I was in Nori’s cafe with Doc McHugh doing what we do best — drinking coffee, shmoozing and swapping sea stories. But to be honest, I was only half there.

Instead, I was preoccupied with Winter Carnival and what the next week’s onslaught would bring . For still-unkown reasons, I was involved in three events — The Blue Buns Wheel-a-Palooza, The Chucklehead Hoedown, and my parade group, The Brothers of the Bush. Even worse, I wasn’t merely involved — I was in charge of organizing them. Or more exactly, I was SUPPOSED to be in charge. For sure, I was doing my best, but how well that’d turn out, only time would tell.

In the back of my head a Zen saying kept turning over and over: A man who hunts two rabbits, ends up getting neither. I never found anything about the odds of hunting THREE rabbits, but I could figure them out on my own.

The Blue Buns, a few days away, was first on the agenda. It’s a perfect SL Carnival event: A bike ride around town, with the riders wearing bathing suits. It’s a zany idea for sure, but not a totally unhinged one, since the riders can wear their bathing suits OVER other layers.

We’ve had three previous BBs and each was a hoot. Each has also been in temps lower than the previous one, which obviously affected participation: The first year, which was in the 30s, we had 125 riders. In the next one, which was in the high teens, we had 100. The last year was in single digits and we had 75. This year’s prediction called for sub-zero temperatures with a wind-chill temp of minus 30 or so, so who could tell how many folks there’d be.

My natural resting state is worrying. When things are bad, I REALLY worry. And when things are great, I worry even more since there’s so much more to lose. And how about when things are just so-so? To my way of thinking, things are NEVER so-so.

“So,” says Doc, snapping me out of my musings, “Did you see it?”

“See what?” I say.

“The weather prediction for the Blue Buns.”

“Of course I saw it,” I say. “So what?”

“People aren’t gonna show up,” he says.

“I don’t know how to explain this to you,” I say, “but based on simple demographics, almost no one EVER showed up.”

He frowns, obviously confused.

“Whattaya mean almost no one shows up,” he says. “We’ve had people every year.”

“Sure,” I say. “But if you consider the population here is around five thousand, and the most we’ve had at any Blue Buns is a hundred twenty-five, almost no one has ever shown up.”

I gave him a minute for that to sink in.

“And so, no matter how ya cut it,” I said, “almost no one’ll be at this one either.”

“Yeah, he said, “But with a minus thirty temperature, you could have LITERALLY no one.”

“Listen,” I said, “the hardcores’ll show up, no matter how cold it is. They always have and they always will.

“But how many hardcores are there?”

“No idea,” I said. “But we’ll sure find out.”

“WE?” he said.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What does that mean — WE? That ‘we’ does not include you?”

He paused for a few very long seconds. When he spoke, he was looking in his coffee cup, NOT at me.

“Well … uh … maybe not … if it’s TOO cold.”

“TOO cold?” I said. “Did you say TOO cold?”

“I did,” he said. “What’s the matter, you going deef?”

He smiled, hoping his attempt at humor mollified me. It didn’t.

“The only people my age NOT going deef, as you so quaintly put it, are the ones who are ALREADY deef,” I said. “No, I heard you perfectly, I just can’t believe you said it.”

“Why?” he said.

“Because I would never have expected you’d even CONSIDER punking out,” I said.

And the truth is, I wouldn’t have. For one thing, Doc’s a fellow Navy vet. OK, he was in after I was, and by then they’d clearly lowered the standards and lightened the load. But, still, I just took for granted that if I showed up, he would. Shipmates and all that …

But it was not the time to take anything for granted. Instead, it was time to go on the offensive.

–

Never say die … or too cold

–

“Too cold?” I sneered. “You, with four Irish grandparents, kinsman of Sir Ernest Shackelton, worried about ‘too cold. Was it too cold for him?”

“‘Course not, but –”

“Was it too cold for the men of the Continental Army at Valley Forge?” I said. “The men, who if they hadn’t endured that hellish ice-scape then, today you’d be sipping tea, carrying an umbrella, and playing cricket.”

I shook my head, clearly registering my disappointment and disgust.

“I can’t stand tea,” he said weakly.

“Right,” I said. “And that’s only because those poor zhlubs at Valley Forge never said it was too cold. And what about Balto and his fellows?”

“Balto?” he said. “Who’s Balto?”

“Who’s Balto? And you call yourself an American?”

“Of course I do, I–”

“Well, I’m not so sure you should. Was up to me, I’d revoke your citizenship, you don’t know Balto,” I said. “He was the lead dog on the sled that took the diphtheria serum to Nome, saving all those little kiddies’ lives. And you, who’s not fit to chip the ice off his water bowl, don’t even know his name …”

I paused, letting my words take their toll.

“So, yeah, maybe it’ll be too cold for you,” I said. “Maybe instead of you celebrating the true spirit of Winter Carnival, you should stay home in your onesie, sipping hot chocolate and watching cartoons. That’s at least something I know you can do.”

A long silence followed, with me shaking my head, my lip curled in a sneer of disgust. He looked down on the table, avoiding my steely gaze.

“All right,” I said, breaking the silence. “I’ve got things to do, details to arrange, stuff that’s gotta be done for the Blue Buns. You know, for folks who don’t even know the words, ‘I give up,’ or ‘I can’t,’ or worst of all, ‘too cold.'”

I got up from the table and put on my coat. I took a few steps, and then turned.

“Something you need to do, something that has nothing to do with the Blue Buns directly, but has everything to do with it,” I said.

“What’s that?” he said, uneasily.

“Listen to the three greatest speeches of the twentieth century,” I said. “Ones that might put the steel in your spine that you so sadly lack.”

“What are they?” he said.

I counted off on my fingers.

“First, General George S. Patton’s address to the Third Army. Second, Sir Winston Churchill’s ‘We shall fight on the beaches’ speech. And finally, Bluto Blutarsky’s rallying the Delta’s for ‘the greatest night of our lives.'”

I paused, then said no more. There was nothing more to say.

Then I turned smartly and walked out, never looking back.

On the morning of the Blue Buns, after a night of tossing and turning, I woke up to greet a temperature of sixteen below. But a golden sun blazed in the sky, so I figured it’d warm up, which it did: By noon when I got to the ice palace, an hour before the ride’s start, the mercury rose to a balmy five below, and there it stayed. Something else rose as well, namely my spirits, as bikers in costumes of all sorts showed up, rockin’ to the tunes on the P.A., and ready to roll!

So now The Big Question: Was Sean one of them?

Of course he was, as I knew he would be.

First, he’s a bestie.

Second, even though I implied he’s a wimp, he’s not.

And third, if I know nothing else about how to motivate former altar boys, I know this much: Guilt works better than gelt.