...the end of the Lame Alien Swimsuit Issue, at least. After three years, I think we've squeezed as much humor and silliness out of the theme as is humanly possible. Dan O'Connor has bravely sought out new ways to improve us and I think he has performed admirably. But there comes a time to move on.
I advise all of you to save your copy of this edition. Of course I think you should save all of your back issues. If you paid any attention at all to the October/November Zephyr, I included a short excerpt from Martin Cruz Smith's first novel, The Indians Won. The book has been out of print for 28 years in the United States and if Cruz Smith has his way, it will stay that way. He isn't particularly fond of his first effort as a novelist, and if I hadn't stumbled across a copy of it in Australia, I would never have heard of the book either.
My point here is that because Cruz Smith won't let The Indians Won be re-printed, the book is a collector's item. An occasional paperback copy has shown up in rare book stores and has an asking price of $125 or more. This issue of the Zephyr is much worse than anything Martin Cruz Smith could ever hope to produce. So I figure the rare surviving copy of the February/March issue of the last year of this century will be worth a goddamn fortune.
There are big bucks to be made here, readers. Don't let this golden opportunity pass you by. If you don't already have a safety deposit box, I'd get one. And put this precious gem inside it. The Last Lame Alien Swimsuit Issue just might pay for your children's education.
Next year, look for the Zephyr's first: Retro Issue...the 1920s.
Last year Glenn Victor mentioned to me that no one from North Dakota had ever eaten dinner at his fine Grand Old Ranch House restaurant. He has been keeping a guest register and had only recently made the discovery.
As a result we did a couple of Zephyr ads pleading for a North Dakotan to stop by. I even pledged a free glass of wine (house only) to the first North Dakotan to eat at the G.O.R.H.
But nobody stopped. Or more likely, there weren't any North Dakotans traveling...they don't get out much. Finally I sent a copy of the October/November issue, containing Glenn's "Last Plea" of the year to the travel editor of the Bismarck Tribune. To my surprise, Vicki Voskuil, of the Tribune, called me one morning.
"What exactly is this paper?" she asked. I tried to explain.
"Well...do your advertisers know what you're putting in their ads?" she inquired further.
"Well, not always," I said. "Many of them just sort of...you know...like to be surprised."
"Have you ever gotten yourself in trouble with an advertiser?"
"Oh...a time or two," I admitted.
Ms. Voskuil wrote a story about the North Dakota Factor for the Bismarck Tribune and the next day the Associated Press picked up her article and ran it on its wire service. The day after that, I got a phone call from a radio disc jockey in Fargo. He wanted to do a live interview with Glenn and me for his 11 am radio show. I declined the offer (I need to be edited. Who knows what I might say if I couldn't delete myself from time to time.) But I directed the man to Glenn Victor and ultimately Glenn was interviewed by both the Fargo station and Salt Lake City's KSL (who picked up the story from the AP release).
Since then the Grand Old Ranch House has received several visits and calls from North Dakotans but now the restaurant is closed for the season. He has yet to actually serve a North Dakotan dinner. Nor has anyone claimed their free glass of house wine, compliments of the Zephyr.
If any North Dakotan does come to Moab in the spring, I hope they will contact me. Years ago I heard a joke and I have never been able to understand it. It goes like this:
Question: "Why don't North Dakotans eat pickles?"
Answer: "Because their heads don't fit in the jar."
I don't get it.
Now I am going to shock the readership.
I believe that the sport of mountain biking can ultimately save the world. I have never been so excited at the positive prospects this sport can bring to our troubled planet.
As many of you know, I have been foaming at the mouth about mountain bikers for years. In fact, for almost as long as the sport of mountain biking has existed, I have been lobbing cheap shots at the Lycra Crowd. Of course, I live in the Mountain Bike Capitol of the World and it's what we do here.
What separates me from the rest of my fellow Moab Bellyachers is that I've created a livelihood out of the sport of making fun of the sport. Frankly, and in all due modesty, I don't think anyone in Grand County...nea...in all of southern Utah, has whined more effectively about the mountain bike invasion than I.
I am not prone to be judgmental (Right). I have tried to understand these people and their two-wheeled obsession. I really have. Once I even bought a used mountain bike, took it out in the desert to a place where I knew no one would see me and gave the sport an honest try.
I practically beat myself to death. When I could stay upright, my view of the scenery was limited to my own white knuckles and the three foot patch of sand in front of me. There wasn't much time for sightseeing. Mostly I was on the ground, picking sand and stickers out of my face.
After the experiment, I could only conclude that these people are twisted and sick and should not be allowed to breed. But therein lies the irony.
Recently, I have found myself less concerned with the sport of mountain biking, concentrating instead on the number of people participating in the sport. It's not the activity itself, I concluded, but the hordes of recreationists all doing it at the same time. If we were the Macrame Capitol of the World, Moabites would have Death Wishes for the devotees of that particular activity. In fact, it's the sheer numbers of anything that worries me. Too many of us are taking the fun out of everything.
