indigo Bunting flashes its tail

Big Muddy Mo’ by our side

A roiling companion, a flowing tide

Eagles above on warm winds soar

Majestic shadows touch woodland floor

Trickling spring waters find their way

And many a wildflower brightens our day

‘Katy’ critters scurry ‘cross our path

Quick to hide from wheel’s wrath

Back to Rocheport before day’s end

Big old tunnel ‘round the bend

Wine on the bluff top, a great feast, too

The river and sunset in our view

Jeunette Rouge – a refreshing dry red

Mellows our thoughts before going to bed

Spinning spokes in sweet dreams

Cycling paradise – a heavenly scene

A shaft of sunlight pierces the room

I guess it’s time to be going soon

Breakfast awaits – the best I’ve seen

One that’s fit for Kings and Queens

Around Rocheport we did walk

Enjoying time for idle talk

Cat rubs pen as I write this word

‘Writer’s block’ has now occurred!

Katy Trail near Pilot Grove, MO

To the Ends of the Earth - Part II

Preface:  During Part I, Martin and Osa Johnson scraped enough money together from their vaudeville act to make their first overseas trip together.  Their plan was to find and photograph wild natives in the South Pacific.  They sailed to the New Hebrides Islands (now Vanuatu) and focused on finding a wild tribe of cannibal natives called the Big Nambas.  At the end of Part I, Martin and Osa are seized by Nagapate, the tribe leader.  Osa is screaming and on the verge of fainting. 

Nagapate - Big Namba tribal leader

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

To the Ends of the Earth - Part II

non-fiction research

by Greg Larson

copyright 2010 

         The tribal boo-boo drums began to beat in the background.  Martin became concerned for his wife, so he shut off the camera, and then stood between Osa and Nagapate.  He yelled to his wife and crew to run to the boat while he occupied the leader, but Nagapate grabbed Osa, and the tribe seized Martin.  Fear overcame Osa as Nagapate gripped her arm.  She screamed and screamed, and then she became woozy and disoriented.  

     Amazingly, the yelling and the noise suddenly stopped.  All of the natives looked and pointed towards the sea.  It was a twist of fate, a small miracle; a British gunboat was turning into the bay.

     Martin shouted, “Man-o-war!”  Nagapate and the captors released their grip, and Martin and Osa rushed down the path towards the beach with as much speed as they could muster.  Shortly after the release, the natives watched the gunboat make a turn to leave the bay.  They immediately began the chase, screaming and yelling as they ran down the path towards the couple.  During their rush to the beach, Martin and Osa realized the natives were gaining on them.  They heard the crashing and rustling of stalks as the pursuers attempted to close the gap.

     In a scene that seems more fiction than reality, they burst out of the vegetation and into the sunlight on the sandy beach, with the screaming tribe in hot pursuit.  The natives swarmed the beach, just as the crew of three pulled Martin and Osa into the sailboat and quickly pulled away from shore.  Martin and Osa lay in the bottom of the boat, their energy drained.  Martin had carried the camera in the race to the beach, and most importantly, his film was intact.  Nightfall came, and they fought their way through a small storm to return to their base with the French priest.

     After visiting other tribes on Malekula, they returned to the U.S. and sold their film to Hollywood producers.  Before long, Nagapate, the Big Nambas, and other natives were on movie screens across the country and the world.  Thus began a pattern for all future trips; return to the states, sell the film, visit relatives, promote the movie, and begin planning the next trip, including financial backing through product promotion and investors.  Their life was a whirlwind.

     In 1919, they returned to the island of Malekula and went again to see the Big Nambas, but this time with a contingent of men and rifles to ensure their safety.  They filmed the natives in more detail, and at dusk they set up screens and played the movie which had made them famous.  Nagapate and the tribe, upon seeing themselves on film and noticing tribe members who were no longer living, treated Martin and Osa like gods.

     To obtain additional film footage, they traveled to Borneo, where they became interested in the monkeys, orangutans, and other wildlife.

     On a visit to New York between trips, they met Carl Akeley from the American Museum of Natural History.  He convinced them that Africa was the place to go.  With much far-sightedness, he suggested filming the wildlife there would be historic, for he had concerns that many species might be hunted to extinction and their habitat destroyed.

     Their trips to Africa were logistically complex.  All of their film, cameras and camping equipment had to be shipped overseas.  Once on land, everything had to be transferred to trucks or railcars.  Provisions had to be purchased and packed in 60 pound packs (the weight limit for African porters).  For each safari, cooks, leaders, and porters had to be hired, and vehicles had to be purchased.

     Osa focused on logistics while Martin sorted out the details regarding filming and darkroom equipment.  He also met with local authorities to determine the best locations to see wildlife in its natural habitat.

     Osa loved gardening, and wherever they set up a long-term campsite, she immediately planted a garden to improve their diet.  The produce was welcomed by the camp staff.  Her crops included beans, sweet corn, carrots, potatoes, cucumbers, turnips, squash, cantaloupes, and watermelon.  At one of the camps there was an elephant that had a liking for sweet potatoes.  It wreaked havoc on the garden when it dug up the potatoes.  Osa’s solution was to plant a separate patch of potatoes just outside the perimeter of the camp…a personal patch for the elephant.

African Bull Elephant

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

     While in British East Africa (currently Kenya), they heard rumors about a hidden, mystical oasis several hundred miles to their north, where flocks and herds of wildlife came to drink.  There were no maps of the lake, nor did it have a name.  Whenever natives or locals spoke of it, a mysterious look shone in their eyes, as if they were talking about the seven cities of gold.

     Martin was determined to find the hidden lake.  As soon as they had developed enough safari experience, they began their trek north, always asking the local guides and scouts if they knew of “the lake.”  Quite possibly the oasis was a secret the locals did not want to share with the outside world.  Then one day their guide finally directed them to a lake in a remote and shallow volcano crater, where the trees, flowers, birds, and wildlife all shared the life-giving water.

     Osa turned to Martin and gasped, “It’s Paradise!”  So they named it Paradise Lake, and it became a veritable Garden of Eden for Martin’s photography and filming.

Paradise Lake

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

     With financial backing from George Eastman (the Eastman-Kodak magnate) and others, Martin and Osa returned in 1923 for a four-year stint at Paradise Lake.

     They had many distinguished visitors during their safari. They rendezvoused with the Duke and Duchess of York, and Osa supplied them with a big basket of vegetables.  Members of the Museum of Natural History were repeat visitors, obtaining wildlife specimens for use in the museum.

Wild Animals in the African Wilderness

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

     Martin and Osa built a special cabin for George Eastman, when they learned he was coming to visit. Eastman fit in well with the camp routine, and he taught Osa and others how to bake lemon pies, pastries and muffins.  He treated Osa like a daughter, and he was in his element while he photographed the wildlife with Martin.

     Naturally, he brought his own cameras and film, some of which were prototypes to test.  Eastman became friends with the Johnsons, and a few years later, he invited them to sail the Nile on a large yacht.  When he said good-bye to the Johnsons for the last time, he told them his time in Africa was the happiest in his life.

