Today: a mile or two in another man's shoes

Earlier in the evening Rachael mentioned that a man had been seen finishing Seattle’s Rock and Roll marathon bespattered with his own waste, the kind of waste my sister Amy would refer to as “the Rhea.” I guess at one point the poor unfortunate was seen attempting to remove the filth using a stick—all that with 28,000 onlookers. How’s that for sobering?

Ever the object of irony, I laughed a full-throated, belly laugh of true delight when Rachael related the account to me. “Poor sap!” I guffawed. “Can you imagine?? A stick. Oh that’s too much!” Then I grabbed my bike helmet and jauntily sauntered out the door.

I had promised to go for a mountain bike ride with my neighbor DJ Sweeney. DJ drives an immaculately maintained Ford F-350 of the super duty variety. The rear chrome bumper bears a sticker that reads: “I’m only speeding because I have to poop.” The signs were everywhere to those with eyes to see.

Seeing the sticker for the thousandth time, I chuckled in a smarmy, self-satisfied sort of way and marched up to the door. DJ opened the door slowly. “Oh man, you’re home?” He said with mild surprise. “I knocked on your door twice tonight. I won’t be able to make it.”

That was fine by me. What I really needed tonight was a run, not another bike ride. So I coasted across the street, hung my beloved Stumpy back up on the wall and slipped into my Saucony’s. After a short stop in the bathroom to clear the lower GI, I forced myself out onto the trail.

Heading east on the pipeline trail, the first three miles were hard fought. Around the three and a half mile mark, I felt myself hitting my stride and with it came the ever present hubris. At about this same time, I crossed the Cedar River heading North and then turned westward and home on the north side of the river.

The pain first struck about a quarter of a mile from the bridge—at the absolute farthest point of my run. I knew the feeling well and instantly it shattered, not only my confidence, but my pace as well. My stride, once steady and long (as long as midget legs can make it), came now in short prancing steps in an effort to minimize the jostling to my innards. Gone was all consideration of form.

The farther I ran, the more intense the pressure became. I began to look around for a cover, someplace I could duck and—as we euphemistically say—“equalize the pressure.” Nothing. The brush, while characteristically dense in Western Washington, was not deep enough to afford cover from passing runners. With buttocks firmly clenched, I forced myself to shuffle another quarter mile to a bend in the trail, a silent prayer on my lips with every step.

When I rounded the bend, my eyes caught sight of a walker, not a runner or a cyclist, a walker. A duck into the trees now would appear only too conspicuous. If only he would walk a littler FASTER! With grim determination I strode on. Behind a forced smile, I belted out a suspiciously enthusiastic “howdy,” then put as much distance between us as possible before seeking another escape route.

Escape materialized only a hundred feet further down the trail. A narrow, little-used path wound into the surrounding dense underbrush bending slightly toward a backwater bend in the river north of the trail. Here the bush filled in thickly around the bases of the trees.

Panting now, I hunted desperately for a clearing in the undergrowth wide enough for the blast zone. But my search met with disappointment time and again. Finally, milliseconds before discharge, I acknowledged my hopeless condition, and resorted to the narrow path itself.

You’ll excuse me for not delving into the sordid details of what came next. To think of it now, causes me to shudder involuntarily. Suffice it to say, I learned that mosses (particularly isothecium stoloniferum and selaginella oregano “Oregon Spikemoss”) work far better for mopping up than vine maple leaves.



It bears noting, however, that neither solution will prevent against chafing, not by a long stretch. And trust me, I know of what I speak. The pain. Is. Real.

I wish I could say that one attack was all it took to atone for my hubris. And yet, only two short miles down the trail, disaster struck a second time. When “the urge” struck this time around, I didn’t even have time to find a secluded bush. Fortunately, divine providence smiled on me and granted me a full five minutes of solitude on an otherwise busy section of the Cedar River Trail.

When I finally stumbled up the walk to the front door, I remembered that luckless runner with the stick. In a small way, I believe I came to know him and understand his suffering during my eventful run. Regardless, I learned first hand that night that it’s true what they say about not judging a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes, especially when they're filled with "the Rhea."

