Today: First JWPT Shakedown Ride

Late last year mostly likely owing to the blackness of the weather and the grim situation at work, I decided that this would be the year I would ride the John Wayne Pioneer Trail to the Columbia Plateau Trail. This is a dream I’ve entertained for years. In fact, in 2014 and early 2015 Shaun Cornwall and I planned to take the young men across the state on that trail with support vehicles. Back then, all I really had to go on for planning was a blog by a fellow-Spokanite named Pat, whose blog 26inchslicks.blogspot.com documents his cross-state pilgrimage on the JWPT trail.

He picked the trail up in Tekoa and headed West to North Bend, then took connecting trails all the way into Ballard. He rode a fat bike and he rode into the jet stream, which slowed their passage on the second day pretty seriously. Anyway, while I already knew of the trail, Pat’s account instilled within me the drive to tackle it. Beginning in last November, I have used promise of this trip as an escape.

A GPS Map and Cue Sheet Available on friendsofthejohnwaynepioneertrail.org. 

Shawn Pedersen's Invaluable Trip Post

Meanwhile, since January 2015, a whole new crop of adventure cyclists have tackled the cross-state ride in Pat’s wake, most of them riding west to east. They have chartered different courses and made the GPS maps available. With their help, I've been hatching planning my route. 

Ivy and I explore the Beverly Bridge

I can't believe how motivated I am to see this happen. I drug the family out to the hinterlands to reconnoiter different sections that sound challenging. We drove Lower Crab Creek road along the Beverly, Smyrna, and Othello section of the trail. Admittedly, it doesn’t take much effort, but I somehow convinced the State DNR to give me the necessary permits to ride the trail. Santa brought a saddlepack, a handlebar bag, and a 22 liter Osprey, easily the best backpack I’ve ever owned. In spite of the very short dark days, dreary, wet weather – the font of heaven appears to be permanently broken, and the lack of showers in the office, I have begun riding to work again, at least once a week. The 44-mile round-trip commute, requires some recovery time. Drawing on the experience of one Conferring I never felt this committed to any project or adventure in my life. Mostly relying on the help of Shawn Pedersen, a frame-building JWPT pilgrim, I adapted and refined my backpacking packlist to the rigors of bikepacking. 

All of the foregoing made today’s task possible. Today was a John Wayne Pioneer Trail training day. I spent an hour or so packing all the bags on the fat tire. My goal was to test ride the gear and get some miles on the fat bike, which is not my commuter to get a sense of the challenges I’ll face in May. Below, I include some pictures, my route, and some observations from the trip.

One of the many singletrack sections. This was taken on Sasquatch

• It would be wise to get an extension for the handlebar bag. The current setup compresses the brake lines in a way that makes me a bit nervous.
• The saddlepack is probably no more than an inch off the rear tire. To maintain the necessary clearance and protect the bag, I had to do a few things. First, the seat post on the fattie has a tendency to slip. So I tightened the collar to keep the seatpost at the appropriate height. Then, I pulled the pack as high up the seatpost as possible. Throughout the ride I needed to tighten the straps. Conditions were wet the entire time and the straps may have slipped or stretched. Even with all that, the bag would bob up and down and rub against the tire, until I tightened the upper straps on the saddlebag, and then the rubbing ceased. I even caught air on Fresh Squeeze and the pack didn’t come into contact with the tire.
• All three bike bags are supposed to be waterproof. The handlebar bag did allow some water in, but it was exposed to the most water and I hosed it off at the end. Even still, not very much water got through.
• I didn’t miss the clipless pedals at all on the ride. I am nearly positive I will ride flats in May, which may require a purchase if my cheap Chinese plastic knockoffs stop working.
• I didn’t take fuel for my stove.
• I deemed it unwise to take a sleeping bag in the pouring rain. The plan is to carry my bag on the handlebars in a waterproof compression sack. Since I don’t have any such sack, I left the bag at home.
• I only had 2.5 liters of water in my pack. I will strap a 2 liter Nalgene to one of the forks.
• I didn’t use the fork mounted rack, and still managed to fit everything in the three bags on the bike with room to spare.
• I only had tools, a jacket and water in the backpack.
• I took a duckback for the backpack.
• I rode 27 miles today. The route was almost exclusively dirt roads and single track. I made several stops for pictures and sporting events (I met TD at the high school to say “hi” and watch his daughter Ellie play. Then I saw our Ellie play basketball at the stake center.) Even with these pace-breaking elements, I managed to maintain an 8.5 mph hour pace.
• My phone, which served as a GPS, for tracking purposes, lost about half of its battery power in the four hours I was gone.
• It’s probably time to throw away the solar charger. But I want to test this during the eastside reconnaissance trips in February and April.
• In May, I want to take baby wipes and hand sanitzer.
• I rode the tires at 18 to 19 PSI and didn’t notice too much jolting. I also maintained a pretty good pace at this pressure.
• I don’t think I need to take a fleece. As long as it doesn’t rain, one of my long-sleeve synthetic pullover and a shell will probably be warm enough.
• I may want to take eggs, cheese and ciabatta bread for a meal. Or maybe not.