     From their time spent at Paradise Lake and on trips to the Belgian Congo (currently Democratic Republic of the Congo), Martin became a world expert on understanding the social habits of elephant herds and lion prides.  Many times Martin and Osa sat on top of their safari vehicles, eating lunch, watching the lions wrestle with each other and nip at the tires on their truck.

     Martin became intrigued with the idea of using aircraft on their safaris.  The logistics in trekking several hundred miles by land could be drastically reduced if they were able to make quick and efficient trips in planes to remote jungle areas.  Aircraft were becoming more durable and reliable, thus safer for traveling.

     In 1932, they purchased two Sikorsky amphibious aircraft, and planned an air safari of Africa.  Martin named the larger plane, Osa’s Ark, and had it painted with zebra stripes.  The smaller plane was named The Spirit of Africa, and it was painted with giraffe spots.  They hired an aviator from Kansas, Vern Carstens, along with a Sikorsky test pilot and a mechanic to fly and maintain the aircraft.

     They thought of every detail in outfitting the planes.  Martin had special mountings made for aerial photography.  Osa created a space for a desk and typewriter.  They installed a small stove and galley and designed the rest of the interiors for holding supplies.  The planes were dismantled and shipped to Capetown, South Africa, where they were re-assembled for use.

The Johnsons' Sikorsky amphibious aircraft

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

     The planes gave them speed and mobility that was beyond their imagination.  It was possible to fly to remote wildlife habitat, land on a lake or river, film the wildlife, and return to base camp in a few short days.  Previously, a similar trip would have taken weeks or months.  Martin learned to film from the air, obtaining dramatic images of elephants, buffalo herds, and other wildlife crossing the open country.  The planes were also used for supply missions when provisions were needed.

     Over the next few years, they logged over 50,000 miles in the planes in Africa, and 30,000 miles in south-east Asia.  They were the first to fly over Mt. Kenya and photograph it from the air, and they flew around Mt. Kilimanjaro.  There were numerous and dangerous take-offs and landings brushing tree tops or negotiating curved rivers, and wind-swept lakes.  The planes performed to their specifications and the crews were top-notch.  They completed their air safaris without a serious mishap.

Somalians look at aircraft with Martin and Osa

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

     The list of films created during their career is lengthy, including documentary films as well as feature films. A list of highlight titles includes:

• “Cannibals of the South Seas” (1918)
• “Jungle Adventures” (1921)
• “Simba” (1928)
• “Congorilla” (1932)
• “Wings Over Africa” (1934)
• “Baboona” (1935)

     Martin and Osa had traveled to more places on earth than one can imagine.  Just one of their trips would have been the trip of a lifetime for the typical American.  This was the case in 1928, when three Boy Scouts were selected to spend five weeks with the Johnsons.  The scouts learned many native skills, including a different technique of archery, in which the arrows were shot vertically so they would land on the backs of the wild animals.

     In January of 1937, Martin and Osa were on a whirlwind tour of lectures across the U.S., sharing their travels with schoolchildren and the public.  The morning after a lecture in Salt Lake City, Utah, they boarded a commercial flight to Burbank, California.

     In the fatal irony of ironies, the commercial plane in which they rode crashed on a ridge in fog and rain, on approach to Burbank.  Five persons ultimately died from the crash injuries.  For Martin and Osa, it was their last trip together.  Martin, with a severely crushed skull, died the next day.  Osa suffered a back injury, but insisted on continuing the lecture circuit.

     A poignant link to the Johnsons’ Kansas roots was the fact that Burbank was where Amelia Earhart’s Lockheed Electra aircraft was being tested (1935-1937) for her ill-fated attempts to circumnavigate the globe.

     After Martin’s death, Osa wrote many books, served as consultant to film makers, and continued to share her experiences.  But life was not the same without Martin, her soul mate, and she remained unhappy.  Osa died in New York in 1953.

     The world is now decades and generations removed from the adventures of the Johnsons, the Kansans with wanderlust in their hearts.  They were a rare match, combining their love and passion for each other and for adventure.  Their accomplishments are nothing short of remarkable and are testaments to their sheer determination in their darkest hours and when they traveled to the ends of the earth.

                                                          THE END

The Kansans with wanderlust in their hearts

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

Sources:
• Johnson, Osa. I Married Adventure. William Morrow and Co., Inc. (1989) (first published by J.B. Lippincott Co. (1940))

• The Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum. 111 N. Lincoln Avenue, Chanute, Kansas 66720-1819. Conrad Froehlich, Director.

• The Safari Museum website: http://www.safarimuseum.com/their story.htm

• Notable California Aviation Disasters website: http://www.jaydeebee1.com/crash30s.html

To the Ends of the Earth - Part I

     Preface:  This is a true story about a Kansas couple, Martin and Osa Johnson, who married 100 years ago.  When I read  Osa Johnson's book, "I Married Adventure," it came alive on the pages.  I became an immediate fan of Martin and Osa's love for each other and their adventures.  It is a story of travel in a wild and untamed world much different from today.

     I would like to give a special thanks to Conrad Froehlich, director of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum in Chanute, Kansas, for providing and allowing the use of the photographs from their collection in this two-part story.

Martin and Osa Johnson

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

To the Ends of the Earth - Part I

non-fiction research

by Greg Larson

copyright 2010

     When you think of famous Kansans, who comes to mind?  Dwight Eisenhower?  Amelia Earhart?  Robert Dole?  How about Martin and Osa Johnson?  Most people have never heard of the couple from southeast Kansas, but they became world famous in the 1920’s and ‘30’s, traveling the globe.  They sought out savage head-hunting tribes in the island jungles of south-east Asia, and launched safaris into Africa to film charging rhinos, lion prides, and a myriad of unpredictable wildlife.  Their films were exactly what the American movie-goers craved at a time when the public’s appetite for adventure and worldly images became insatiable.

     Martin thrived on adventures in the most dangerous spots on the globe, at a time when communication and travel were difficult, and when many native tribes had not seen Caucasians or twentieth century technology.  He was fearless when confronting tribal warriors or filming charging herds of wild animals.  Martin pioneered many techniques in wildlife photography and processed much of his film in the wilderness.  He dealt with logistical nightmares associated with transporting specialized equipment on safaris and into the jungles.

Martin Johnson photo of lions

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

     How did Martin and Osa become seasoned world adventurers?  Their early history reveals many ironies that would lead one to believe their hopes and dreams were doomed to failure.  But along with the ironies came many opportunities and lucky breaks, as well as a deep commitment to reach their goals…a commitment that became stronger whenever the situations became tougher.

     Martin, born in 1884, was the son of a jewelry store merchant who moved his family from Rockford, Illinois, to Lincoln Center, Kansas, and finally to Independence, Kansas.  Martin became fascinated with a sideline of Eastman-Kodak film and cameras that his father sold in their store.  At the time, no one could have guessed that Martin would eventually become a close friend to George Eastman, inviting him to spend time at Martin’s African safari camp.