Today: In Honor of the Doctor

Old Stevinsky, the closet academic, the John Denver croonin', lichen-lovin', Spanish-speakin', hermano de la valle de Utah, just defended his Ph.D dissertation. The man's a doctor. Holy Smokes. Here's a little video capturing our last significant lichen finding on site at Black Butte in Eastern Oregon. You've made us all experts in the field, Sir Leavitt. Here's to many blissful years in the search of Lichen truth!

Today: Bike Commuting

I work in a very unique environment. In our building in Bellevue, I would guess that close to a dozen people commute to work by bicycle. Of those twelve, eight to ten work in my office. Having commuted by bike off and on for nine years now, it has been torture seeing their bikes and not being able to join them. One of the challenges, for me, of moving to Maple Valley was giving up that option to commute by bike. Currently, a one-way trip to the office clocks in at a whopping 24 miles. For those of you, like me, who operate at a first-grade math level, that amounts to a 48-mile round trip. With Seminary taking up my mornings before work and darkness cutting off the time after work during the winter, my bicycle commuting days dwindled to a thin trickle.


This year, Rachael pushed me to get a 24-hour membership. I have resisted for almost three years because the mere act of entering that place nauseates me. Eventually, I saw the reason in her words, but signing up nearly broke me. Providently, the sales person saw the revulsion brimming in my eyes and wisely did not push me to meet with a chipper trainer when I growled through gritted teeth: “It’s nothing personal, but I only need access to the showers.”

Come to find out that if you can make it past the blaring techno in the gym, the locker room is a surprisingly sheltered place. Flat-panel televisions broadcast the World Cup games, the voices of international game announcers murmur through the room in low tones. The morning’s would-be athletes appear to be professionals and behave with more decorum than the lunch-time crowd. It’s a bit like having ice cream in Hell. No wants to spend any time there, but anything to lessen the impact of molten brimstone can only serve to render the experience a little less painful.


So all this is to make the point that I forgot a few things on my bike ride to work today. Things such as: my shoes, deodorant, and gel. Fortunately, Rite Aid is half a block away. So, after showering and retreading myself in bike shoes, I clicked and tapped my way over to Rite Aid, my unruly concentration-camp hair fluffing in full glory.



Once there, Linda—the middle-aged clerk behind the counter—took my plastic in exchange for Speedstick and “L.A. Looks” mega hold hair gel. I know what you’re thinking, and you can think it all you want. Two dollars for 20 oz of green sticky goodness represents a ridiculously inexpensive means of taming my hair. So long as it does the job, who cares what they call it?? As for the shoes, my bike shoes, while old and naturally stiff, provide a modicum of comfort.


The best part of this story is that when Pat—a religious bike commuter in the office—saw that I was wearing my bike shoes today he said: “It could be worse, you could forget your pants.” Evidently, he forgot his pants one day and walked around the office for an hour and a half in tight biker pants before he decided, in his words, “This is not okay.” So what does he do? He walked to the mall, which is only five blocks away, and bought a pair of pants at the Gap. (I get a smile just thinking of him walking into that store in bike pants.) Then Dawn says, “Well at least you didn’t forget your underwear.” And Pat says, “actually.” Dawn, the most committed of all bike commuters in the office, shakes her head knowingly.

My lapse in judgment or memory, depending on how you choose to view it, really doesn’t sound all that bad compared to missing briefs, boxers, and brassieres. I have, on occasion, forgotten a towel. This oversight represents nearly an intractable problem. Toilet paper? You can imagine the results—but try not to. Paper towels? Once or twice. You try that in a locker room full of onlookers. I don’t have the stomach for it. Of course, you could always fall back on the sweaty t-shirt you just took off or the clean shirt you plan to wear. As Ellie is wont to say: “That makes me not eat.”

Today: Spaghetti and Peas

Something in his face seemed more urgent, more intent than usual.

In all other respects, it was a Wednesday night like so many others. Spaghetti, peas, and garlic bread for dinner. Had you asked me at the time, I might have said that it was a safe dinner, the kind of meal you knew that everyone would eat with little in the way of whining or sulking. Even Grace—accustomed to a nightly hunger strike—could be counted on to ingest at least half a pound of noodles, staining her chin red with marinara sauce in the process.

We had been sitting at the table for a few minutes, when Carver first turned to me with a look of concern in his eyes. His finger probed the upper reaches of his right nostril. While not exactly pleasant, nose-probing certainly wasn’t an uncommon sight at our table. I took it in stride listening as Rachael began rehearsing the day’s events.

