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SEVEN

The Prostate Saver

25 May, Provo

Nancy, Scott, and I have lunch at a Provo café. I mention that I’m thinking of cutting off what remains of my hair and being done with it. “I don’t want to be one of those guys who combs three strands of hair left to right and pretends he has hair.” Scott says he has just seen a “Propecia” ad in the newspaper’s sports section (where else!) that asks: “Tired of those bald jokes?” He wonders, however, about a treatment for baldness that has impotency as a possible side effect: “So who would risk potential impotence in order to look more potent?”

Nancy chimes up: “Speaking of impotence…”

Scott looks at me and cracks up. My reply is just a beat late: “Nancy, I saw you reading the Viagra ads yesterday. But I have to say I’m doing my best.”

Nancy laughs out loud, “No, no, you’ve got me wrong. I just wanted to mention I think you should get one of those bike saddles that protects against squashing the pudendal artery. They’re made to prevent impotence. Statistics show a four percent impotency rate among frequent bike riders.”

What’s a guy to do? I head to Mad Dog Cycles and buy a Specialized Body Geometry Comp Saddle. I suggest to Randy and Josh that Specialized ought to sponsor Scott and me, a couple of old guys using their prostate-protector saddles. We could wear jerseys that say “Fifty and Perineally Fit” or “The Prostate Saver, Don’t Leave Home Without It,” or even “Don’t Kiss Your Ass Goodbye, Ride Specialized Body Geometry Comp.” No luck interesting them in a sponsorship, so I shell out the money. These babies are not cheap, ninety dollars even with a discount. But if they work, I don’t suppose there is a guy on the planet who would complain about the money. “Designed to reduce genital numbness that may be linked to male impotency,” the label on the saddle says. “Designed by Dr. Minkow with firmer, more supportive foam and a flatter top, to help elevate the rider off the perineal area and onto the ischial tuberosities.” God bless Dr. Minkow.

Later that afternoon I head to Scott’s for a ride. “You show up without a helmet but with your new prostate saver. How bright is that?” he asks.

“Gotta have your priorities straight,” I reply.

26 May, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos

Newspapers report this morning that cosmologists have a new fix on Hubble’s constant and now estimate the age of the universe as twelve billion years. “That figure shocked me,” I tell Sam as we ride into the canyon. “I had a sense of the universe as infinite, and suddenly it turns out to be only a few years old. That’s unsettling.”

“My colleagues are talking about this cycle of the universe,” Sam replies. “The ongoing expansion since the Big Bang. But the twelve billion years may be just the beginning of the cycle. If there is enough matter in the universe, everything will contract and we will start over. You’re still okay with your comforting sense of infinity. On another note, Dr. Minkow’s prostate saver is killing me. I’m black and blue after yesterday’s ride. If today’s ride beats me up as bad, I’ll have to move from body geometry to body calculus.”

The first tiny blossoms of yellow sweet clover, Melilotus officinalis, are evident today. As the clover matures, so do the grasshoppers—each step into the grass disturbs a hundred of the fast-growing insects, maturing rapidly to take full advantage of the coming clover. And, as we noted from their scat last year, the foxes will take full advantage of this bumper crop of insects.

27 May, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos

I hate gravel pits. I hate rock crushers. I hate the fact that zoning laws in Utah County allow anyone with a few bucks to dig out entire mountainsides and leave the place scarred for centuries. But this morning I hate the gravel pit and rock crusher at the mouth of Provo Canyon for another reason. When Sam hears the machine across the canyon, he grits his teeth and doubles his speed. I’m feeling puny today and muster what may be my last breath to ask Sam why I have to pay for the sins of the gravel pit owner. He rides on at a furious pace. By the time I reach the meadow at the top of Frank, I have fallen three times and Sam, who has had a splendid ride, has been waiting so long that his sweat has dried.

On the way down, we stop in a protected grassy swale surrounded by oak brush, halted by a powerful birdcall. “A ringnecked pheasant,” Sam says. “I hunted them with my dog when I was a kid.”

“For a vegetarian, you’ve got a checkered past.”

“I’ve got a checkered ass as well,” Sam says. “This new saddle has seen its last ride on my bike. Do you want it? Maybe your body geometry is better suited to the good Doctor’s calipers.”