     The young Kansan, bored with high school, dreamed of traveling to see the sights of the world.  The sample photos of Egyptian pyramids and European cities which were included in the Kodak products shipped to the store further fueled Martin’s desire to travel.  He became popular with the other students because he always brought along his camera and pictures to picnics and social events.  He was expelled from high school for distributing some “tricked” photos of the faculty in amusing situations.  Feeling he was an embarrassment to his family, he left home and began to travel on a shoestring budget.  His first destination was Chicago and he eventually traveled to England, taking on odd jobs to pay his way.  He always found his way home, albeit penniless.  But his desire for adventure continued to burn from within, with a passion to seek out the unknown.

     His first opportunity came when he responded to an article by Jack London.  The famous author was planning a seven-year trip around the world with a crew of six, using a custom-made boat built to his specifications.  London placed an ad in a magazine, in search of applicants from across the country.  Martin sent his letter stating why he should join the crew, and London selected him from hundreds of respondents…quite ironic since he was from landlocked Kansas.  He was chosen to be the crew’s cook, though he had little cooking experience.

     The trip aboard Jack London’s boat, the Snark, began in 1907.  It was the opportunity of a lifetime for Martin Johnson, and he made the most of it.  Jack London and his wife Charmian were impressed with Martin’s positive outlook and his interest in helping the crew fix engines, pump bilge water, and navigate the high seas.  He became invaluable as a seaman, and was eventually relieved of his cooking duties.

     The boat was not built for the rigors of the high seas and continually needed repairs.  They miraculously survived the journey from California to Hawaii, and then went on to visit several South Pacific islands, where they sought out the native tribes.  Jack London contracted a mysterious skin disease, and doctors in Australia advised him to return to the U.S.  The experimental sailing adventure aboard the small boat had become a dismal failure in less than two years.

     A lucky break occurred for Martin when he met a French film crew in the Solomon Islands before the trip was abandoned.  They were attempting to film some of the native head-hunter tribes.  After several of the film crew became ill, Martin offered to assist the cameramen.  He became fascinated with the equipment, asked questions and learned as much as he could on the short journey into the jungle.

     After the Jack London voyage, Martin continued to travel around the world, and spent time in Paris, where he purchased a copy of the Solomon Island motion pictures from the French film company.  He returned home to Independence, surprised to find the entire town waiting at the train station, ready to treat him as a hometown hero.

     An enterprising merchant convinced Martin to share his adventures with the public.  He knew the townspeople would gladly pay admission to see the films and listen to Martin’s lectures about his travels.  The merchant funded the construction of a small theatre, dubbed “The Snark.”  Martin quickly learned he had stage fright…it almost doomed his career.  He overcame his fear, and included local singers on the bill to add to the entertainment value.

     Osa Leighty was born in Chanute, Kansas, in 1894.  Her father was a Santa Fe railroad brake man, away from home much of the time.  She had a strict upbringing in the modest family home, and was strongly influenced by her mother and grandmother who taught her not to talk to strangers, another irony for a future world traveler.

     Osa discovered one day that her high school friend, Gail, was scheduled to sing on stage at the Snark theater in Independence which was about 40 miles from Chanute.  Osa traveled with her friends to see Gail perform.  They heartily applauded their friend’s performance, and then Martin Johnson began his lecture and movie.  As the story about the South Pacific head-hunters dragged on, Osa walked out of the theater, disgusted and bored.

     Her friend, Gail, who was already married, became the matchmaker.  She invited Osa for another visit to Independence, and set up a double date with Martin and Osa, even though Martin was nine years older.  Over several weeks, Osa asserted her independent and stubborn nature, acting coy and somewhat hard-to-get.  This didn’t deter Martin from courting her.  On more than one occasion, he traveled to Chanute to visit Osa and her family; he brought candy and was subjected to questions from Osa’s mother, grandmother, and brother.  Martin didn’t give up his interest in Osa; he must have seen the qualities in her that would serve them well if they traveled together.

     During the short courtship, Martin asked Osa to sing at the Snark theater on a weekend when Gail was supposedly ill.  Osa sang with considerable volume and the audience liked her.  The next day, alone in the theater with Osa, Martin asked her to marry him and she accepted.

     Although the courtship seemed strange, the marriage and honeymoon was even stranger.  They married the day after he proposed to her in Independence, Kansas, and left on their wedding day for Kansas City on a short honeymoon.  To elope in 1910 was quite taboo in the Midwest, and it was another irony that the marriage survived even the first week.  Osa started to get homesick and she cried all the way to Kansas City.  They were married again in Missouri to prevent Osa’s father from annulling the Kansas license.  After five days, they returned to Chanute, and Martin faced Osa’s father, who told him that he’d better do a good job of taking care of her.

     After surviving the unusual honeymoon, Osa enjoyed the beginning months of domestic life in Independence.  She cleaned and polished their rental apartment above one of the downtown shops, and dreamt of having a large family and building a house.  Martin shared his dream and desire to save up enough money to travel back to the south-sea islands to find more remote tribes to photograph.

     Osa listened to Martin’s dreams, and realized that she had married a man quite different from most.  With her love and devotion to Martin, she threw her whole-hearted support to his efforts.  Their first obstacle was the fact that the Jack London adventure story was getting old in Independence.  In short order, they sold all of their wedding gifts and possessions, and took their vaudeville act on the road.  Martin lectured and showed his slides and film, and Osa sang a few numbers while wearing a simulated Hawaiian dress.

Martin and Osa on the vaudeville tour

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

     At one point, early in their road-show days, they were tired, out of money, and in Denver at Christmas-time.  They had to pawn the few possessions they had just to pay for a flop-house room and to buy some food.  Most couples in their situation would have given up and gone home.  Although that thought entered their minds, their dogged determination and love for each other shone through the cold, sickness, and loneliness.  Their greatness as a couple was forged through experiences similar to the dark days of Denver.

     During a stint in New York, Martin, with Osa’s prodding, got up enough nerve to seek out and land a national contract with the Orpheum theater group.  With secure bookings for their show, they began to build up some savings for their big dream of traveling overseas.

     After seven long years of working on the vaudeville circuit, they planned out their first overseas trip.  Martin purchased a motion picture camera, two still cameras, a rifle and two revolvers, as well as several thousand feet of film.  In 1917, they packed their trunks, boarded a steamer in San Francisco, and headed for the South Pacific.

     They eventually sailed to the upper New Hebrides islands (currently Vanuatu), where Martin continued to gather information to determine the best location to film.  He was meticulous and emphatic regarding his desire to film true wild and native tribes.  The British authorities tried to convince him to film some of the tribes under their control, but Martin wanted no part in filming docile natives.  After gathering information from the local sailors, he decided the fiercest and wildest tribes lived on the island of Malekula.  A local sailor transported them to a small island adjacent to Malekula, where they stayed with a French priest.  Martin began to establish a plan to travel to Malekula and come face-to-face with the natives and capture their visit on film.

