One great thing about writing a column is I have complete freedom to choose my subjects and how I want to develop them.

But as we all know, freedom has its costs. And in the case of column writing, the cost is total lack of direction. I can write on anything, but figuring what that “anything” will be is not exactly a walk in the Adirondack Park.

So how hard is it to come up with a column?

Since my column’s only once a week, it’s nothing like what daily columnists had to face. One of the greatest of them, Red Smith, is famously (and erroneously) quoted as saying, “Writing’s easy. You just sit in front of a blank page till the blood beads up on your forehead.”

Of course, while my writing experience is nothing like that, still, the pressure is almost always on. My deadline is Wednesday noon. Then, after I send it in, my heart is as light as the proverbial feather … till Friday morn, when I’ve gotta put my thinker to work again. I don’t have to start writing at that point, but I bloody well better come up with an idea for one: If on Friday I don’t come up with an idea — that is, a good idea, not just a vague notion — I’m in the pressure cooker on Saturday.

Still no idea on Sunday? I’m way behind the eight-ball because the column has to be fully done on Monday, so it can be rewritten on Tuesday and Wednesday, in order to be up to snuff for the deadline.

Deadline aside, there are other pressures.

One is an internal — and infernal — competition between me and myself. It’s best illustrated by a recent convo between me and my favorite sis-in-law.

We were chatting about this and that, when she mentioned something from our Gilded Youth.

“Oh? I said. “Did you read my column on that?”

“When was it?” she said.

“I dunno,” I said. “A month or two ago, I think.”

“I didn’t,” she said.

Then she added (far too gratuitously, I might add), “I only read the ones your brother says are funny.”

How sharper than serpent’s tooth, eh wot?

And therein lies the inevitable pressure that some columns will be better than others. It’s just the difference between craft and production. But impossible though it is, I want all my columns to be boffo, if not n’est plus ultra. And you can bet that ain’t gonna happen, either by itself or by invoking the name of St. Francis de Sales. Still, I don’t stop trying.

One final facet of the column writing biz that keeps me in an ongoing cold sweat is how to come up with ideas. All I know is they’re not always either there or just waiting in the wings for my beck and call. And I don’t believe inspiration or epiphany will save me at the eleventh hour, either.

I know lots of people would disagree with me about that, and I can tell you one sure thing about them: They don’t, nor have they ever, written a weekly column.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying epiphany and inspiration don’t exist. But I am saying in my life the odds of them starting a column are about the same as me finding an Inverted Jenny or a Honus Wagner card in Thrifty and Nifty.

But as impossible as those odds might be, last week I beat them.

Neurotransmitters gone wild

In all other ways, it’d been an unremarkable day. Then in the early eve, Jen-Ex visited. That too was unremarkable — at least for a while. We were chatting about nothing in particular, a Queen CD playing on my vintage ’90s blaster, when the song “Bicycle Race” came on, and I suddenly came alive.

“That’s it!” I shouted, about sending Jen-Ex into cardiac arrest.

“What?” she yelped. “What’s it?”

“Bicycle!” I said. “Bicycle! Bicycle! Bicycle!”

“Nothing personal,” she said. “But before I call 911, would you like to make at least some sense?”

“Winter Carnival,” I said.

“Winter Carnival?” she said. “In August?”

“Of course not,” I said. “In February, as always. But this time with a twist.”

“Like we did last summer?” she said.

“Like we never did,” I said, ignoring her pop culture reference. “It’ll be a Carnival fundraiser. And a fun raiser too.”

“On bicycles?” she said.

“You bet,” I said. “With everyone in bathing suits.”

She shifted uncomfortably and in the process her hand started to move toward her phone.

“And don’t you dare call 911,” I snapped.

She whipped her hand back as if her phone was on fire.

I admit my sudden outburst was shocking, given my normally low-key and deliberate nature. But it couldn’t be helped. That Queen song had somehow flooded my cerebrum with a torrent of electro-chemical whatnot, leaving me with a mind-blowing vision that would’ve done Saul on the road to Damascus proud (provided he’d been an SL townie, that is).

And the product of those neurotransmitters doin’ their thang is I decided to put together a new Winter Carnival fundraiser — the aforesaid bathing suit-clad bike ride. Of course, going with the spirit of Carnival, the ride would be held during Carnival week, hopefully the first Sunday, and go from the Hotel Saranac to the ice palace. I’d even come up with a tentative title for it: The Blue Buns Wheel-a-Palooza.

It was only the barest bones of an idea, of course, and I needed to get some feedback on it. And who better for that than my pal and fellow journalist hack Jack Drury.

Leaning on His Liege

As the XO of our Carnival parade group, the Brothers of the Bush, Jack’s expertise is always helpful, if not vital. Beyond that, he prides himself so much on his ability to organize and execute ideas, I’ve bestowed upon him the lofty title of The Liege of Logistics.

Though I introduced my idea hesitantly, I need not have.

“That’s brilliant!” Jack all but yelled. “I wish I coulda thought of something like that.”

“We can’t all be idea men,” I said, with characteristic generosity.

“So how many riders you wanna get?” he said.

“Well, given the essential lunacy and frostbite potential of it, I’m thinking 10 or 20.”

“Ten or 20?” he said. “You’re kidding, I hope.”

“I’m not,” I said. “You think there are more Adirondack locos who’d be interested?”

“Listen,” he said, “I’d bet we can get at least a hundred, maybe 200.”

Once that sank in, I thought to myself not all the ADK locos were outside his living room.

“How would that even be possible?” I asked.

“Not ‘possible,’ but likely,” he said..“It’s just a matter of getting the word out through all the available channels.”

“And what are they?” I asked.

“Oh, there are all sorts of them,” he said, breezily, assuming his role as The Liege, “All sorts.”

“I’ve no idea what they are,” I said. “Do you?”

He gave a shrug, trying to appear modest … and failing miserably.

“It’s all a matter of expertise and teamwork,” he said. “You do know I’ve been connected to the whole outdoor recreation network for decades?”

“I do,” I said, getting up to leave, then adding, “Which is why you’ve just become The Blue Buns Minister of Information and Recruitment.”

“But … but … but,” he stammered.

“OK, I’ll consider the change,” I said.

“What change?”

“Blue Buns to Blue Butt,” I said. “Meanwhile, get on with the recruitment drive. We’ve only got six months till showtime and I’d hate to see you not pull your own weight.”

As I was sprinting down the hall, headed to the door, I yelled over my shoulder, “Remember, expertise and teamwork!”

So will the Blue Buns Wheel-a-Palooza take place? And if so, will we have 100 riders … or any riders other than me and Jack?

Stay tuned for all the exciting updates, which’ll be given to you in surreal time.