So, Anyone Can Learn? This Bait-Casting Klutz Is Willing To Take Flyer

The problem with growing up in a bait-casting family is that occasionally, you will feel as out of place as G. Gordon Liddy at an ethics symposium.

Trust me. This is how I feel each time I walk into a bait shop in Montana, the fly-fishing capital of the Inland Empire, if not the galaxy.

Wandering up the aisles, I am surrounded by flies. Flies are floating, insect-like baits tied together with yarn, wire, feathers, dryer lint, human hair and other household flotsam. The best ones, those that look like insects even to trained insects, are assembled by balding men who spend most of their time crouched under a bright light and magnifying glass in an attempt to create, say, the ultimate maggot replica.

I admire the flies and those who tie them. It is a skill I cannot comprehend.

First of all, one must think like a fish. To create an effective fly, it's necessary to imagine oneself deep in some clear lake, looking up to the heavens from eyes mounted approximately where the human ears are.

If you get that far, the next step is a relative breeze. Looking up through the ripples, imagine an insect floating on the surface. What matters is not how the fly looks on top of the water, or hanging from one's hat. Unless one is angling for flying fish, it's the bottom view that counts.

The perfectly tied fly will hang in the water just like its real-life inspiration. Craftsmen or craftswomen who can pull it off are more rare than a Pete O'Brien clutch hit.

I don't possess the skill, and no one in my extended family fishes with flies.

Even if I did, getting the fly to the fish presents a larger problem. Fly casting is an art. It's best comprehended by reading the opening chapters to Norman MacLean's classic "A River Runs Through It," which described the craft so well, no one has successfully written about it since. Suffice it to say fly casting is aerial poetry, each perfect cast its own monofilament Haiku.

I tried it once, leaving my entire neighborhood encased in a tangled fishing-line cocoon. Neighbors were forced to cut their way out of their homes with pruning shears and Ginsu knives.

My fly-fishing career was abandoned by court order.

Which was fine with me. Give me a good spincasting rod and a box full of crankbaits any day. I know how to use them. They are the electric guitar equivalent to the fly-fishing violin. But they get the job done. I can put a Mepp's spinner under a log from a goodly distance. And the chance that it will eventually wind up stuck into the hide of someone's family pet is minimal.

Something within me, however, yearns to be publicly embarrassed. In spite of the fact that fly fishing has become the chic, yuppie outdoors quest of the '90s (see Eddie Bauer's downtown fly-fishing Yuppietorium), the fly-fishing bug has not abandoned me.

A friend of mine says anyone can learn. I've never taken him up on that challenge, largely to preserve our friendship.

But I'm willing to test that theory elsewhere. Fly fishing teachers, take notice. This is your chance. Teach a bait-casting klutz to perform magic. Let's test the theory that anyone can learn.

Call me. We'll give it a try. But give me a week's notice. We'll need to alert air traffic control.

Training for revenge

Cruising past mile 181 on last weekend's Seattle to Portland Bicycle Classic, Himanee Gupta tasted the best of both worlds.

"I topped a hill and caught a glimpse of the Portland skyline," she reports. "Seattle to Portland by bike. I did it!"

It was even better than it sounds. Gupta, a Seattle Times business reporter whose training "duel" with her boyfriend, Ignacio Lobos, was chronicled on this page July 1, had Portland in her sights - and Lobos apparently somewhere far back in her rear-view mirror.

"I lost him somewhere before mile 124," she reports. "At the Longview food stop, I waited and waited. Ignacio was nowhere in sight."

She figured Lobos, whom she had outpaced 1,400 miles to 300 in pre-STP training, had a flat tire. Or twisted his "always weak" ankle. Or worse, "became the first STP rider to die en route."

Gupta was convinced Lobos had stopped at every food stop, scarfing down treats in a vain attempt to restore his energy. She proceeded to the finish line, expecting to see him there later.

She did. Much later, long after she finished at about 2:45 p.m.

Alas, "He wasn't jaded, sweat-drenched or exhausted," she said. "He'd been there since 1:30 p.m., enjoying the sun and looking for me.

"I couldn't believe it."

Lobos, always - well, usually - the gentleman, downplayed the result.

"I finished before her. So what?" he says, noting that Gupta's bike is 10 to 15 pounds heavier than his.

Her training did pay off, he says, noting that "she's recovering a lot faster."

Gupta confirms this, insisting Lobos was "waddling" early this week. Which makes her feel better about the whole thing, right?

Wrong. The pre-race posturing for the next STP already has begun. What does Gupta want next time?

"I want to get even."