Pipeline Trail

Today: The Warm Red Chair

I have on my desktop at work a picture of Ivy asleep in the red leather chair in my bedroom. She’s curled up in an almost sitting position. One arm, bent at the elbow, is tucked up behind her ear. The other folds gently across her lap. There’s a fan in the window and a patch of warm sun on the floor near the chair. The window radiates warmth and light and all is still.

There’s a story behind the picture. At the time of the picture, I had been very sick for two weeks and no improvement seemed on the horizon. Life and its associated responsibilities weighed heavily on my mind and I wondered if I would ever feel happy again. Right in the moment, I was trying to work up the energy to fold a pile of laundry on the bed. I felt tired, misunderstood, isolated, alone, and overwhelmed by all that needed my attention.

Suddenly, these dark, self-absorbed thoughts were punctuated by screaming, yelling, kicking, stomping, rampaging in the streets, and the terrorizing of small animals. I walked out of the bedroom to investigate and discovered Ivy—the smallest of the small ones—throwing an epic fit. Evidently, a sibling misappropriated a toy of questionable economic value, but tremendous emotional value. In an effort to ease tensions and prevent imminent bloodshed, I intervened.

For those who do not know Ivy, she’s small, but she’s strong and, more importantly, determined. As a result, it took some effort to disengage her from the melee and move her to the red chair in my room. Once ensconced in its warm leathery comfort, the wailing subsided to crying, which gave way to wimpering, which in turn ended in sleep and blessed release.

I watched the entire incident unfold in a matter of minutes. And I was struck—as I almost always am when teaching a child—by how the Lord speaks to me through my children. Turns out Ivy’s only problem was she was tired. What she needed was a warm peaceful place to take a nap. As I stood there watching her sleep, I could feel my Heavenly Father place his arms around me, pull me from my tantrum, and settle me into His warm red chair. I remember feeling impressed by the sunlight streaming through the window and how the light itself felt like a tangible manifestation of God’s love for me.

Significantly, the issues I confronted at that time did not go away. In fact, if I remember correctly, months passed before I fully navigated that ocean. But that divine act of comfort, that very real reminder of God’s love for me, gave me the courage to continue trying. And the peace or joy I felt in that moment reminded me that our Father’s exceeding great and precious promises are worth the 

