I sat on a wooden railing smacking at a ham sandwich, my mountain bike leaning against the other side. A friend of mine and I had just finished an arduous climb up the steep side of Leith Hill and were enjoying the view across the South Downs with about a dozen other mountain bikers.

And that’s when they sauntered through. Two horse riders, strolling up one side of the hill, through the throng of bikers and casually down the other side, casting a pseudo-regal persona over messy and muddy bikes and riders. While in our midst they tossed condescending glances down from their high horses as if to say, “What boorish, common little people.”

Since becoming a mountain biker I’ve come to realize there is a culture clash here in the UK between five distinct groups of people: Horseback riders, mountain bikers, street bikers, walkers and runners.

Horses and horseback riding here in Surrey goes beyond the casual pasture horse whose back is slightly swayed with age. No,  horses here are posh, and posh people ride posh horses, and posh horses graze in posh pastures. (Maybe posh horses don’t actually graze. That sounds too…..common. Maybe posh horses “snip succulent pasturage”). No western saddles here. Riders use proper saddles and wear polyester stretchy pants covered with knee-high boots. Atop, I’ve seen supple brown leather gloves, tweed jackets and of course all don black helmets. There is many an equestrian training facility in the area and when the horses roam beyond paddocks they take to bridleways. These happen to be the same byways on which mountain bikers are allowed to ride. When the two cultures meet along secluded pathways there is a real sense that the desire expressed by equine people is that the bike people yield, submit, be cast aside….just simply go somewhere else, preferably France. If horseback riders were music they’d most certainly be one of Mozart’s finer concertos.

I mentioned France. France has its own variation of posh horse riders called “road bikers.” These are they who spend thousands of dollars on bicycles that are the equivalent of a Ferrari. They spend nearly as much on the tight little singlets and tight little shorts like the Tour de France guys wear. In fact, I’m convinced these Lance Armstrong wannabes truly believe they are in perpetual preparation for the next year’s event. Here in the UK, the pompous glances these velocipede drivers cast toward auto drivers – for whom the roads were actually made – seem to communicate, “Did you have permission to bring your auto onto this very wide, paved bicycle carriageway?” If road bikers were music they’d be Top 40 pop for sure: a lot of fluff, glitz, glam but very little substance. Can somebody say Lady Gaga?

Scampering along the sides of narrow roads and sidewalks are runners. Now I want to be careful here. Until just a few years ago and a hip surgery I was churning out about 35-40 miles a week so my heart beats this people group. Let’s face it; runners are cool. They glide through pedestrians and dart across roads. Admittedly this gliding and darting annoys pedestrians and motorists, but who cares. By the time the profanity forms in the mind and transfers to the lips, the runner is out of range. (Another reason runners are cool is the shoes. I love the shoes). Runners are classic rock, no doubt about it, and that’s cool too.

I mentioned pedestrians, which is a fancy way of saying, “walkers.” I admit, even though I’m excited to see people out exercising I was pretty condescending to walkers. “Runner wannabees” I’d call ‘em. There is a sense of superiority when as a runner you blow past a walker and think in the most patronizing tone possible, “walker.” I wanted little to do with walkers….until that hip surgery I mentioned…and now I is one. I don’t know, maybe God’s way of humbling me – by making me a walker. Anyway, I don’t really walk when I walk, I trek, and trekking for some reason makes me think of John Denver, and since I like John Denver….trekking is cool.

The bane of all these people groups seems to be mountain bikers. Mountain bikers are mongrels; creatures not legitimately created to share bridleways but certainly not pedigree enough to classify themselves as true bikers. They terrorize walkers and the dogs who walk with walkers. The irony is mountain bikers really could not care less. In fact, many would probably embrace the rebel without a cause (clue?) mantra. Mountain bikers really aren’t supposed to be on footpaths so I asked a guy who owns a mountain bike shop whose cheapest bike is about $700, “So where do you ride.” His response: “Wherever the hell we want.”