     The merchant ships and the British Government warned Martin and Osa to stay away from Malekula, for they believed it was far too dangerous a place for foreigners, especially women.  The natives were unpredictable.  The tribes on the island were in constant warfare with each other, and they practiced cannibalism.  Communication was difficult, but was possible through the use of a local common language called Bêche-de-Mer.

     Martin was certain that the island of Malekula was the perfect place to obtain images of a real cannibal tribe known as the Big Nambas.  He and Osa convinced three natives familiar with Malekula to be their crew and sail a small boat over to the island.  They beached it as some of the natives began to emerge from the island vegetation.  Osa thought they were the ugliest creatures she had ever seen on the face of the earth.  They appeared unwashed and filthy, and wore bones through their noses, pig’s teeth necklaces and woven breechcloths.

     Martin asked one of the natives to act as a guide and direct them to their leader.  With some trepidation, Martin and Osa started the hike into the jungle, as their three crew members followed behind, carrying the cameras.  After a hike of a couple of miles, they reached a bluff that overlooked the beach where they had landed.  Without warning, they saw tribe members rush onto the path.  They were surrounded by the cannibal tribe of the Big Nambas, and standing before them was the powerful leader, Nagapate, superior-looking in physical prowess and bearing.

Nagapate - Leader of the Big Nambas

photo courtesy of the Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum

     The Big Nambas watched their fierce leader curiously inspect the foreign couple that had come to their hilltop village.  The year was 1917, and the wild tribe had seen few people from the outside world.  Nagapate, with his bushy black hair and beard, moved in closer to the couple.  Martin began filming as Osa offered Nagapate some tobacco and trinkets.  The tribal leader grabbed Osa’s arm with his leathery hands.  He rubbed her white skin and then began touching her hair and scalp.  Martin kept the film rolling in his movie camera, taking in the scene of the natives and their leader.  He patiently encouraged Osa to stay calm and offer the leader more tobacco and gifts.

     The tribal boo-boo drums began to beat in the background.  Martin became concerned for his wife, so he shut off the camera, and then stood between Osa and Nagapate.  He yelled to his wife and crew to run to the boat while he occupied the leader, but Nagapate grabbed Osa, and the tribe seized Martin.  Fear overcame Osa as Nagapate gripped her arm.  She screamed and screamed, and then she became woozy and disoriented.

TO BE CONTINUED

Sources:

• Johnson, Osa. I Married Adventure. William Morrow and Co., Inc. (1989) (first published by J.B. Lippincott Co. (1940))

• The Martin and Osa Johnson Safari Museum. 111 N. Lincoln Avenue, Chanute, Kansas 66720-1819. Conrad Froehlich, Director.

• The Safari Museum website: http://www.safarimuseum.com/their story.htm

Thirty-nine Seconds

Tour flag

Preface:  The 2010 Tour de France will go down in history as one of the best.  For three weeks, I was a tour junkie, memorizing rider numbers and team jerseys.  I spent countless hours watching live TV coverage, which included helicopter fly-overs of picturesque villages, farmland, mountains and bike racers.  In the third week, the drama unfolded, and my legs were twitching while I sat on the edge of the couch, cheering for the cyclists. 

Thirty-nine Seconds

a Tour de France commentary 

by Greg Larson

copyright 2010

     Thirty-nine seconds.  That’s the difference in time between the first and second place finishers in the 2010 Tour de France bicycle race.  It seems like such a small amount of time for a race that covers 2,100 miles over three weeks; a race whose history and facts can boggle the mind.  The tour consists of twenty daily stage races which average over 100 miles per day.  Each stage of the tour is selected to showcase a piece of France; from the farm country, the coastlines, and the Alps, to the Pyrenees, the Bordeaux wine country, and Paris.

     Twenty-two teams with nine riders on each team compete in a race steeped in history and tour lore.  For over one hundred years, millions of fans have come out to stand by the roadside.  The most fanatical fans will camp and party for several days for the chance to catch a brief glimpse of the peloton (the main body of riders).  If they are lucky, they might see their favorite rider or a quick flash of the maillot jaune (the race leader’s yellow jersey).

     Thirty-nine seconds.  That’s all that separated Alberto Contador (from Spain) and Andy Schleck (from Luxembourg) in 2010 at the end of the three weeks.  Take a sip of wine and a nibble of brie, and you’ve used up the time between the winner and the loser after 92 hours of racing.

     Participants who finish the Tour de France say their lives are changed forever.  Most say they become a stronger rider.  Even the weakest of the 198 riders are titans of the sport.  On a bad day, they could ride circles around the best local club riders.  Winners of each daily stage become a hero, and in Europe are revered in the same way the U.S. reveres baseball hall-of-famers.  Winners of the overall race become historic legends.

     The grueling event was even more difficult in its early years.  In 1903, the first year of the race, many of the stages were over 250 miles in length.  In 1910, the mountain stages were added.  The winner that year, Octave Lapize, yelled “assassins!” to the organizers as he climbed into the Pyrenees on dirt roads that seemed more like cow paths.  In 1927, the race began with 142 riders, but it was so difficult, the finishers totaled only 39 (there’s that number again).

     The peloton becomes a community of riders, with a pecking order from statesmen to rookies.  Each rider has a specific job for his team.  Some are sprinters seeking a one-day win.  Others are mountain climbers.  Some are hired to be domestiques or workers for the team.  They carry drinks and food from the team car up to the team leaders.  The team leaders are the best overall riders who have hopes of finishing in the top ten at the end of the tour.  The domestiques protect their team leader each day by riding in front of him, into the wind.  They want their leader to be fresh and ready to attack (ride aggressively) at the end of the day, with the hope that he will win the day and keep a low overall time.

     There is an unwritten code of ethics within the peloton.  The domestiques will give their wheels or their entire bike to the team leader if he has mechanical problems, a crash, or a flat tire.  If one of the overall contenders crashes or has a mechanical problem, the statesmen or leaders of the race will ask the peloton to slow down and wait for the man in trouble to catch back up to the group.

     In 1934, René Vietto was a young rider supporting his team leader, Antonin Magne.  Twice in the Pyrenees, René sacrificed his chances of winning and gave a wheel to his leader when Magne was in need.  To this day, Vietto is known as “King René” for his devotion to the unwritten laws of the race.

     More recently, the code was honored between Lance Armstrong and Jan Ullrich, the dominant race leaders for many years.  When Lance’s handlebars were caught in a fan’s bag and he crashed, Jan slowed down for Lance.  During another tour, when Jan crashed into a ditch, Lance and his team slowed down to wait for Jan.

     Thirty-nine seconds.  Although it is a small margin between first and second place, it is not the smallest.  In 1989, U.S. rider, Greg LeMond, won by a mere eight seconds.  On the last day of the tour, Greg was trailing two-time Tour de France champion Laurent Fignon by 50 seconds.  The course was a fifteen mile time-trial onto the Champs-Elysées in Paris, with each rider racing separately against the clock.  Greg used prototype aero-bars attached to the handle bars, in order to improve his aerodynamics.  But there was a problem.  When he tested the bike before the race, the aero-bars were too loose.  The mechanics tried to tighten them, but Greg was not satisfied.