After a second, I leaned over to Carver and coaxed, “Carver—bud, take your finger out of your nose.” I glanced up quickly afterwards to demonstrate to Rachael that I was still listening. She didn’t appear to have noticed anything. When I turned to Carver a minute later, the excavation continued unabated. “Carver, remove the finger.” I asked a little more sternly. He complied momentarily. But the shadow of concern never left his face.

I turned back to the business at hand. The spaghetti wound itself obediently around my fork. Then, while reaching for the bite, Carver’s face hove into view. His nostrils flared expansively. His eyes, tightly crossed, widened and then focused on the tip of his nose. Rachael kept talking. I nodded mechanically, only periodically making eye contact.

Suddenly, he started snorting, not the playful sort of snort one makes when inhaling mid-laugh. No, it bore more resemblance with the sound made by an enraged bull. And like a bull, Carver appeared to have every intention of clearing his “nasal passages” of all blockages, and he wasn't taking prisoners. Rachael continued talking, and I would have nodded, but this alarming turn of events now commanded my complete and undivided attention.

In fact, the display so completely captivated me that it didn't dawn on me until much later, that like Pompeii to Vesuvius, I was in the blast zone. One thing, however, was clear. Carver wasn’t fooling around. These were not mere trifling efforts. Whatever it was that had moved him to action, I knew that he meant business.



Unfortunately, I underestimated his determination and lacked the foresight to cover my food, which perilously blocked the path of detritus exiting his nose. Again and again he blew. Was no one else seeing this?! Then mid-frenzy, he flung out a chubby right-hand in desperation and caught my arm, smearing sauce up to my elbow. I looked down briefly uncomprehendingly. Rachael’s voice cut in and out of range.

Suddenly, following a collosal blow, a bright green missile shot across the table and hit my plate with a dull thwack. Carver dislodged a pea. (Don’t ask me how it entered his nose in the first place.) The whole ordeal ended then as quickly as it had begun. Carver looked at me with a big smile and grabbed another handful of noodles.

"And that's why I told them Saturday would work best for us," Rachael said looking very pleased with herself. "What do you think?"

"Heh . . ."

A Revisionist's History: My First Encounter With Off-road Cycling

During my early childhood, we moved often. Not long after Dorian, we ended up on Red Fox Court in Kuna, Idaho. Kuna is a Boise bedroom community possessing few, if any, redeeming qualities.

And yet, unlike my shadowy memories of Dorian, Red Fox Court stands out as bright, clear, and positively cheery in relationship to Dorian. Also there was that dry, irrigation canal that ran behind our home. On Saturday afternoons, dad would ride his dirt bike up and down the paved embankments of the canal with one of us kids desperately clinging to his waist. Not only that, but a Circle K convenience store—with all the attendant “advantages” that come with a convenience store—sat less than a city block from our front door. How is that for the very picture of convenience? No, “the Court” wasn’t all bad.

I had many firsts on Red Fox Court. I earned my first set of stitches there (a subject for another revisionist entry). Then, there was the day I learned that clear plastic bags do not good astronaut helmets make. Once when checking the mail at 8:30 in the morning, I saw the moon in broad daylight. But of all the firsts, there is one that stands out in stark relief from all the rest: I learned to ride my bike and in the process realized that my life would be drawn to wheels like a moth to flame.

The love affair with wheeled motion pre-dated the two-wheeler. It began during the days of trike-dom. One morning, while pedaling my tricycle across the lawn near the northeast corner of our home, I suddenly felt the resistance behind the pedals evaporate and the bike accelerated effortlessly for a few moments. Evidently, there under the corner of one eave, the rain water had polished a slight dip in the lawn. Riding through the bowl had caused my stomach to drop as if riding a roller coaster. That thrilled me.

Layered over that thrill, however, I could sense something almost imperceptible. Like the hint of vanilla in a good chocolate chip cookie, there was something in the cushion of the grass combined with the near solidity of the sod below that contributed to the overall experience. I can’t quite explain what it was exactly that appealed to me about that. Maybe—to continue the food metaphor—the pillowy nature of the turf combined with the more solid substrate below the thatch to create two layers of flavor like sweet chocolate and salty peanuts.