Alrighty then. The guy was definitely thrash metal. Addicted to Pain comes to mind.

I will have to say, I’m a kinder, gentler mountain biker. I yield to posh horses and their posh riders, I don’t terrorize the walkers (too much), and I try not to call road bikers in their little stretchy outfits sissies (mostly because I don’t want to get beat up by a dude in tight shorts). In fact, I spend most of my time just trying to keep from hitting a tree root and launching myself over the handle bars and into the woods where injury awaits.

Or worse: landing in posh horse poop.

They drew first blood, not me. If it is a war they want they’ve come to the right place.

Those immortal words of Johnny Rambo reveal my current state of mind. One look at my yard and you’d understand why I’ve decided to seek a more terminal solution to eradicating the moles that have decided my yard is now their yard. As they are discovering, they’ve made a fatal mistake in judgment. Unfortunately lethal solutions are hard to come by in the UK. I can smoke them out with Castor oil bombs (worked for three days but I think in the end just made them mad), or use an organic, ecofriendly mole repellent that disolves in water and that you apply through a sprayer (useless, moles rutted right under it an hour after application).

I could try the sonar option where I drive this probe in the ground, feed it four D-sized batteries and the frequency supposedly drives them crazy then drives them to the neighbors yard. What a waste. Thing costs $30 and word is the moles become used to the frequency and return – possibly deaf, but more determined than ever to turn my yard into a subterranean freeway.

So, I’ve opted for a more lethal solution, but for effective application of lethal strategies, I sought advice from someone experienced in these matters. Someone who has proven his prowess in dealing with subterranean rodents. Someone, who has the mind…of an animal.

Carl Spackler.

I’ve taken Carl’s advice and stepped up my attempt to crush my enemy. I struck a blow last week when I patiently stood sipping a cup of coffee as the waning light began to dip beyond North Downs. Suddenly, I saw the ground twitching about 15 feet in front of me. I calmly placed my mug on the deck box, slipped quietly in the shed and grabbed my spade. I stalked the spot, squatted on one knee and rehearsed the thrusting action I intended to use. Finally, and with adrenaline surging through my body, I raised the shovel and thrust it into the ground with the determination Queequeg would have thrust a harpoon into the side of Moby Dick.

And it worked! I struck a fatal blow. The sense of satisfaction at my kill left me feeling more as if I’d gone on safari and killed a lion with my bare hands. I was tempted to pull a Henry VIII and put the carcass of my enemy on a pike and publicly display it as an example to other moles as to whose dominion this really is, but decided not to gloat until I was certain the problem was solved.

Unfortunately, it isn’t. I hear moles travel in pairs and unfortunately I believe the bereaving mole remaining in my yard has decided to make my life – or at least my yard – one big rut. Frankly the challenge is not the mole. The challenge is finding a terminal solution in the bleeding heart country of England. When asking at garden centers for something lethal, I’ve gotten shocked expressions. “You barbaric Colonist!” I can practically hear blurting from their minds. “How can you be so cruel to such a tiny creature.”

Easy. Look at my yard.

After a significant amount of searching I opted for the only terminal trap I can find.A claw trap. (There are a number of lethal options in the states and I’ve used the harpoon trap with GREAT result, but unfortunately is not available in the UK). So far it has been useless. I stand a better chance of waiting for the mole to emerge and chasing it around the yard flailing at it with a shovel.

So, the war rages on and when the growing number of people ask me how I’m making it against my yard rodents, like Rambo I respond, “day by day.”

Golf can be a frustrating game…..but it can also be a game of amazing satisfaction. The pendulum swings between frustration and satisfaction from shot to shot for some of us. But when you catch that one shot just perfect, when the ball clicks off the club face and explodes through the air, reaches its apex then drops softly near its intended target, THAT’S the shot that prevents the clubs from getting tossed into the pond and leaves me checking my calendar for my next possible round.