Today: Pining for the Ponderosa

I don’t believe I’m one of those sentimental types that pines for the “good ole” days. While my teenage years were mostly free of trouble, you won’t find me running to embrace the future with arms wide open and head thrown back, especially in light of troubling current societal trends. Look for me, solidly staked against most of the winds of change, in the traditionalist camp. Life has taken on a much rosier hue following my exit of the teenage years. And yet embedded—hidden deep within my psyche—there persists a boxed spark of nostalgia, a part of me that does fondly peer back through the mist of time upon those years. Every now and then, some external stimulus will crack the lid on the soul box and allow the spark to momentarily flash free. For example, “Allison Road,” by Gin Blossoms, “What’s the Frequency Kenneth,” by R.E.M., and today the image of Pearl Jam’s Vitalogy album cover. Not that I have a particular fondness for these artists any longer. They don’t represent, even in a small way, my views on the world. And I am not so shallow as to willingly associate something so ephemeral as pop music, and grunge rock at that, with one of the most formative phases of my life. Still, we both inhabited the same space for a time. No, there are deeper symbols of that age. On my work desktop today, I find a picture of my two youngest children, Ivy and Grace, standing in the back of my 1995 Nissan pickup (also a relic of that age). They stand braced against a strong easterly wind, eyes wincing and hair streaming behind them. Above the girls and truck rises the ragged form of what has become perhaps the greatest symbol of those early golden years of my life, the Ponderosa Pine, and so too those places where I find the Ponderosa. Due in large part to my own insecurity and immaturity, the last three years of High School were little better than the first and middle school. But they were better. So even though 20 years have passed since I lived in Spokane, Washington, and even though I only lived in Spokane or anywhere on Washington’s Eastside for a mere three years, and even though I have lived in Western Washington for a solid third of my life, I continue describe myself as an Eastern Washingtonian. It was there I first came into myself as a young adult. The irony, the punishment of nostalgia is that it is doubly inaccessible. Not only are we bereft of Uncle Rico’s time-transporting crystals, but even if we could get the machine to work, the place we are seeking never existed. It is only beautiful because of the eyes through which we gaze upon it. 

Today: Phad Thai, and Spicy Garlic Chicken

So for the last month, I’ve been sick, really sick. Sick enough, that I lost a few pounds, which translates into more pull-ups at night and clothes that are a little less tight. As my condition has improved, I have begun eating again—almost instinctively eating for two, which may work for pregnant women, but has not worked for me. 

Saturday, I got my first long ride in since the illness and came home weak and ravenously hungry. Ellie, our second, made lemon poppyseed muffins with icing. I had six. SIX. Then, for date night, Rachael and I went out for Thai. I agreed to Thai, as opposed to something more in keeping with my unimaginative pedestrian tastes, because I was still full from brunch. And then proceeded to eat most of the Phad Thai and Spicy Garlic Chicken, followed by a maple bar and apple-fritter chaser. 

Needless to say (or maybe it is needful), I woke up at 3:00 a.m. on the verge of vomiting. I do not vomit well. It is an ordeal more so for those who are subjected to my moaning and sniveling. I soldiered through and managed to get back in bed in time for Ivy (our youngest) to come in and let me know that she “peed the bed.” 

As disappointing as this may sound, it actually represents a huge step forward for our curl-bedecked blondie. The last two times this happened, she woke up observing she got “very sweaty in bed last night.” Evidently, realizing that sweat is not the same as urine is a difficult lesson for some children. As my mother would say, “it is a sign you’re growing up, love.” I added the “love,” my mother never would have said that. She repeatedly observed that had she named me [insert your favorite mild expletive here] it would have saved her the time. And I digress yet again.

Sunday dawned sunny and cool. And as I clawed my way out of bed, in time to see a flock of geese headed south and bright yellow leaves dropping from the gingko, I was grateful the night was over. I did not eat yesterday. At least, I did not eat until 6:00 p.m. which was an abbreviated affair due to the headache that ensued probably due to the fact I hadn’t had anything to drink after the spicy garlic chicken. And now I feel weak and light-headed again, which makes me want to eat.

And the moral of this story is that sometimes illness becomes cyclical. I got so weak in August and September that my body attempted to compensate last week by overeating. Said over-eating (I still insist it was the Thai, but Rachael’s having none it) got me sick enough that I did not eat until I became weak again. And for breakfast, I consumed plain Greek yogurt and oats, a Lara bar, a fig bar, and . . . the last poppy-seed muffin. The icing is so good.  

Some people never learn. 

