Today: Flight (revisited)

The rain stopped all those no-handed, high-speed shenanigans 

 After six pieces of free pizza for lunch yesterday and the prospect of no exercise today, I doggedly resolved last night to ride my bike to work today even as torrential rains lashed the house and tore at the eaves. Okay, so I exaggerate. No lashings or tearing took place. But the rain did fall in steady torrents, both last night and today. And I did ride. The total elapsed ride time remained about the same usual: one and a half hours of soggy bliss. By the time I had been in the saddle 4 miles, I was wet throughout. By the time I coasted into the garage here in Bellevue, the rain had clawed its way into my backpack to "moisten" my clothes, leaving me with a lingering reminder of her presence all day long. The best part of the ride? After 25 miles of this punishment for my overweening pride, I shuffled into and shivered through an hour-long meeting with a few of my peers, my boss, and my boss' boss. There I sat strategically positioned below the icy draft of an air vent in my dripping bike clothes. I soldiered through as best I could.  When it was all over, I needed a warm shower so badly, I didn't even mind all the creepy body building pictures in the gym. So cycling might be the closest thing to flight short of sprouting wings, but that doesn't change the fact that flying in inclement weather is no fun.

There's Mercer, but I don't see much of Seattle today.

Today: Flight

Back in January, I allowed myself—against my better judgment and repeated vows—to be persuaded to ride the STP again this year. So now I have to figure out how to train for a 200-mile ride while remaining gainfully employed and juggling the needs of church and family. Despite rumors to the contrary, I actually enjoy seeing my kids and speaking with Rachael. Tuesday night it rained all the way home. That was an unmitigated drag. Last night, however, reminded me why I put up with all the physical and emotional abuse. The weather was dry and relatively warm. And in spite of a stiff headwind, my yellow-tinted safety glasses enhanced the fresh green-ness of the budding cottonwoods lining my route home. The sun rimmed everything with bright reflection. On days like these, there’s nothing in the world like a hard ride on a well-tuned bicycle. It’s the closest thing to sprouting wings and flying. 

In Renton, south across Lk. Wash.

Who's the clown that's following me??

West across Lk. Wash.
Mercer Island in the background

A Revisionist's History: Mom

I had the opportunity to speak to a group of women at my Church on Tuesday evening. I was asked to consider the women that have had an impact on my life and—this was more suggested than stated—speak to how these women made do with their limited resources to overcome the challenges they faced in their time. Ultimately, I believe, it was hoped that by sharing these experiences we would be able to impart a measure of hope to the women attending.

Obviously, that was no small order to fill. Anyway, when I finally got around to putting something to paper, the following remembrances sprung, almost as it were, fully-formed from the pen. As it happened, I didn’t share what follows that evening. But since the Muse was kind enough to guide my pen, I thought I’d pass her beneficence on to the “interwebs”.

Today: Dream Job

Looking east from John's house in Winter.

One of the aspects I enjoy most about my current work is the opportunity to meet and interact with people from all over the United States. After working with more than 80 corporations scattered across three countries and 30 different states, you develop an appreciation for the sheer breadth and variety of experience in this world. In part because of this experience, I have come to believe that everyone has a story worth telling, everyone.

Four years in this current, and at times unsatisfying, position has taught me a great deal about what matters to me in a career. Ironically, had this job stretched me more than it has, I might never have asked the questions that have lead to these realizations. Chalk that up for silver linings. In terms of revelations, it turns out that meeting and getting to know people, the act of discovering or unearthing their “story,” really motivates me.

Today: The Happy Place

Way back during our Austin days, Rachael and I took a journey to the Gulf Coast. We camped on Mustang Island with some friends. In spite of infernal heat, a woeful lack of basic camping gear, and an incessant wind that scoured our car, our kids, and our faces with fine beach sand, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. For one, we learned something invaluable about Rachael.

We learned that she has what we have come to refer to as a “happy place.” Which I take to mean, a place where she feels so completely carefree as to cause her to momentarily drop the baggage of life at the door and enjoy herself . . . for a while. As luck would have it, this illusive “happy place” is far more ubiquitous that you might think. All she needs is a little sand, some water, and copious amounts of sun. Put all those things together, add kids and a camera, and Rachael can live off the happy memories for a year.

A Revisionist's History: French Town Pond

This is French Town pond looking West.

My father, a wise man, realized the importance of building a relationship with his son before teenage dementia set in. To do this, about the time I turned ten, he brought home a couple of five-gallon buckets full of motorcycle parts. Then for a winter, I would stand beside him shivering in the garage as he pieced together the parts to resurrect a late 70’s two-stroke mini-bike.

Dad continued to nurture this hobby and our relationship by establishing a few traditions. Most prominent among those was our own version of March Madness. Every March my dad would take me out of school for a week and we would travel 800 miles south to the Moab and San Rafael Swell regions of Southern Utah. Four or five months later, we would also travel to the Sawtooth Mountains in Central Idaho and ride dirt bikes for another week among lodge-pole pine.

A Revisionist's History: Painter Hayes

This morning while driving to seminary, I was thinking about an acquaintance in the ward here that commutes daily all the way to Everett. He told me yesterday that the drive doesn’t take too long in the morning before traffic, but that it can stretch out into two hours in the evening. Fortunately, for Rob Harvey, he and his wife just closed on a home in Lake Stevens, which is where this story begins.

Years ago, while living outside of Seattle during my early teen years, a difficult and pivotal era for many reasons, I met a man named Jim Hayes. Jim became one of my earliest employers painting homes in the Lake Stevens region. As I remembered Jim on my drive this morning, I realized in retrospect that he also figures prominently among the cast of mentors from those formative years.

FAD 1: The Second Generation Chevrolet Astro AWD

It was probably 1986 when my dad purchased the first of two 80’s era, down-sized Buick Skylarks. Now don’t hang up or dismiss me—not yet! This is not a post to nominate the Skylark as a Fine Auto of Distinction. Because, it wasn’t—not by a long shot. In fact, it was that car and its sibling that caused me to appreciate the relative reliability of dad’s 1976 VW Karman Ghia, which repeatedly doubled as the family hauler while the shop rebuilt the Buicks.

Introducing: Fine Autos of Distinction ("FAD")

When I was about 12 years old, I realized that I had a budding interest in automobiles. About that time, I saved some of my paper route money and purchased my first magazine subscription to Car & Driver. For years, I subscribed to the magazine, and it became for me what sports were for other boys my age. I had my favorite brands and models. Every shoot-out or “comparo” took on the significance of key games between teams. Always patriotic, I spent a lot of time routing for American brands. Sadly, the late 80’s and early 90’s were not good times to pin one’s hopes on American automobile manufacturing. That was the age of the Chevrolet Corsica, the unforgiveable second generation of the Buick Roadmaster, and the Ford Tempo.