     Greg told the mechanics, “I pull hard on the bars with every pedal stroke.”

     With just minutes before the start, a mechanic grabbed some tin snips and a Coke can, and created some aluminum shims.  Voilà!  The bars were tightened to Greg’s satisfaction and he rode an historic time trial with an average speed of 33.8 miles per hour.  When Fignon crossed the finish line and saw that he had lost the three-week race by eight seconds, he collapsed… a broken man.

     After two weeks of racing in the 2010 Tour de France, it was evident that Alberto Contador and Andy Schleck were the crème de la crème of the peloton.  They were evenly matched in the mountains.  Each attacked and tested the other, but neither seemed to have the overpowering strength or the upper hand to control the overall outcome.  After fourteen stages, Andy wore the leader’s yellow jersey, and led Alberto by thirty-one seconds.

     On the final climb of Stage Fifteen, Andy attacked.  With a lead of about 50 meters, he accelerated ahead and shifted to gain more speed.  Unfortunately, his rear wheel hit a small pot hole just as he shifted.  This caused his bike chain to whip and slip off the gear ring.  Andy spun his pedals, but with the chain unattached, he coasted to a stop.

     Alberto had a choice.  He could ask the other leaders to slow down for a few hundred meters and wait for Andy to reconnect his chain or he could attack.  There was no hesitation.  Alberto and the third and fourth place contenders attacked with the speed of fugitives on a jail break, leaving Andy on the road, trying to put his chain back onto the ring.  Finally, after precious seconds were used to reconnect the chain, Andy was back on his bike, chasing Alberto with all his heart.  But it was in vain.  Alberto and the others had sped ahead, over the pass and down the other side of the mountain.  At the end of the day’s race, Alberto had gained thirty-nine seconds, and held an overall lead of eight seconds over Andy.

     When Andy crossed the finish line for the day, he was visibly upset.  During an interview, he said that if Alberto were to have a mechanical problem, he would have waited for him.  In the heat of the moment, Andy said he was going to get revenge with Alberto for what he had done.

     At the ceremony that day, the fans booed Alberto when he was awarded the yellow jersey.  Many did not like the fact that he had taken advantage of a mechanical problem to gain time on his rival.  Other fans argued that Alberto attacked in “the heat of the battle,” and his actions were justified.

     Once their emotions cooled down, both riders apologized for what was said and done.  They hugged each other and said they were friends.  Not a racing fan in Luxembourg believed it.

     On Stage Seventeen, the final mountain stage up the Col du Tormelet, Andy accelerated with six miles of the climb remaining to the mountaintop finish.  Alberto responded, and they rode wheel-to-wheel at an excruciating pace.  Halfway to the finish, Alberto attacked, but Andy responded with his own acceleration.  When he caught up to Alberto he gave him a look as if to say, “Don’t do that again…you’re wasting your energy.”

     Fog and mist shrouded the two riders during the historic climb.  The fans screamed and waved their flags.  Drunken men wearing costumes or Speedos ran alongside the cyclists.  The official motorcycle escort, with horns and sirens blaring, parted the crowd as the riders ascended.  But Alberto and Andy were in a world of their own, oblivious to the chaos on the mountainside.  They crossed the finish line together, with Alberto allowing Andy’s wheel to cross the line first.  Then they put their arms around each other.

     Alberto still had the overall lead, ahead of Andy by eight seconds.

     Finally, the decisive thirty-one mile time trial of Stage Nineteen arrived.  Most believed it was impossible for Andy Schleck to gain time on Alberto Contador.  Experts said he would lose two minutes to Alberto, who was a time-trial specialist.

     Andy rode his heart out.  At the first time check, he had gained six seconds on Alberto.  The pressure was on as the outcome of the three-week race hung in the balance, dependent on the abilities of the two racers that day.  As further time checks were given, Alberto had gained time back from Andy, and at the finish line he had beaten Andy by thirty-one seconds, for an overall lead of…you guessed it…thirty-nine seconds.

     On the final stage to Paris the next day, the leaders agreed to a ceremonial ride; the current tradition being the overall contenders do not try to gain time on each other on the last day.  Paris closed the busiest street in the world, the Champs-Elysées, to showcase the sprinters as they raced eight laps to finish the world’s most famous bicycle race.

     Thirty-nine seconds.  They will be debated for years to come.  Some believe Alberto Contador broke the unwritten code when he took advantage of Andy Schleck’s chain mishap.  Others say, “c’est la vie”…the race mirrors life and whatever happens…happens.  One can speculate that if Alberto had not attacked when Andy’s chain slipped off, the two would have finished with identical times at the end of the tour.  But that didn’t happen.  Alberto won his third Tour de France title, but Andy won the hearts of millions.

Vortex on the Wall

Preface:  The writing group to which I belong, "The Writers Bloc," embarked on a field trip to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art to seek out topics for writing inspiration.  We all scattered to different parts of the museum before meeting at the courtyard.  While wandering through the galleries, I found a massive painting which had a mesmerizing effect on me.

    Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives (1870)

    (54" high x 84" wide)

    Frederic Edwin Church 

     published with permission of Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art

Vortex on the Wall
art critique
by Gregory E. Larson    

     I draw closer to the vista encased in the large frame on the far side of the gallery.  The painting, entitled “Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives,” was created in 1870 by American painter Frederic Edwin Church (1826-1900).  Epic in size and subject matter, it conveys a haunting view of the old city.  From the remnants of the ancient olive grove on the hillside northeast of Jerusalem, I view the Dome of the Rock and the stone walls of the city perimeter.

     With a surge, I am sucked into a vortex of politics, history, culture and life.  I stand in front of the painting at a cross-roads in time…it was meant to be.  HDTV can only hope to be this good.  The artist’s work seems prophetic and full of tension.  An approaching storm charges the atmosphere, while the sunlight pierces and reflects off the luminescent clouds.  I feel the glare as I look towards the city and the rooftops.

     From a shepherd’s vantage, I see two men who appear to be in a discussion further down the hillside, standing by their camels.  The sunlight filters through the olive leaves onto the rough, rocky slopes which are a sharp contrast to the cut stone of the city.  The silence of the natural setting is broken with far-off thunder, in the storm clouds on the horizon.

     The vortex becomes murky in a whirl of thoughts…Islam, Judaism, Christianity, light and dark, countryside and city, God’s creation, man’s creation, peace and rumblings in the distance.  The city walls create a cauldron full of men with conflicting visions and dreams.

     One hundred and forty years have passed since the artist created the view of Jerusalem.  Did he have a vision of future world politics, or was he inspired by the view of an historic setting?  Was I predestined to view the painting at such a crucial time in world history?  What will be in the vista one-hundred and forty years from now?

     I back away from the painting.  I step out from the pull of the vortex and turn to leave the gallery.

     The storm clouds drift closer.