Today: On Loan

Today my desktop shows a younger, fitter me---arms poised over my upturned head. Even with my back to the camera, you can see my head tilted up, way up. Several inches span the distance between the top of my outstretched arms and the tip of her extended toes. There above me hangs Ivy, suspended in time and mid-flight by the magic of digital photography. She gazes down at me, her smile frozen and blurred in her rapid descent. If you suspend disbelief long enough, it almost looks as if she falling from heaven. In which case, it’s a good thing someone is there to catch her. Every time I see these pictures (there is more than one, and this is not the most spectacular), even living it as I have, I can’t help wondering if this time somehow she’ll slip through my hands. That in turn reminds me how a trusting Father has dropped her to me. Have I caught her as He hoped? Will I catch her?

Today: Training Wheels

I have on my desktop a picture of Grace learning to ride her bike. You can see her biting her lip. The bike tips a bit to her left, but the blur of the tread confirms that she is airborne and a thrilled gaze of determination shines in her eyes. It is my image that draws my attention today. Hovering behind her with my arms outspread like hen wings, I trail her by a step—ready at any moment to catch her before she falls. Today, as I contemplate the joyful burden of discipleship, it feels as if He has removed the training wheels. My heart aches full at the echo of His feet behind me. And hope, just short of courage, springs up when, hovering in my peripheral vision, I catch glimpses of His outstretched hands.
 

Parenting has taught me more about my relationship with Him than any other experience. Usually it feels corrective. I find myself asking if I would want my Father to respond to my tears, my whining, or my disobedience in the way I respond to my children. Today, the memory of that experience approaches my parenting from a kinder, more oblique angle. Instead of wishing I had His wisdom and His patience with my children. I wish instead I had Grace’s conviction and joyful anticipation in my own risky ventures without training wheels. And look how far she's come.

 



Grace, three years later

An Early Birthday Present

She's sleeping as I write this. But she wasn't last night. I’m not sure what first triggered it, but recently Ivy has been waking up in the middle of the night with bad dreams. Last night, for the first time in as long as I can remember, Rachael heard her cries before me. She took the first shift. Ivy wasn’t quiet long before the tears started again and I had a chance to redeem myself. I popped up and stumbled into her bedroom. 

“I’m afraid, Daddy.” She says over and over again until I reach her. 

We pray together, and I’m surprised to hear her use complete sentences and better grammar than I’ve heard in earlier prayers and this at 1:30 a.m. Not bad. Her tears and cries return, and they are the real thing. 

She wails: “I’m afraid.” Then, standing, clutching at three stuffed animals, she asks: “Can I sleep with you, daddy?” In a former time, I may have relented at such a heart-rending request. But even in my midnight stupor, I know that kids in bed with parents does not a good long-term solution make.

“No honey,” I say. And the tears begin afresh.

“I’m afraid, Daddy.”

“What are you afraid of, sweetheart?”

“Scary monsters,” she says choking back sobs.

The other two who share a bedroom with her are awake now. Not that I expected to find them sleeping after Ivy’s siren-like outbursts, but I can detect the tell-tale signs. The steady breathing is missing. They shift subtly now and then. There was a time when the mere threat of waking slumbering siblings would have nearly unhinged me, but I am mellowing. That realization comforts me.

“I don’t want to sleep alone.” She continues.

Half-kneeling, half prostrate against the edge of her trundle, I begin singing “I Am A Child of God.” Ivy, the caboose of our five children, has a predilection for music. She can pick out a tune and retain it after hearing a song one time through. Music also sooths her more than it has our other children. Part way into the verse, she settles down. I sing all three verses partly for her, partly for me, and partly for the other two. Then, I crawl over her now relaxed form and lay beside her on top of her covers. I’m chilled, but the cool air feels good after the warmth of my bed.