Not sure where the below caddy comments originated but gladly pass them along. I’m not opposed to caddies at all – in fact I love the idea – but since I’d probably hear a handful of these nearly every time out, why subject myself to the deserved humiliation. Easier to use a pull cart.

The 10 Best Caddy Replies

# 10 — Golfer: “Think I’m going to drown myself in the lake.”
Caddy:  ”Think you can keep your head down that long?”

# 9 — Golfer: “I’d move heaven and earth to break 100 on this course.”
Caddy: “Try heaven, you’ve already moved most of the earth.”

# 8 — Golfer: “Do you think my game is improving?”
Caddy: “Yes sir, you miss the ball much closer now.”

# 7 — Golfer: “Do you think I can get there with a 5 iron?”
Caddy: “Eventually.”

# 6 — Golfer: “You’ve got to be the worst caddy in the world.”
Caddy: “I don’t think so sir. That would be too much of a coincidence.

# 5 — Golfer: “Please stop checking your watch all the time. It’s too
much of A distraction.”
Caddy: “It’s not a watch – it’s a compass.”

# 4 — Golfer: “How do you like my game?”
Caddy: “Very good sir, but personally, I prefer golf.

# 3 — Golfer: “Do you think it’s a sin to play on Sunday?”
Caddy: “The way you play, sir, it’s a sin on any day.”

# 2 — Golfer: “This is the worst course I’ve ever played on.”
Caddy: “This isn’t the golf course. We left that an hour ago.”

# 1 — Best Caddy Comment……………..
Golfer: “That can’t be my ball, it’s too old.”
Caddy: “It’s been a long time since we teed off, sir.”

She was so close yet seemed to care so little. My daughter was one beanbag away from landing all three bags in hoops placed at various distances but the last toss skipped through the ring and without a care in the world she meandered to the back of the line. Not a, “RATS!” or a kick of the ground. Not even a, “C’MON, pull it together next time, will ya!” There was skipping and water sipping and visiting with friends.

“Why is she skipping and water sipping and visiting with friends?” I asked myself, exasperated by her lack of a competitive killer spirit on her first Sports Day here in the UK. Sports Days are common place in schools here and consist of beanbag tosses, and rope skipping, egg and spoon relays and other such intensive contests. “Why isn’t she focusing on the next toss?”

And that is when the subtle thought entered my mind that my daughter may simply be content to have fun sometimes and not be competitive all the time (if that is even possible!). I quickly chased the idea from my mind and began helping her understand that if she tossed the beanbags instead of throwing them she’d have more control and possibly score three out of three. I got that, “Whatever, dad” look.

Now let me just state I’m NOT one of those parents. You know the type, they shout through the backstop at the umpire during a T-ball game, or shadow the coach constantly telling him why their kid ought to be moved to a more strategic position. I set out three years ago when my daughter played on her first soccer team to encourage participation and fun.  It never crossed my mind that there are people in this world who somehow have managed to separate competition/winning and fun, so imagine my surprise when my kiddo didn’t particularly like the games, but simply loved being at practice with her teammates.

“My name is Chris,” I could just see myself meekly say with lowered head to an ex-jock, win-at-all costs Competitive Dad’s Anonymous support group. “I have a great kid, exceptional in math and reading, respectful to her mom and I and to other adults, who enjoys music and art and friends and dress-up and butterflies and strawberries and trampolines, but most times when it comes to competition is content to….participate.”

Funny thing is, my daughter is competitive. She hates losing at board games and loves nothing more than to beat her daddy at, well anything and everything. The smallest thing is a competition. Backgammon is a Battle Royal. Beating me is fun. Losing brings on the waterworks. I’ve tried to tell her, “There’s no crying in Backgammon!” I’ve even heard myself say, “Try your best and if you lose that’s okay. It’s about having fun competing.”