The year’s first lupine (one of the varieties of Lupinus argenteus) is in purple bloom. Lupine is another fine plant,” Sam says. “It causes birth defects and death in cows and sheep alike. Maybe we could make some lupine soup for the gravel pit owner.”

29 May, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos

Cloudy this Saturday morning as we set out on an early ride to see and hear the birds at a different time of day. By the time we are halfway up the lower loop, it is raining just enough to make things slick. We make it up the quartzite and start up the next hills. Halfway up a steep reach, my back tire slips off a large rock and I fall hard into oak and rock. “Well,” Scott says, “at least that wasn’t half-hearted.”

Evening primrose, Oenothera caespitosa, white succulent blossoms brilliant with raindrops, draw our attention. “Like something from the deep south,” Scott says. From a thick stand of scrub oak and maples comes a raucous and varied set of calls: a chirr, whistles, a squawk, a couple of linked notes. In the rain, steaming from our climb, we stand on both sides of the grove and try to see the birds making the noise. Fifteen minutes later, chilled, we give up and head back to the mouth of the canyon.

30 May, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos

Another of those blessed Sunday morning rides. The rock crusher is silent. The traffic across the canyon road is still. After yesterday’s rain, the birds are in joyous voice. A bushy-tailed, golden-shouldered fox slips up a slope and into some brush. My legs feel strong this morning and so do my lungs. Evening primrose, their large, heart-shaped flowers a milky, silky white, line the trail after their one-night stands. We stop to look at a single plant that produced five of the big flowers last night. Nineteen wilted pink flowers remain from previous nights’ orgies. The profligacy is overwhelming.

“There are two major strategies for living organisms to survive,” Sam points out. “Some plants and animals put their entire reproductive investment into a single flower or offspring which they care for intensely. Others simply produce flowers and seeds and offspring profligately and depend upon one or two of them catching hold. Some biologists have suggested humans are the epitome of care of few offspring, although your seven kids and my four may undermine that theory.”

“I’ve been wondering,” I tell Sam, “whether I’m the epitome of anything in regard to my family. Susan and I can’t get along and I spend more time on my bike than with my kids.”

“You’re good with your kids,” Sam says. “Ease up on yourself. You know I’ve got similar worries about myself as a father. But when the two men from the church who have visited us for years stopped by for the last time and told us they felt bad our kids had left the church, that they wished they had done a better job as ‘home teachers,’ I told ‘em to fuck off. My kids are full of life and moral commitment and I’m proud they have found their way. Self-righteous sons of bitches! Leave us alone! We’re doing the best we can and it’s better than most, no thanks to you and your kind.”

Back at the scrub oak and maple grove, we hear the same set of varied calls we heard yesterday. A lazuli bunting sings from a high branch, but he’s not what we’re hearing. Nor are the two western tanagers we see and hear from the same grove. Finally, Sam and I each catch a single glimpse of the noisy bird. It is large, dark-backed and yellow-breasted, and seems to be making the whole range of calls all by itself.

At home, we look through our field guides and come to the same conclusion: a yellow-breasted chat, Icteria virens. The book describes its “unmusical song” as “a jumble of harsh, chattering clucks, rattles, clear whistles, and squawks.” It also mentions “white spectacles,” which neither of us saw. “Chat,” the book says, may be derived from “chatterer.”

31 May, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos

A quick ride this morning before Sam and Nancy head south to spend the week in Teasdale. We’re rewarded with two sightings of the yellow-breasted chat, and note the white markings on the head. It feels like we’ve found a new friend. Goat’s beard (Tragopogon dubius) is the flower of the hour. Wherever you look, the yellow flowers dot the hillside. As the summer continues, they will transform themselves into puffy white balls of seeds. For the first time this year we also see the erect yellow inflorescence that inspired someone to call the stately mustard “prince’s plume” (Stanleya pinnata). It is named after Sam’s dear friend, Stanley Welsh.

1 June, Teasdale

Near the trailhead in Teasdale, two or three northern harriers (Circus cyaneus) hunt low above the fields. These birds, often known as marsh hawks, fit Utah mores perfectly. Up to fifteen percent of the males and forty percent of the females are polygamous. According to one study a few years ago, males preside over “well-structured hierarchical harems of two to five females.” The marsh hawks ought to be our state bird. Forget the California gull (which, by the way, has a relatively high incidence of homosexuality). Another couple of examples for our natural family manifesto.