Due to the lack of space and the preponderance of children in the middle bedroom, Rachael arranged Ivy’s trundle perpendicular to Grace’s bed above it. This way, the kids can hoard their toys and we can amass quantities of food storage under the now-vacant lower half of Grace’s bed. Additionally, because Ivy—almost Grace’s height—is still quite small, we can leave the trundle partially and permanently extending at right angles into the room from underneath the upper half of Grace’s bed. It also means that, lying next to Ivy, my knees nearly touch my ears.

Between the cool air from the window above and the contortions I’m forced to assume to fit beside Ivy, I know I will not sleep here. Fortunately, Ivy will. A few minutes pass and a soft rhythmic breathing issues from the bundle beside me. About the time I plan to stand up and return to my room, Carver suddenly, and without warning, springs from his bed. Without saying a word, he stumbles, jerky like, over to the edge of Ivy’s trundle. He towers groggily above us and I half expect him to collapse on top of us. He stops, wobbling still, and looks down to verify (I assume) that I am in Ivy’s bed. Confirming my presence, without a word, he totters back to his own bed.

“That’s my cue,” I think. After waiting for another minute or two to ensure that Ivy truly sleeps, I crawl out of the trundle, kiss Ivy on the cheek, touch Carver’s head gently on the way out, and navigate the darkened rooms back to my bed. Before slipping in next to Rachael, I kneel and pray that Ivy will feel comfort. It occurs to me that she’s right to be afraid of monsters. I consider myself an optimist, but there’s no denying a fair number of monsters inhabit this world. I trust that my Father watches over this family.

As I rise from my knees, I think: “How would I capture this experience if I were Michael Perry.” The words, the phrases, and thoughtful forms of expression all come easily to mind right now at a quarter to 2:00 a.m. “It won’t be so easy tomorrow morning,” I realize as Rachael sighs gently, I shift a few times and remember nothing else until 5:00 a.m.

Today: Eyes to See

Sixteen years ago last month, we met. She thought she needed help with Spanish. She could not see her strength. Could I?  

I see her now. She is running on my desktop. She’s running up a hill into the rising sun. The early morning sun electrifies the horizon mist washing out and blurring all distinction in a fiery glory. She runs resolutely, steadily toward that glory. Acceptance or hunger, which of you draw her onward? Already she’s 100 feet ahead of me. Will I ever catch her?

Is it the rain, the rain that fruitlessly yet incessantly and unyielding in its efforts to pierce my glass barrier and staunch the warm drive within, is it this rain that tempers my heart? That gives rise to the tremulous thoughts of stumbling and slipping into solitude? And what do I do with these thoughts? Do I embrace them and wallow in their stickiness? Do I reject them and heedlessly proceed knowing in Whom I trust?

He comforts me. He reminds me that her constancy runs deeper than my fears. Her depth, like the stamina on which she draws to run that hill and pull away from me, humbles me. How do I complement someone so strong in so many ways. She forgives when in my calloused pride I fail to recognize my offense. She absorbs the manifestations of my pain. Somehow, miraculously He helps her recognize the pain of others. And she listens while she runs. She can hear Him. She absorbs the pain of so many.

Wilt Thou extend to me Thy strength? I want to reach that hilltop with her. I imagine the fire. I imagine the message. I too want to hear. Can I absorb and deflect with equanimity as she does? I hunger for this. My knees and chest ache. My strength alone will not get me up this hill. Wilt Thou share Thy strength? 

Tiger Mountain on The Trance

Shortly before losing my front fender on Tiger in early April.

I’m getting this post up a little late, but it’s going up! Or so help me. Now that Tiger is open year round (with a few exceptions) and with all the crazy weather we’ve had this year, we were able to ride Tiger in mid-February. 

Dry and green at 3,000' in mid-February

Just finishing the "Fully Rigid" section of the trail in February.

And when we rode in February, the sun shone and the trails were dry. Last Saturday, April 25th, I decided to ride Tiger again. I had some "churchy opportunities" to attend to in the mid-a.m. hours. So I wound up hitting the trail around noon only to be greeted by torrential hail and snow. I plowed my steed through the slippery, snotty mess from the Peak to the parking lot at the pass. And in the process, the bike and my gear absorbed several pounds of mud in the descent. Clean up took a while. Some of my bike gear will carry Tiger Mt. detritus indefinitely.