Car Was King

Preface:  Remember your first car?  The steering wheel, the handles and knobs, the upholstery...they all seem familiar, as if you owned it yesterday.  The muscle car era was at its height during my high school and college years, at a time when cars defined who you were.  This memoir revisits a time when "Car was King." 

Car Was King
non-fiction memoir
by Greg Larson

    My friend, Ron, and I were driving in his car along Kansas Avenue in Garden City, Kansas, happy to flee the high school parking lot at the end of the school day.  I was just a passenger, but thrilled for the chance to ride in such a special car.  It was the hottest car in town, his brother’s 1967 Plymouth GTX, with a 440 hemi engine, Hurst four-speed shifter, Holly quad carburetor and Walker mufflers.  A 10,000 RPM, Borg-Warner tachometer was strategically mounted for easy viewing near the steering wheel.

     Let’s face it, I told myself, I’m just a passenger wherever I go.  I have no wheels of my own.   My parents had given me keys to my mom’s baby-blue Plymouth Valiant, and I was allowed to drive it only when it was available.  As a junior in high school in 1968, I was embarrassed to be seen driving such a wimpy-looking car.

     I was torn out of my daydream as Ron stepped on the accelerator.  The pressure slammed my body back into the bucket seat, and the roar of the engine throbbed on my eardrums.  There had been no warning when he unleashed the raw power in the GTX.  As Ron aptly stated later while chuckling, “All hell broke loose!”

     I wasn’t aware that another high school classmate, Jim, in his 1967 yellow Pontiac GTO, had slyly pulled up in the blind spot to our side, then punched his accelerator.  That’s when Ron lit up the hemi, and we blasted off like an Apollo V rocket.  Ron shifted through the gears, screeching the tires between second and third at 60 mph.  Yet, just as quickly as the race was on, it was over, and we coasted at 90 mph.  In a few short seconds, Ron had shut down his competitor.  Jim had taken a cheap shot, trying to sneak up and beat the GTX for bragging rights, but Ron had carried the burden well, keeping his brother’s car as king of the streets.

1967 Plymouth GTX

internet photo

                                                      

1967 Pontiac GTO

internet photo

     Ron drove to the A&W drive-in and we rumbled through the parking lot.  The stalls were filling up with the high-school crowd ordering snacks and waving at friends.  My favorite snack wasn’t on the menu, but I knew that I could get french-fried pickles if I asked for them.

     Garden City was a boom town with money from the agriculture, oil, and the cattle business.  I drooled at all of the shiny cars…Olds 442’s, Chevelle Super Sports and Camaros, Dodge Chargers and Super Bees, Pontiac GTOs and Firebirds…and all I had was a baby-blue Valiant!  I need wheels of my own, I thought.

     I was smack in the middle of the muscle-car culture as a teen-ager.  Whether I liked it or not, every male student’s identity was his car.  You were what you drove.

     When I tossed out the idea of getting a car to my mom, you’d thought I’d committed heresy.

     She got misty-eyed and sad, filling me with guilt, “You’ve been saving your money for college.  You don’t want to throw it away on a car.”

     “But Mom, I can get a summer job and drive to work in my own car.  I’ll make more money than I’ve saved now,” I replied.

     I changed my strategy and started working to get my dad on board with the idea of my own car.  Yeah, work on that macho car vein in my dad…that will get me what I need.

     By a stroke of luck, my friend’s family had inherited his grandmother’s car and wanted to sell it.  It was the proverbial cream puff that had been driven once each week to church and the beauty parlor.  This has possibilities, I thought, as I ran my hand along the light gold-brown 1963 Plymouth, with a 318-V8 engine.  It had only 30,000 original miles on it.  They were asking $800.  I had $1,500 of hard-earned money in the bank, mostly from my paper-route and from my job at the burger joint.

     In keeping with my strategy, I asked Dad to come and take a look at the Plymouth.  He and my friend’s dad talked cars as we looked it over, checking out the engine, the tires, and the trunk.  Then we took it for a test drive.

     “This car’s in good shape,” said my dad.

     Yes! He likes it. I’ve won my dad over! My heart was singing!

     “Do you think I should buy it?” I politely asked.

     “Let me talk to your mom, first, but I think she’ll be okay.  This car should last a long time.”

     Mom still had reservations about me buying the car, but she caved in to the idea after Dad talked to her.

     I took a cashier’s check to the neighbor, and drove the car down the block to our house.  Within fifteen minutes, I’d pried off the “grandma” wheel covers.  Now I can proudly drive this into the high school parking lot, I thought.  The high school was only four blocks away, but I would drive it every day, performing my rite of passage into adulthood.

     I invited some of my friends to come by for a ride.  On the way to the A&W, I began to hear comments from the back seat, like “You’ve got a four-door taxi. You should paint it yellow.” or snickers along with, “Woo, a push button transmission!”  I didn’t care.  I was happy to have my own car, and I thought it looked good on the street.

     My friend, Dave, said, “Larson, those triple-stripe white-walls have gotta go.”

     I worked 12-hour shifts at the hay mill in the summer, and as soon as I had enough money, I bought new tires and four chrome-plated wheels.  My friend, Ron, was able to get me a discount on auto parts through his dad’s radiator shop, so I could buy a Walker muffler to improve the sound of the exhaust and Monroe air shocks to jack up the rear of the car a little bit.  It doesn’t look like grandma’s car anymore, I told myself.

     My friend, Charlie, was one of the last to get his own car.  He still drove his parents white ‘67 Dodge.  Bob had an old Corvair, until his parents bought him a new ’68 Mustang. Steve had a big white Buick convertible, but sometimes drove his mom’s Lincoln Continental, especially when we all wanted to go to the drive-in theater.

     Four of us climbed into the humongous trunk, and Steve drove the Lincoln up to the theater, alone in the car, with his library briefcase (stuffed with wine and other spirits) in the back seat.  From the driver’s seat, he popped the trunk lid latch every few minutes, and we dropped out of the trunk and rolled away from the car, one at a time.  Then we met at the snack bar to buy a drink, before returning to the car.

     One winter night, Charlie and I walked out of the downtown movie theater.  An ice-storm had coated everything.  The streets were dead.  Traffic was non-existent.  Charlie drove the family’s white Dodge precariously down the side streets at a slow pace.  At one intersection, he couldn’t get the car to move forward, no matter how hard he pushed on the accelerator.  We started laughing, and as the car began to move, he cranked the wheel and we spun a perfect circle in the dark and deserted intersection.

     “Wow, a glazed donut!” I shouted.  Then we laughed uncontrollably; Charlie and I were having a blast.

     “Let’s take this baby up to the high school parking lot and see if we can bury this speedometer needle,” said Charlie.

     Once there, Charlie began slowly pushing the accelerator just to see what would happen.  The car was going nowhere, and the engine revved higher and higher.  The speedometer needle hit 90, while the two of us sat there inside two tons of Mopar, gliding along at 5 miles per hour.

     “How were the streets?” my mom queried when I got home. “We were worried sick.”

     “Oh, it was nasty but we were careful.  Charlie’s a good driver,” I replied nonchalantly.