Whatever the reason, this second sensation has over time become just as compelling to me as the more plebian "roller-coaster" thrill I first recognized. To satiate the second sensation, I’ve found myself drawn—almost instinctually—to fish-tailing in the snow, power-sliding motorcycles on dirt roads, off-roading in family sedans, trail running, and of course, riding single track astride what my seminary students have come to know as a "fancy mountain bike."

Up to this point, we’ve only discussed the symptoms—rather than the causes—of my tendency or inclination to traverse rough terrain. As for the causes, that's easy. I chalk that one up to genetics. After all, I’ve have it on good authority that my dad was a pre-eminent gravel-road racer. (See below, a picture of my father, what part of him that is visible, wrenching on his rally car.)

Today: When Carver Cries

While the rest of the country has languished under abnormally low temperatures and obscene amounts of snow, Washington seems to have enjoyed one of the more mild winters in recent memory—my memory at least. And even with all the sunny, 50-degree weather and a complete lack of fluffy white stuff, this winter has felt more discouraging than most to me. (All this sounds excessively plaintive and limp-wristed, I know.)

From my perspective, here in the midst of all the trees, it’s not clear what—if anything—has changed. Back before crashing into the Pacific Ocean, John Denver used to sing “some days are diamonds, some days are stones.” Admittedly, John espoused all sorts of “enlightened” political ideas better left to someone else to appreciate, but he was on to something there. Most days life proceeds pretty much as it always has; the same old mix of good and bad. But for whatever reason, some days the same old mix just doesn't sparkle like it should.

Earlier this week, in the midst of the evening dash to feed children, clean house, bathe kids, exercise, and prepare lessons before 11:00 p.m., I pulled Carver from the bath. The water was warm and the air temperature cool. He began to shiver as I wrapped him in his red towel. Just then, he remembered that Rachael had left for the evening. Carver worships Rachael. No one else understands and accepts him like she can, and the thought of not having her within arms length traumatizes him—literally. And then, for the fourth time in less than an hour, Carver began sobbing uncontrollably.

Generally, I do not respond well to what I consider to be irrational displays of pathos. My response typically involves a threat of punishment expressed mezzo-forte. (I am not proud of this.) This time, however, as I watched his face twist with very real grief—I saw my own loneliness and my pain in his face. Suddenly, as if the clouds momentarily parted, I understood him perfectly. The missing patience returned. My perspective slipped solidly into place. And everything else waited while I rocked Carver on the bathroom floor.

A Revisionist's History: The Orange Juice Incident

It was “The Orange Juice Incident” that left me with the most enduring of Dorian’s life lessons. It happened this way. . . .

One gloomy Saturday afternoon my mom left us kids in our father’s care. In the stillness that settled on the house after the kitchen door closed, I stood riveted to the linoleum staring longingly at the beige refrigerator door. Behind that door, I knew, reposed a rare treat, something we didn’t have just any day. Mom had made an entire pitcher of orange juice that morning. I could almost feel its chunky pulp goodness trickling down my throat.

On the other side of the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the dining room, Dad tried fruitlessly to balance the checkbook. To me, it always seemed like a thankless task. Why remind yourself of how little you actually have?
Clearly, the sheer effort of attempting to conjure up money where none existed demanded all his substantial strength. He scratched in the checkbook register, his hands gripping the pencil in a tight fist with his arms wrapped defensively around the checkbook. Reason might have suggested that now was not the best time to beg for a glass of the precious elixir, but I wasn’t listening.

“Dad. Hey, dad.”

“What.” He answered, without looking up.

“Can I have some orange juice.” I asked super-speedy before he could say no.

“Not now.” He grimaced, his eyes never leaving the check book.

“Please, dad.” I countered.

“You’ll just have to wait until I’m finished.” He said, some impatience beginning to bleed through.

In those days, my father had a way of warning us when we stepped out of line. He would simply say, “I feel my hand beginning to itch.” The implication being that the most efficient way to satisfy that itch would be to swat our sitting down places until they glowed. This was before the public imprudently decided that spanking constituted a crime against humanity.

My father had not threatened me with the dreaded "itchy hand" this time. And truthfully, I don’t remember my bottom ever glowing. But as it would have been difficult to see, who knows? More to the point, the fact remains, I knew better than to cross my father. So I waited for . . . all of 15 seconds. Then, seeing no change in my father’s unhappy condition, I took circumstances into my own hands.