This was not actually taken the day of the subject ride.
But conditions were identical on April 25th. 

Coming off a '06 Stumpjumper and an '07 Giant Anthem 0 (both of which rode on 26's), I will say that I was a little concerned that the Trance was just too much bike: too heavy and too much travel. I don't wonder that any longer. The Trance handles so well on the mountain. It took me a few corners to get familiar with the stretched length of the bike (as compared to my older full-suspension bikes and my two 29ers - which are hardtails and so a little shorter). But now, I appreciate the increased stability at speed, the longer suspension, the relaxed geometry and wider handlebars. 

On a side note, I have not been pleased with the brakes—of the Shimano Deore variety—on the new Giant. Very spotty performance: lots of brake drag, noticeable brake fade, and periods of no pressure. While pumping the fading lever usually does the trick, you never want to grab an fistful of emptiness when you reach for the skids while descending Tiger at speed. So the question now is: Will a brake bleed correct all the bad behavior? I think probably not. Having ridden Avid's from the beginning of the disc brake revolution, I had assumed that the Shimano brakes performed better. 

In any event, the weather has been very different this year. So far the warm weather has baked and dried our usually sloppy, west-side trails to August levels in May. I can't imagine that we're not going to pay for it in some way this summer, but happy trails until then.   

Today: Ruminations on rigid steel single-speeds, full-suspension bikes, and 29" wheels

Well, I did it. I finally got back on the steel stallion. And two very good things happened. Not only was it absolutely therapeutic to ride again, for the first time since the lung collapse three weeks earlier, but I was reminded how much I love the single speed. On occasion, when the opportunity presents itself, I pull my Redline Monocog 29er off the garage wall and kick around some of the local trails. My dad offered me the bike last November, which is a different story. At the time, I was skeptical and thought if I didn’t like the bike—and I assumed I wouldn’t—that I would just trade it in for credit at Recycled Cycles.

During last year’s gray November and early December days, I trail tested the Monocog. After that maiden voyage, I struggled to understand why anyone would ride single speed or rigid. The gearing felt tall especially on the climbs. The trail feedback left me achy and sore. But I kept with it. Actually, because I was lending my other bikes (the Giant Anthem and the Specialized Stumpjumper) to the objects of my cycle evangelism at the time, I spent a lot of time riding the single speed. This worked well because it allowed me to better equip the newbies for success by lending them the forgiving full-suspension bikes. And I loved it because the challenge of riding a fully-rigid single speed allowed me to stretch myself physically even though we were riding at a slower pace than would have otherwise represented exercise.

I learned or relearned a very interesting lesson over those first few months. Arms and legs will suspend a rider just as effectively as full suspension provided the rider rides in a standing mode. Riding in standing mode, also addresses the gearing element. The extra torque coming from a standing compensates for the lack of gears. What is interesting to me is that I can ride just as fast—if not faster—on the tight windy, Western Washington trails, as I can on any of my bikes. It’s just a different style of riding. Riding full-suspension works best in the saddle. Riding rigid and single speed is best in the stirrups. I will say this about the single speed, I do notice that my arms are far more fatigued at the end of a jaunt on the single speed then even on my hard tail. One time last year, near the end of a ride, my hands just let go, launching me over the bars and into a berm on the downhill side of a small rise.

 
I recently gifted my Stumpjumper to a good friend. And the longer I go without a full-suspension bike, the more I wonder about the legitimate application of any full suspension ride outside gnarly downhill or long-distance cross-country setting. And even that may not be entirely accurate when you consider that I have ridden Tiger Mountain and my longest cross-country rides more often on a hard tail than astride a full-suspension bike. When you roll the 29” wheels into the mix, it may just be that for my style of riding a full-suspension bike may no longer be necessary. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still lust after some fully-suspended goodness!

