What is that feeling that overcomes us each time we wander into this two-wheeler superstore in the hinterlands to the north? Our palms sweat; our breathing becomes shallow; a goofy grin spreads across our mug; and we lose the ability to blink. Ah, yes...gear lust. Do we really need that nifty carbon-fiber, rear-suspension frame? Do we need a $3,000 poor-man's Porsche? We do. We do. We do. If you don't believe us, you've never experienced gear lust--or you're our wife. Although there are a few decent small bike shops in the Dallas area--including a smaller version of Richardson Bike Mart near White Rock Lake--this is Mecca for cyclists, offering everything from a full line of clothing, to bike-related coffee-table gewgaws, to a wide variety of recumbent, road, touring and mountain bikes.

There are a lot of good "hockey players" on the Stars roster. Mike Modano. Brenden Morrow. Jamie Langenbrunner. Ed Belfour. The list goes on. But everyone knows that hockey is still the bastard child of the four pro sports. C'mon, skating skills and shooting? Who cares? But large men going full speed with the singular mindset of mashing the opponent's teeth through his skull? Now that's compelling. No one's more adept at laying down the smackdown than Derian Hatcher. The team captain is also its best defender and most vicious enforcer. Pity those who cross him, as was the case in the hard-hitting first-round playoff series against Edmonton when several Oilers were checked mercilessly by everyone's favorite brute. It's a civil service, and well-performed at that.

From what we hear, the Lakewood Country Club has good food, a good pro shop and a good golf course. Of course, none of this is the point. The great part about Lakewood Country Club, for all you non-golfers with an adventurous spirit, is that the course is split on either side by Brookside Drive and La Vista, near Gaston. Now, the good people at LCC surrounded the course with a large fence, but that shouldn't stop you. When you're driving by, just when the golfer/target of your choice has reached his backswing, yell out the window or honk your horn. Or, if you're really into it, get out of your car and dance and cluck like a chicken while insulting his mother. The golfers will love it. Really. Then just stand back and absorb the colorful reactions.

Being out at the Ballpark these past few seasons has been a lot like getting a hot-sauce enema. Minutes seem like hours, and your ass gets itchy very quickly. Easing some of that pain, or at least doing his best to make everyone's job go a little more smoothly, has been Gabe Kapler. Where some, if not most, professional athletes run when they see a reporter or fan coming, Kapler is the rare player who will almost always give his time. Earlier this year, while he was on the disabled list and rehabbing in some god-awful town in Oklahoma, Kapler even took time out of his rehab schedule to do an interview with the Observer. This is a point of interest considering half the players don't know what the Observer is. Oh, and he's a decent hitter and fields well and all that jazz, so bully for Gabe. That, and we're afraid of him and his muscles, which pop from his shirt like overinflated balloons. See, Gabe, we told you you'd get this award. Now just don't hurt us.