     I thought I was a pretty good driver until one hot summer night.  I was driving up and down Main Street looking for my buddies who were “draggin’ Main.”  I circled the city park near downtown, to make another circuit, but when I made the last turn, I was jolted with a loud THUNK.  In the twilight, I hadn’t noticed the single parked car in the angled slot nearest the intersection.  I’d smacked a taillight on the tailfin of the car that was parked in the stall.

     There was no damage to my car, but I’d broken the lens on the other car’s tail light.  Before long, all of the cars that were dragging Main had slowed to a crawl, creating a bumper-to-bumper line of cars to see what happened.  A police car pulled over and turned on its flashing lights.

     My friends parked and walked up to the scene and blurted out, “Way to go, Larson!”

     I was embarrassed beyond belief.  I wanted to crawl in a big hole and disappear.  Once the police wrote up the report and gave me a ticket for inattentive driving, I drove home to park my car and ride with my friends.  I told my dad what happened, but couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let me stay out for the rest of the night, especially if I wasn’t going to drive.

     My dad made me feel two inches tall as he hit me with his mini-sermon.

     “You need to stay home for the rest of the evening and think long and hard about what you did.  Maybe you’ll learn something from this.  You’ll have to pay for your ticket and the repairs to the other vehicle.  You don’t deserve to keep riding around this evening as if nothing happened.”

     Dad’s verdict was final, so I said good-bye to the guys and went back inside the house, wishing that I could replay the evening.

     Western Kansas was a great place to learn how to drive on the highway.  There wasn’t a lot of traffic, and the distances between towns were significant.  We always found some excuse to drive to another town. One Sunday, my friends and I loaded into my Plymouth for a day trip to the drag races in Dodge City.

1963 Plymouth Fury

internet photo

                                                          
     It was a beautiful day; we talked cars and watched the races.  The fun ended when we left the races and drove out of the gate in the field that was used for a parking lot.  Some local jerk filled with testosterone revved his engine and followed me in the line of cars.  He popped the clutch and slammed into the rear of my car, putting a crease in the bumper just as I went through the gate.  It took several months and a visit from my dad before the guy paid for a replacement bumper.

     My Plymouth served me well all through high school and on through college.  At Kansas State, my new friends and roommates dubbed it “the taxi”, and we used it frequently to make midnight taco runs.  But it didn’t hold a candle to Val’s white 1967 GTO convertible and Ted’s red 1967 GTO.  The gold paint was beginning to fade on the Plymouth, and it had finally become…well…just a taxi.

     In May of 1974, I graduated from K-State, and loaded up all of my worldly possessions into the ’63 Plymouth.  My friends came out to say “good-bye” for my final send-off.

     About five miles south of Manhattan, I heard something flopping on the top of the car.  I pulled over to the side of the highway, got out of the car and looked at the roof.  The taxi sign, procured by my roommates at the local junk yard and attached with duct tape had started to come loose.  I smiled, realizing that my buddies had given me one last memory of my college days.  I put the taxi sign on the pile of stuff in the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.  Memories of the taco smells flooded my senses...maybe I can find a taco place in the next town.

Time for Swimming

Time for Swimming
non-fiction memoir
by Greg Larson    

My mom’s rules were hard and fast.  It was next to impossible to negotiate with her, but I had to try.  My buddies were all sitting on their bikes in our driveway, spinning the pedals with their thong sandals and snapping their beach towels at each other.  They were getting impatient.

     “Mom!” I huffed, “The guys are waiting for me to go with them to the pool.”

     “You know the rules.” She replied coldly, “You have to wait an hour after lunch before you can go swimming.”

     “But there’s only ten minutes left!”  

     I was trying to be polite in my negotiations, so I toned down my voice, “It will take us that long to ride our bikes over to the pool, shower, and then get in the water.”

     She gave me ‘the stare’ and then she caved in to my logic, “Okay, but don’t get in the water until the next ten minutes have passed……..1:30 at the earliest.”

     I ran out the front door, and let the screen door slam behind me.

     “Geeaawwll, Larson, what took you so long?” asked my buddy Mike.

     Before I could reply, my neighbor friend, Roger, responded to the question with a sarcastic sing-song voice, “Larson’s mommy is afraid he has too much food in his tummy and he might sink to the bottom of the pool and drown if he gets in the water too soon.  HA! HA! HA!"

     I rolled my eyes and then checked to make sure a dime was tucked in the net pocket of my swim trunks.  I didn’t want to be without the money to buy a drumstick ice cream treat when we finished swimming.  The dime was secure, so we rolled out onto the street.  It wasn’t far to the Westlink swimming pool in west Wichita, and if we cut across the ball diamonds and the church yard, it was an even shorter ride.

     It was summer 1961, and time had very little meaning, unless it was part of some arcane rule established by my parents.  We usually lost all track of time when we were having fun at the pool.  We played every possible game, from diving for our dimes, and contests to determine how long we could hold our breath under water, to playing ‘tag’ in the water or just sitting on the bottom of the pool, blowing bubbles.  And we could always go to the diving boards for a change of pace.  Flips, dives, cannonballs and can openers were some of our favorite choices.  But all of us learned quickly that if it appeared we purposely splashed the lifeguard, his or her whistle would blow, and it would be an automatic ten minutes out of the pool...an eternity of time for someone ten years old.

     The rock ‘n roll station was always blaring on the sound system, except when the pool manager would cut into the song with the desk microphone and say something like, “The Witherspoons are supposed to go home now…..your mom just called.”  Our two favorite songs were ‘The Stripper’ and ‘A-hab the A-rab’.  We made up a rule that whoever was on the diving board when those songs were playing would have to act silly and wiggle and bounce while swinging their butt wildly just before leaping into the air.  My only concern when I was dancing on the diving board was that I had to quit laughing before I hit the water.

     It was hard to make a big splash, since I only weighed about eighty-five pounds, but I had to make the most of it.  We were always looking for new splash methods and techniques.  I watched an older boy dive off the low board. His entry was funny, though.  It was like an upside-down cannonball, and he tucked his arms, head and neck just as he hit the water.  There was an explosion of water and so much spray that you’d have thought a stick of dynamite had gone off underwater.

     “Mike, did you see that! WOW! What a splash!” I squealed, “What do you call that?”

     “They say it’s called a ‘watermelon’.” replied Mike. “We’ll have to try it!”

     We practiced ‘watermelons’ until we perfected the splash.  So much water was displaced upon entry that I felt an exploding 'thud' on the body each time I dove into the water.

     After so much fun in the sun, we were starving again, so we all went to the concession window to buy our treats.  Then we found a spot in the shade of the building to sit on our towels and devour the purchase.

     One Saturday while I was at the diving boards with my two brothers, we noticed my dad standing by the fence, watching us.  Uh-oh, I thought, what did we do now?  I ran over to the fence and asked Dad if he wanted us to come home.

     “No,” he said as he lifted up the movie camera with 8mm film, “I just brought the movie camera over here to see if I could get some shots of you guys jumping off the diving board.”