Today: Minor Chords

Over the years, I have experimented with the guitar. I love music, more to play it or to sing it than to listen to it. Not that I can do either. Because I can't. Still, it bothers me a little that as a society we have outsourced music to artists and musicians and thereby effectively cut ourselves off from what I feel is a key source of peace and an effective tool for coping with the challenges of life.

I began my flirtation with the guitar during high school. And while I harbored a sincere interest in giving expression to the feelings within my soul, my primary motivation for learning the guitar may have been a desire to impress members of the opposite sex. Perhaps due to lack of viable prospects on that front, this flirtation never really matured into a full-blown romance. In fact, some years later, following my mission, I sold my guitar for $50 in order to facilitate the purchase of bike parts. Even now that feels a little sacrilegious.

Fast forward a decade and a half, amidst the gloom of another Seattle winter, I realized I needed some sort of distraction. Mike Ward, a good friend and a consummate musician, lent me a guitar and some good advice on self-directed learning.

It didn't take long before I was back at the same mediocre level I "achieved" during High School and not truly advancing anywhere. The challenge for me is choosing to make time to improve, that and trying to learn strumming patterns and chords from YouTube. As they used to say in el campo misional, this approach to learning an instrument is menos eficaz.

Most nights my guitar sits beckoning in the alcove upstairs. And so with absolutely no understanding of music theory and little to no direction, I remain a three or four-chord wonder. Really, I have pretty much mastered G, C, and D, which suits me just fine because I’m a major chord kind of guy. 

Not so long ago, Rachael and I were discussing a song she liked. I remarked how I really didn’t like the sound of the minor chords in the song. Granted, I am not really sure I know what a minor chord is. Recognizing this, Rachael spent a few minutes futilely attempting to explain the beauty of minor chords in terms that someone with my unsophisticated musical sensibilities could understand.

Finally, still searching for expression, she just said, “I love them because they are meaty. I can sink my teeth into them.” The conversation moved on, but that phrase hung in the air for a few days. I ruminated on its significance and let it simmer on the crowded backburners of my mind.

A short time later we watched the movie The Hedgehog, based on the New York Times best-seller, The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. In her fictional account, Barbery masterfully weaves humor and profound kindness into an underlying tragic plot ultimately ending on a transcendent note. It kept us talking for days. Ultimately, we realized that, like minor chords, here was a movie into which we could “sink our teeth.”

Following those two experiences, Rachael and I began to detect “meaty” or “minor chord” experiences all around us. Last night, after my second full day in the hospital and with at least two more to go, my folks offered to take the kids home so that Rachael and I could talk by ourselves for a few minutes.

My children are very good children, but the sheer number of bodies combined with Carver’s so-called “special needs” and Ivy’s . . . personality . . . age . . . something (?), rendered this undertaking no small task. The kids loved it. Grandpa treated them to McDonalds. Rachael and I just sat and talked with no distractions. No food, no dishes, no vacuum, no mess (but the hose in my side), no clothes to fold, just the bubbling of my chest drain and two friends becoming reacquainted. Around 8:00 p.m., when she left, Rachael turned in the door to say ‘good-bye.’ This was a “minor chord” moment. It hurt to see her go.

Earlier in the day, when I could stand the solitary confinement no longer, I wandered down the halls chest tube dragging, hospital gown waving. In nearly all the rooms around me, lay individuals usually older and far worse off than I. Since emerging from emergency room, I have received a near continuous string of well wishes by text and e-mail. I have even received visitors a few times. 

To say that this hospital stay is a bummer, would be a gross understatement. Beyond the inconvenience of being separated from Rachael and the kids for a few nights or missing a weekend with my parents, this experience potentially represents the opening of a new, less-active chapter in my life.

With the probability of recurrence very high, my ability to endulge in coping activities like mountain biking, backpacking, and running appear very much at risk. On top of that there is the looming financial burden associated with my protracted stay in Hotel Valley Medical.