And come to find out that is what Sports Day in the UK is about. Teachers spent most of their time encouraging five, six and seven year old boys and girls to stick with it, keep trying, “keep chin up.” Enjoy the competition. And fortunately these fine teachers weren’t interrupted by any of those parents. I don’t think there was a child who will look back on this day and say they didn’t have any fun, including my daughter, who gave Sports Day two thumbs up.

She’ll never remember that third beanbag that skipped through the hoop, and I need to learn to celebrate the two she landed.

I hate soccer.

There, I said it. No remorse. No shame, and actually it feels quite liberating. Saying you hate soccer is almost as politically incorrect these days as saying you think people migrating to America ought to enter the country legally; or that one of the most noble purposes bovines serve is being slow roasted to medium rare and served with a large baked potato. Seems like there has been such a push over the past few years for good ol’ red-blooded, American sports fans to become more tolerant of a game that requires incredible skill, yet features world class whiners.

And therein lies the contempt I have for the sport. Just when I’m seduced by the exploits of Wayne Rooney and actually endure a full 90 minutes of a Premier League game, or find myself talking to my neighbor about the nuances of Manchester United vs. Manchester City, the World Cup came around and reminded me all over again that I hate soccer.

It’s the floppers, whiners and drama queen prima donnas that for me so totally hijack any ounce of interest I may have been lured to invest. I scream at the television, things like, “get up you sissy;” or, “real men don’t get hurt by imaginary people,” or, “Even Reese Witherspoon can act better than that” (albeit not by much).

“It’s part of the game,” I’ve been told by many an aficionado with an international perspective. However, I am certain these same fanatical groupies would see Mike Tyson biting off Evander Holyfield’s ear as part of boxing. “Hey, hey!,” an offended and snobbish soccer fan may retort. “Not the same. Biting is cheating.” Well, I see flopping and diving as cheating. It totally undermines the spirit of competition at the least and at worst – which it usually is – manipulates the rules of the game to seize an unfair advantage. That’s cheating, and I hate it.

Makes me wonder where along the way these stars picked up this dastardly flopping habit. I’ve helped coach four-year-old girls soccer at the Y and it never crossed the minds of our girls to act like, well, four-year old girls. They were too busy talking with friends on other teams, watching planes fly over the field or chasing the ball around in a pack with about 10 other girls. No flopping, even though there were low velocity impacts with the ground due to lack of coordination. We did have crying, but it was because somebody got vanilla icing on a cupcake instead of chocolate. You know, legitimate stuff. Come to think of it, I’d have more respect for the world’s elite players if they cried and whined about stuff like not getting chocolate icing rather than mysteriously being tripped by an opponent who happened to be within about five yards of the flopper about the time he goofed and lost possession of the ball. (Notice next time, floppers usually grab an ankle and virtually all writhe with the same pained expression while their closest teammate kneels to console him and the second closest teammate pleads an animated case with the hapless official.)

Having one official doesn’t help the sport whose boys cry wolf seemingly every trip down field. The officials I’ve observed throughout the World Cup are either smack in the middle of play and in the way, or they  offer their best guess on a flop from 30 meters away. Why not have a three-man official rotation like NBA basketball (speaking of whiners…)? Better yet, why not flash some of those red cards above the heads of the whiners instead of above the heads of the guys being called for a foul and whose mere proximity to the whiner surprisingly was enough to throw them to the ground, causing life threatening injuries (and from which the whiner miraculously recovers in time to kick the penalty or jump up and reposition in the event a call is not made in his favor.)

Yep, I hate soccer and its floppers and whiners. You don’t see flopping in rugby. Flop in rugby and even the guys on your own team will pummel you. You don’t see flopping in cricket either. Flop in cricket and you stand a good chance of being denied a hot cup of tea. Maybe I was a little too hard in my evaluation of cricket. At least cricketers act like gentlemen.

Soccer players are floppers. And whiners. And act like four-year old girls who got the wrong icing on a cupcake.

I hate soccer.