So imagine my excitement when one of my Zephyr readers sent me a recent article from Newsweek magazine. In it, Dr. Irwin Goldstein, an impotency specialist from Boston University, issued a grave warning to men who regularly ride bicycles.
When men ride bikes with a standard seat (you know, where you look at it and can't decide if it's really a seat or a banana gone bad), his weight flattens his main penile artery. This artery is essential for an erection. And from a man's perspective what is more important in Life than that?
But Goldstein believes that, over time, riding a bike and putting that kind of long-term pressure on the penile artery can irreversibly damage the vessel. The worried doctor claims he is seeing several new patients a week. Recently he was paid a visit by Ed Pavelka of Bicycling magazine where he described his ordeal in a recent article. Quoting from the story, Pavelka said his years of intense marathon bike riding had left him "as soft as overcooked rigatoni." Not exactly a macho biker pick up line.
Dr. Goldstein believes that a better designed bike seat may alleviate the problem but doesn't think any of the new more heavily-padded seats being offered now will make much of a difference. He says the perfect men's bike throne would "look like a toilet seat."
But isn't this a miracle in disguise? Isn't this the answer to a prayer? The world is ridiculously overpopulated. Science and technology seem to have removed the 'survival of the fittest' concept from the population growth rate formula. No one seems to just have the good sense to have fewer children, whether it's here in Utah or around the planet.
SO LET'S ALL RIDE BICYCLES! With penile arteries being flattened like prairie dogs on Interstate 70, can population stabilization and even decline be far behind? We shouldn't be fighting the Radical Right over free distribution of contraceptives. Planned Parenthood shouldn't be wasting its time passing out free condoms; instead why not issue complimentary bicycles to all males over the age of 16?
There is nothing more seemingly benign than a bike. Yet the potential power this simple device possesses in changing the face of Planet Earth is extraordinary.
So peddle on. Your penile artery may not thank you, but future generations will.
Wintertime. Even down here in the red rock desert, we experience a dose of brutally cold weather every now and then. I have to admit it has been a while since the pipes froze. But we are wimps in Moab and have a lot more tolerance for heat than frost. We long for...
High summer in the red rock desert. The temperature exceeds 100 degrees almost every day. The wild flowers, that were so abundant in May, have been blasted by the fierce sun and turned brittle and brown. The animals are hunkered down under rock ledges or burrowed into their underground shelters, waiting for dusk and dinner.
Most animals have better sense than to venture out into the full heat of a July afternoon, and while we humans, on an intellectual level at least, know better, we are stupid enough to wallow in it. Hypnotized by the light and the radiation, we actually enjoy being broiled like a chicken.
The heat can fool you out here and sometimes the effect can be deadly. The best way to learn about the risks of dehydration is to be stupid, get dehydrated and survive the ordeal; that's what I did and I never forgot. On one of those summer trips out West, between my ongoing efforts to flunk out of college, I returned to the Southwest to hike a canyon I had found the previous year. In June there were springs at every bend. I carried my steel cup on my belt and all I had to do was dip it in the next bubbling pool to quench my thirst.
Now, in August, I failed to notice the changes that summer heat causes and so I again left my water bottles behind. Five hours later my throat was as dry as the same steel cup that dangled from my belt. It was even too hot to touch. The pools were gone.
But I was determined to continue and so I spent the next seven hours in 100 degree plus heat, searching for a glass of water. When I stumbled back to my car in the late afternoon, I don't think I had another half mile of hiking left in me, but I never forgot.
Others aren't lucky enough to have a second chance. When I think of desert dehydration stories, I think of Abbey's "Dead Man at Grandview Point" in Desert Solitaire. But even more remarkable is the sad story of Leroy V. Black in the summer of 1959. According to Park Superintendent Bates Wilson's monthly report, the 67 year old man was returning from Sipapu Bridge at Natural Bridges National Monument, and missed the trail to the Kachina parking area where he had left his car.
Instead, Mr. Black continued to hike down White Canyon for almost 15 miles, where he was finally located by a search party three days later. According to Bates, "As there was not sufficient time to remove him from the canyon, he was made as comfortable as possible in a sleeping bag and fed small quantities of broth and water. By 10:30 PM he seemed much stronger, but around midnight, he died."
The great irony in Mr. Black's ordeal was that he died of thirst when there was water all around. Most of the potholes were full of water, but they were also teeming with life. Fearful that he might contract an illness from the insects and algae in the water, he denied himself the only hope he had of survival. His dog, which had not been so concerned with water waders and green slime, was fine.
Today, more than ever, the desert has become, in many minds, one big playground for whatever recreational challenge suits your fancy. But the desert itself is just as harsh and unforgiving as it ever was. In the end, the rocks will outlast us all.
This issue is printed some weeks before it is actually distributed. If, between press day and distribution day, events have occurred that render parts or all of this issue tasteless, revolting, or sick (more so than usual, that is) please accept our apologies. Sometimes I can be offensive without meaning to be.