Cyclone: (n) another word for a tornado.

Do we need another name for tornado?

I think tornado is doing very well for itself.

Its letters are formed perfectly to allow meteorologists to refer to “tornadic activity.” Would “cyclonic activity” be just as powerful?

I think the first time I heard the word “cyclone” was in ancient America—watching Bugs Bunny cartoons. Yosemite Sam referred to a big dust bowl of wind as a cyclone. I didn’t like Yosemite Sam—he was mean to Bugs Bunny. So I developed a prejudice against the word based on just that experience.

Also, how old would you have to be to call it a cyclone? I have a vision of an ancient being in the Oklahoma territory, looking in the dusty distance and speaking some words in Navajo tongue, and then translating them:

“Methinks cyclone is coming.”

Yeah. That works for me. (Add some buckskins to your word picture.)

I’m just trying to imagine any of my friends using the word “cyclone” as I squint my face in confusion and disapproval, and having them pipe back, “Be cool, fool. It’s just the new millennial way of saying tornado.”

Maybe the reason this doesn’t work is because…

Who actually wants to clone a sigh?

Cycling: (n) the act or sport of riding or traveling by bicycle

 I got my first bicycle when I was ten years old.

Although no one actually weighed me, from my memories and careful guesstimation, I would say I probably weighed two hundred pounds.

My parents were not wealthy and could not afford a heavy-duty bicycle for me, so I ended up with a lovely Schwinn.

It was suited for a boy less than half my size.

First of all, may I say that riding a bicycle when you’re obese is like perching a frog on the head of a pin.

It was not comfortable.

And I was surprised at how much energy it took for my chubby legs to pedal my weight along the road.

But I was thrilled when a friend asked me to take over his paper route for two weeks during his vacation.

It was very nice of him, and he guaranteed me five dollars a week to perform the task.

Thirty-six daily deliveries—and going door-to-door on Saturdays to collect the subscription money.

Now, the whole thing sounded completely plausible and nearly fun. But on the first day, when I had trouble getting all the newspapers onto the back of my bicycle and struggled with pedaling both my weight and the additional girth of the news, I almost lost heart and nearly gave up around delivery seventeen.

I decided to gut it out for the day and planned to telephone my friend at his vacation spot and let him know I would not be able to fulfill my promise.

But a fit of “Sunday School” possessed my soul and I concluded it was unfair to leave him hanging.

I chose to endure.

During my normal cycling, I didn’t have to stand up on the bicycle to pedal—because I avoided hills. But the paper route had three large hills, and unfortunately, on the fourth day, second hill, when I stood, the pedal broke off due to my weight.

I was not terribly embarrassed about it until I went to the hardware store, showed what had happened, and the old man behind the counter rubbed his chin and declared, “Boy, how in the hell did you break off a pedal? I’ve never seen such a thing. Maybe you oughta lose some weight.”

As I tell you this story, it’s astounding to me that his statement upset me so badly—but it did. I cried all the way home and all during the time it took me to reinstall a new pedal.

After that, every time I came to a big hill, I had to get off the bike and walk up, pushing it, because I was afraid of breaking another one and the humiliation of dealing with Gramps down at the store.

Mostly I enjoyed cycling.

But the thought of pedaling still puts a chill down my spine.