From left, Olivia Kardohely, Ann Laff-a-Minute Monroe and Hillary Ryan are seen at the Blue Buns Wheel-a-Palooza Sunday in Saranac Lake. (Provided photo)

People who are cool in dicey situations we refer to as having nerves of steel. If anyone defined my sang froid — or more appropriately, my lack of it — they’d say I have nerves of tinfoil.

It’s not that I fall to pieces under stress. Usually, when the going gets tough, I rise to the occasion. But that’s the External Dope, puttin’ one foot in front of the other, ever onward and upward, HupHo, Hup Ho, Hup-Ho.

By contrast, the Inner Dope is a whole ‘nother story. Even in the best of times, the ID’s natural resting state is worry. Throw in stress and a mess and I become the first runner-up of the Roderick Usher look-a-like contest.

I’m sure if I underwent a couple decades of Freudian psychotherapy, they’d trace the roots of my delicate disposition to a lifetime of being overshadowed by my highly successful and much more pleasant older brother. Or if not that, then my suffering under my mother’s draconian rule throughout my deprived childhood (For example, she never bought me a pony for my birthday). Or if it wasn’t those things, then maybe the additives, preservatives and who-knows-what-it-ives in those thousands of Sugar Daddys I merrily munched and crunched in childhood fried out the part of my brain prevents heroes from becoming zeroes.

No matter how obscure the cause, the results are obvious: In my inner world, no matter how much peace and tranquility abound outside it, doom and gloom prevail.

And so last Sunday when I stirred awake just after dawn, I did NOT do so all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Instead, my stomach roiling right after I opened my eyes, I wondered what chain of events lay ahead to lay to waste my tender psyche like a visit from Genghis Khan and the boys.

You see, at 1:00 the Blue Buns Wheel-a-Palooza, a swimsuit-clad bike ride around town, was to take place. Riding bikes in your skivs in Saranac Lake in mid-winter would be considered lunatic in civlized climes. But since it’s a sanctioned SL Winter Carnival event, it’s just one more bizness as usual. But it was more than that for me, since I am its purported organizer, and thus to blame if it turns into a flopperoo. So, given my worrisome and pessimistic nature, I figured things would have to go wrong with it.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

–

The best laid plans…

–

After I took care of my housemates’ most pressing needs, I checked my emails. I had three. One was Joe Keegan, my low-rent spiritual adviser, telling me he was sick and couldn’t make the Blue Buns. The second was the Amazon Queen, my pace mate, telling me was she sick and couldn’t make the Buns. The third was Jack Drury, my fellow journalistic hack and go-to guy, telling me he was sick and couldn’t make the Buns. And the fourth was Tori Marbone, who was slated to wave the starting flag. She also was sick and had to bow out.

As much as each one’s absence affected me, Jack’s would affect me the most, cuz his wife has the truck that’d shlep my bike down to the ride’s start. And let’s face it, in that sub-zero weather, someone would have to shlep my bike, cuz I wasn’t about to ride into town and have an appendage or two fall off on the way.

I called Jack, who sounded not like death warmed over, but like death itself.

“Sorry to hear you’re laid up,” I said, “but do you think Phyllis could take my bike into town?”

“I’ll ask her,” he croaked, and then launched into an industrial-strength coughing fit.

He came back and told me — in between wheezes, gasps, and hacks — that, yeah, they could take the bike.

I thanked him profusely and then stepped outside to check my bike. Though it looked OK, it was far from it. It’d been on the porch since last year’s Wheel-a-Palooza and the Adirondack elements had done it no favors: The chain and derailleurs were rusted and gunked up so badly I couldn’t turn the pedals. I pushed ’em one way, then the other, then back, then forth, but the only things that moved were my blood pressure and pulse. And I need not say which direction they moved, do I?

I struggled with them some more and then came to my senses, said to hell with it, and got everyone’s standby, The Sammy with the Sass — WD-40. I sprayed so much, the poor rust bucket went through the equivalent of a bicycle bidet. And it worked … at least a bit. The pedals turned, ever slowly, but the bike was stuck in one gear. Luckily, it was a mid-gear, one I could ride around town in and not have to shift out of.

Then I checked the tires. The back one was fine; the front one not so fine at all. Matter of fact, if it’d been just a tad less fine, it woulda been flat. No biggie — I’ve got my trusty pump. I snatched it and went to hook it up and when I did, I got another unwelcome surprise. Because it had been on the porch with the bike, it was gunked up from the snow, rain, heat, and for all I know the gloom of night, and so it didn’t fit over the tire valve.

Now what?

I told you I rise to the occasion, and I did … sort of. I called the cellphone of Justin Oliver, owner of Silver Birch Cycles, to ask him to bring a pump to the start. Or at least I tried to call, because I got a recording from some business most assuredly not Silver Birch Cycles. My pulse pounded in my ears. I checked the number I’d written in my address book and called again. Same recording … and even more aural pulse pounding.

I took some deep breaths, a couple hits of digitalis, and thought for a bit.

I couldn’t get his cell, so I’d try the business phone because I knew he was holding a small pre-ride, hot chocolate and doughnut get-together.

Bingo — he answered!

I asked him if he could drop off a pump for me at the ice palace and he said sure. Then I asked him why the first number I called was screwed up. It turned out, the number wasn’t screwed-up– I was. Or more exactly my penmanship was: What I thought looked like a sloppily-written 1 was actually a really sloppily-written 6. The culpa was obviously mea.

–

Showtime!

–

When I got to the palace, I was met by by the steely gaze of herself herself, the Blue Buns Executive Officer, Liz Murray. She stood by the registration table, hands on hips, and before I managed word one, she started.

“You said you’d be here at noon,” she huffed, tapping her watch for emphasis. “It’s nine after.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I had a buncha stuff go wrong.”

“One of being you can’t tell time?”

I knew better than to put up any resistance to She Who Rules With two Iron fists. Instead, I gave her a weak salute and then gave a warm hello to the rest of the BB crew — Kelly Morgan, Patty McGrath, and Barb Martin — who, being the empaths they are, responded in kind.

Both my bike and Justin’s tire pump were there, but at that point I was so rattled, I couldn’t hold the pump steady enough to attach it to the valve. Luckily, my Landsman Richard Brandt was there, in all his bare-chested glory, so I asked him to pump up the tire, which he did.

I took the bike for a short test ride and found not only was it stuck in one gear, but the chain slipped as well. What did that mean? It meant my pedal cadence and motion would be erratic and thus a bit on the weird side. In other words, just like my life.

Then there were more details to tend to.

One was arrange with the police the specifics of the ride, since they were leading it. Sergeant Brown and Officer Beebee, having had the Wheel-a-Palooza duty last year, were on board from the get-go and as helpful as ever.

Next, another stellar return from last year, Ann Laff-a-Minute Monroe, showed up, decked out in her finest San Quentin Chic, sign in hand, ready to lend her special blend of frolic to the event (see photo). She got in the back of the police car, Cheshire Cat grin plastered across her mug, and they headed out to the start.

The riders lined up in back of SL’s finest, Aaron Marbone, Tori’s worse half, assuming her duties, waved the flag mightily, and we were off!

So how’d Wheel-a-Palooza III go?

Well, it was like most of the Carnival events I’ve been in charge of. That is, my helpers all came through, my nerves were shot … and a great time was had by all!