Stealthily, I approached the fridge. Then, employing my budding covert ops skill set, I silently broke the seal on the fridge, located the pitcher, and slowly, unsteadily, I slid it off the shelve at chest level. Stepping back into the room—a bit top-heavy now, I immediately recognized with horrifying clarity that my underdeveloped t-rex arms could not support the weight of an entire pitcher of juice. Too soon, my arms quivered and fell slack. The pitcher met the floor with a dull thwack! Somehow that sound broke my father’s concentration.

To fully understand my father’s subsequent response, you have to understand the modest circumstances of his youth. He grew up in a home with seven siblings. On my grandfather’s scanty salary, money was something of a curiosity in their home. As a result, they never had juice. N-E-V-E-R.

In fact, once—when young—my father found a large pitcher of orange liquid in his mother’s fridge. It being a warm day, he rashly concluded it must be juice, poured himself a large glass, and downed all eight ultra-toxic ounces before realizing it was dishwasher soap. Through divine intervention, Dad managed to live. But the experience left an indelible impression in his soul. Like water to Steinbeck’s Okies, juice represented the pinnacle of luxury to my father. And I had just poured the family jewels all over the kitchen floor.

I stood a condemned man, my chin resting on my chest and my feet congealing in a coagulating pool of orange juice. His steps into the kitchen echoed off my cringing back. I braced for impact, my eyes squeezed shut. The steps stopped. I could see him surveying the mess through my squinty ninja eyes. Dad stooped down, picked up the pitcher, which managed to land bottom down, and then—in an act to defy all his early childhood conditioning—he poured the remaining contents over my head. Shockingly, several ounces of juice remained in the pitcher.

I wasn’t sure how to respond. This wasn’t at all what was supposed to happen. I stared at dad, and he stared right back at me. I’m unclear how much time elapsed, but Mom chose this moment to make her re-entry. When she finally reached the kitchen, she looked first at me, then at the pitcher in dad’s hands. Neither of us moved, frozen by the magnitude of our mutual crime. I barely breathed.

Then she began to laugh in that way that parents laugh when something deep inside, buried by layers of care and worry, suddenly and irreparably snaps leaving them forever a different person. Apparently, at mom’s home they must have sipped entire vats of juice because it certainly wasn’t her currency. Mom’s laugh, one of her finest qualities, broke the spell. Eventually, and Dad returned to his checkbook.

While I know it happened on a few occasions, I can’t remember a single time my father spanked me. I can only remember once when he raised his voice at my sisters and me. But I will never forget the time he rightfully poured a pitcher of juice over my head.

Moral of the story? Saturday afternoons are a bad time to ask for juice. I’ve hated Saturday afternoons ever since.

A Revisionist's History: Dorian

My memories begin in a place known to me only as “Dorian.” Dorian, a place not even remotely related to proto-Grecian tribes, refers to a street in Boise, Idaho. I’d say it’s a charming place, but as far as I know that isn’t true. And all that Google Maps can provide is a few blurry street views depicting a place that bears far more resemblance to the Australian Bush than middle America.

Like approximately 145,376,000 Americans, my family resided in a ranch-style home with a single-car garage. My folks parked their 1978 Honda Civic in the garage. And like the car, their Dorian home was a diminutive place—at least by today’s standards. But we were okay with that. They were simple times and we were simple people.


All of my memories of that home are dark, I mean oppressively dark. Maybe there were large trees in front of the home blocking the natural light. Maybe my folks couldn’t afford to keep the lights on. Maybe I had cataracts. Then again, this was the late 70’s and early 80’s before the age of full-length draperies and amber glass had run its course.


Anyway, one day my parents lured me into our living room with the promise of a present. I don’t remember what I was expecting. But whatever it was, it did not prepare me for the complete and utter let down of receiving “big boy” underwear. Call it deceit. Call it euphemism. Call it what you will. There, as I stood in our dimly-lit living room, just for an instant, life threw back the curtain to expose all its bitterness. It would represent the first of many of life’s hard lessons taught on Dorian.

All boys—myself included—enter this world understanding one simple truth: clothes—especially underwear and socks—do not a present make. I remember clearly thinking to myself: “I’m supposed to be excited about this??” As the first-born, I put on a good face, but something died within me that day.