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.)