     My brothers and I got in line at the high board and we hammed it up a little for Dad.  I had learned to do a flip, so I did my best one for him while the camera was running.

     A couple of months later on a Sunday night, Dad set up the movie projector and the screen, and we watched our recent vacation movies.  At the end of the reel we saw what he had captured on film at the swimming pool.  It seemed unreal to be able to watch myself jump off the diving board and splash into the water.

     “We want to watch the dives, again, DAD!” we yelled.

     So Dad put the projector into reverse, and we watched ourselves on the screen in reverse; flipping up out of the water, wildly landing on the high board, running backwards, then braking to a complete stop.

     We howled with laughter!

     Then he would play the film forward, and once the diving board sequence was completed, he would reverse the film and repeat the process.

     I laughed so hard I was out of breath.  Mom and Dad were laughing with us, too. I thought, you know, my parents aren’t so bad, even if they do make us follow their stupid rules!

The Gretta Factor

Non-fiction memoir
by Greg Larson

     We’ve all encountered the travel snafu or the botched reservation.  I’ve had my share.  My business travel was frequent for many years, and it reached a peak while managing construction projects before I retired.  I assumed that my travel issues were no more horrifying than anyone else’s travails, but every now and then I convinced myself that a “Greg Factor” existed in the most bizarre situations…a feeling that the planets aligned mysteriously against me.  I’m just glad I wasn’t in Europe recently when the volcano in Iceland halted plane flights throughout the region. 

Here are some of the more unusual situations I've encountered over the years during my travels:

• The pilot’s voice came over the speakers on the plane, notifying passengers of the weather on a Friday night flight I was taking from Denver to Kansas City: “Well, folks, the weather in the Midwest isn’t looking real good. The airports from Omaha to Dallas are closing due to ice storms, so we’ll have to land the plane this evening in Houston.” I finally made it to Kansas City on Sunday.

• A flight attendant called over the speakers for Mr. Larson to come to the front of the plane, and bring all personal items and onboard luggage with me.  It was late on a Friday evening (the Greg Factor usually occurs on a Friday evening).  After I walked up the aisle to where the passengers were boarding, she stated, “Sir, we’ve discovered your ticket is dated for tomorrow’s flight, so we’re going to ask you to deplane.”  I had to fly “standby” and my luggage was lost when I changed planes in Pittsburgh.

• I once arrived at LaGuardia airport in New York, only to discover that a taxi strike had just begun.  Airport officials herded us to a multitude-sized crowd, and they told us to wait for buses to take us into the city.  Once on the buses, the passengers had to negotiate their destinations with the driver (I called that one the “New York factor”).

• Hotel clerk in Ontario, California: “I’m sorry, but we don’t have a reservation listed for you.”  I showed her the confirmation number, but that did no good.  I finally called the travel agency, who then called the clerk, and finally she checked me into the hotel.

• I’ve heard this line numerous times: “This is the first time this has ever happened.”

     Even when not traveling, I’ve experienced a slow waiter or waitress (or maybe it was a slow cook).  There’s also been the long wait at the doctor’s office, when I’ve watched a legion of patients, all arriving after me, get escorted back to the exam rooms while I read several chapters in my library book.  I’ve learned to go with the flow…just accept fate.

     Then I started traveling with Gretta.  Things were different.  I can’t quite put my finger on it, but circumstances seem to get resolved in wonderful ways when I travel with her.  Maybe it’s her infectious smile combined with plain old luck.  Whatever it is, I call it the “Gretta Factor,” something of a magic carpet mojo that makes the pathway quite smooth while traveling.

     The first Gretta Factor I experienced was on a bike tour in Wisconsin.  We checked into the hotel at the beginning of the trip, and the clerk stated, “Sir, we’re booked full tonight, so I’m going to upgrade your reservation to the Eisenhower Suite with the Jacuzzi…at no extra charge.  Will that be okay?”

Other Gretta Factor situations:

• After touring St. Peter’s at the Vatican, we walked out the main doors and noticed a crowd forming on the square below us.  Helicopters circled above and men wearing dark suits and earpieces ran about.  Then the Swiss guards marched onto the square, followed by the Pope’s motorcade and limousine.  The timing was impeccable.  Pope Benedict was making his first official visit as Pope, traveling to the Italian Prime Minister’s office, just about a mile from the Vatican.  We lined up with the crowd and watched the Pope wave to us as his limousine rolled past.  While the crowd was dispersing, we saw several nuns run towards the square, while tears streamed down their cheeks.  They had missed their lifetime opportunity to see the Pope, and were visibly upset.

• Upon arriving at a tenth-century chateau in France, our bike tour group checked in at the front office.  The Gretta Factor occurred when the tour participants were assigned rooms.  Gretta and I were escorted to the main suite, where Charles de Gaulle had once stayed.  The oriental rug in the sitting area was the size of a small dance floor.  We were somewhat embarrassed and tight-lipped next morning at breakfast when we heard more than one couple complain about their small rooms.

• At another chateau, the Gretta Factor steered our tour guide to us, and he handed Gretta the key to a private stone cabin on the grounds.  While the other couples stayed in the main chateau, we had our own private building.  It had once been the forge, and then a bakery at the chateau, but was now a quaint private suite with adjacent creek and waterfall.  The other cyclists were envious and we eventually gave them a tour of the storybook cabin.

A storybook cabin

• A few years ago, we celebrated my birthday at Huntington Beach in California.  I had booked the car and beach hotel in advance, reserving the lowest cost compact car and the least expensive room at the hotel.  To my surprise, at the rental car agency, a PT Cruiser convertible was parked in stall number one, marked “Larson.”  The agent said, “If you don’t like it, we can get you another car.”  We popped the top, and drove along the coast, with the wind in our hair and the sun in our faces.  I felt like a Beach Boy and all the while we smiled and commented about our luck with the Gretta Factor.  I pulled up to the front of the Huntington Beach Hilton and we went to the front desk.  I thought we’d probably get a room with a dumpster view, but the Gretta Factor continued.  The clerk pulled up our reservation on the computer and said, “Sir, we have upper floor rooms with a view of the beach or the city, whichever you prefer.”  We spent time on the beach, waded in the surf, and watched the surfers ride the biggest waves I’d seen in ten years of traveling to southern California.

Crusin' in southern California

     It’s no small coincidence that Gretta was not in my car recently when I made a left turn towards a gas station.  I was trying to save a few dimes by filling up the gas tank in Kansas City, Missouri.  There was a sign (which I did not see) with small print which said “NO LEFT TURN AFTER 4 PM.”  It was 4:20, and the car ahead of me was turning left with its turn signal flashing.  The police officer who directed me into an adjacent parking lot didn’t care that I was unfamiliar with the area.  He didn’t even want to see my insurance or vehicle registration.  He was too busy writing tickets.

     I thought, I wish Gretta were with me.  Maybe she would have noticed the “no left turn” sign...maybe not, but no matter what happens, it's just more fun when Gretta is alongside.

.