Watch Out For The Bikes

I recently was a volunteer with the Tour of Utah. This is a pro bicycle event known as a stage race. Every day during the event the racers show up at a different place and follow a prescribed route to the finish. The Tour of Utah is considered a very difficult event because of all the mountain routes. For example, the last day started in Park City, went to Camus, Midway and down Provo canyon. From there the route goes over the Alpine Loop, past Sundance and down American Fork Canyon. It then proceeds over the Skyline Road into Salt Lake Valley. The final indignity of the day is that it concludes at Snowbird Ski Resort at the head of Little Cottonwood Canyon. The total route is a little over 100 miles. The rider with the lowest time at the end of the week wins.

Most of the time I was busy being a Race Marshal. It simply means that I wore an official orange shirt and told people where to go. I like telling people where to go.For example: There were Two Older Women with lots of hanging jewelry and other parts at the Criterium in Park City. I shall refer to them simple as TOW. I had just closed the street crossing to Main Street because the racers were practicing and riding past at about 45mph. TOW said, “How do we get across the street. We have reservations at the Gold Spoon and our other rich friends are already there.” Me: “I am sorry ladies but the course is now closed for safety reasons.” Tow: “Well you just don’t seem to understand. We have money and therefore are entitled to special privileges.” Me: “I am sorry ladies but the road will be closed until after the race. At that time you will be able to cross. Oh and by the way the racers will be going around this city block as fast as they can for the next hour and forty five minutes.” Tow: “But that young man is out in the street. Why can’t we go there too?” Me: “Ladies, that young man is Levi Leipheimer, a professional bike racer. You can tell because he has a racing bike strapped to his @ss. At that point l avoided any further eye contact, turned my back and pretended that I had suffered a major hearing loss. There were 15,000 people watching the race is Park City that day. I did not hear or see from TOW after the initial encounter.

On day two I was assigned to a right hand turn into the city of Goshen. My job was to stop all vehicle traffic at the approach of the Highway Patrol and not let anyone proceed until the last racer had passed the intersection. I was dropped off by the shuttle van about an hour before the racers were to pass so I swept the rocks out of the street, ate my sack lunch and drank two liters of water. Then I looked around for a restroom. Goshen is what you find when you look up “End of the Earth” in the dictionary. The one lane streets are wide enough for four lanes in each direction but there are no stores, gas stations churches, or portable toilets in the entire town. I did manage to locate what turned out to be city hall and when I explained my situation to Foghorn Leghorn he said he understood completely since he too was the proud owner of a 68 year old bladder.

When I returned to the intersection I saw the flashing lights of the police coming into town and I dutifully stepped into the middle of the intersection and stopped all traffic. In less than three minutes the entire peloton had passed from one end of town to the other. When I was sure there were no riders who had been spit out the back of the group, I allowed traffic (50 pickup trucks) to continue. As I waived them through, many of the drivers waved back. Sort of. I had a great week.

Thanks for listening. I feel much better.

Eat Out Once In A While

I spent an hour on a recent sunny day having lunch at the JC Diner in Tremonton Utah. It’s an older place built in 1950. It is surrounded by field corn on three sides and parking lot full of pickups and tractor trailers. It is for sale and is described as a “well established country restaurant”. I walked in and immediately felt out of place. I was the only patron not wearing bib overalls. This fine dining hall has eight stools and six booths. The Formica counter top has been wiped clean so many times the pattern has completely disappeared. My waitress approach and I braced myself for the greeting. “You want coffee Hon, or do you want to see the menu?” Cindy must have been born in the place. She knew everyone who came in by their first name. She said she works from 5:30 am to 2:30 pm everyday but Sunday and has done so ever since her husband grew up and left home. That must have been some time ago. The specialty of the house is chicken fried anything or a hot roast beef sandwich. The soup of the day was straight out of the Campbell Soup can. I thought I was 14 again.


As I sat at the counter I recalled going to work for my grandfather, Charles R Snelgrove, when I was 14. He was the founder and chief potentate of the Snelgrove Ice Cream Company. My initial duties were to clean milk cans and make popsicles, assorted ice cream novelties and scrub the floors at the end of the day. I worked full time during the summers. Since I was a man of money (I made 90cents/hr), I bought my lunch every day at Hubbard’s Diner in Sugerhouse. My typical lunch was a hot roast beef sandwich followed by a piece of homemade apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese on top. I would then go into the retail part of the ice cream store and have the counter help make me double caramel fudge malt with a scoop of caramel and a banana mixed it. I gained one pound one summer and blamed it on the hot roast beef sandwiches.

 The conversationat the JC Diner ran from the price of corn to immigration. I was wearing a US Border Patrol hat and when one the locals noticed it, the conversation turned from Mexican farm help to the weather. At one point the local constable came in for coffee. He was typical small town law enforcement. You know the kind; average height, balding, addicted to greasy food, overweight, always gets his man, or woman or an occasional transvestite. His name was Bob. I think all cops from northern Utah to the Canadian border are named Bob. He asked me how long I had worked for the Border Patrol and I ignored the question and just told him I was retired. An hour later, well fed and more importantly well entertained, I went on my way, thinking I had stepped back into another time.

If you travel the country, get off the interstate and find a local café. You may find Bob or Cindy or a whole bunch of folks who look just like them and you will be glad you did.
Thanks for listening I feel much better.