And yet, the kindness of friends, the opportunity to receive service, as much as I hate being the object of the service, tempers all this bitterness. Earlier this morning, I wrote the following in my journal: "I am so grateful for this experience and the depth and the richness it brings to life. I can’t truly explain it all. Beauty isn’t all about pleasure and happiness. Beauty is found in texture and struggle." Minor Chord experiences make life more complete. They enhance the good times and lighten the dark times.  

Today: Hospital Gowns, Law School, and Accidents

At the time of this writing, it has been almost ten years since I graduated from law school. That’s long enough to forget a lot of things, including many of my feelings about the day to day experience. I will say, however, that as I remember it, law school was generally a very happy time for our family. We didn’t have much in terms of means, but we had enough, we had good friends, we were centrally located between our families, and more than anything we had the promise of the future to motivate us. The older I get, the more I believe that true happiness is a function of hope and promise and less a function of the circumstances through which one is passing.

I sit here “festooned,” as it were, by a drafty hospital gown on a grey metal folding chair in a drab hospital room. It is a room like all hospital rooms I have visited—pink on grey cabinentry, stainless steel accents fluorescent light, hard laminate flooring—with one difference: I’m the one stuck in it. I do have company though. On the floor at my feet, ever bubbly, my vigilant chest drain chatters away. And of course, I feel inseparably connected to my new traveling companion: a half-inch diameter hose protruding from my side.

 

I suppose if I dwell on the situation too long, it might begin to feel a little like solitary confinement. But of course, that isn’t fair. The nurses visit me all the time, even in the middle of the night! No, life is good. In fact, this experience reminds me a little of law school.

The law school environment has a great deal to offer. The way I see it, if you surround yourself with distinguished professors and accomplished cohorts, you can’t help but have an exhilarating experience. Granted, at least in my case, that exhilaration mostly originated from the knowledge that I was in way over my head.

Even with all the "exhilaration," there were times in the middle of every semester where the coursework simply lost its luster. Yes, there comes a point, perhaps in any endeavor, where the days seem to roll indistinguishably together. No one can escape that, not even in the ivory tower. I’ve been feeling a little that way of late. I’m just itchin’ for a change, a move, a new challenge something to shake things up a little.

That brings me to Tom (not his true name), one of my closest friends in law school. (The fact that he chose to befriend me speaks volumes to his charity and kindness.) Anyway, Tom remains one of my favorite kind of people. Well-grounded in the faith, he shouldered heavy responsibilities in his ward while going to law school and raising a growing family. A life-long resident of Utah, Tom participated in a variety of hardy outdoor sports. He ran like a Carl Lewis. He was a backpacker, a mountain climber, and a skier of the telemark variety. With all that to keep his attention outside, Tom clearly preferred the outdoors to the classroom.

 

Not that he was a slouch academically. Tom consistently scored at the top of the class for all three years. He came to law school having pulled down a difficult degree in Philosophy. Very sharp in all respects.

 

Both Tom and I chose the Thinkpad A31.

The J. Rueben Clark Law School required that each student purchase a laptop. I suppose the administration expected that we would use the laptops to take notes and complete exams. As it happened, the year I began law school was the first year that the law school offered wireless internet throughout the building. Of course, this advent led to all sorts of unintended malarkey. People played online games and read the news. Some used instant messaging to slip answers to students getting grilled by the professors as part of the Socratic method.

Tom took school seriously and apart from reading the news occasionally left the interwebs alone. He did have one guilty pleasure, however. A true mountaineer at heart, Tom used Summitpost.org and the avalanche reports as a literal window to the outside world during class. Because the wireless could be a little spotty in the classrooms, Tom would open up a dozen or more instances of his browser each one focusing on a different peak, minimize the windows, and then—as if methodically eating an orange—slowly tick through each one over the 50-minute period.

 

The J. Reuben Clark Law School sits on the eastern edge of BYU’s campus. At least when I attended the school, Heritage Halls (on-campus housing for first-year students) was situated immediately to the north of the law school. A little farther up 900 E., still heading north, were Deseret Towers (long since gone and the married student housing). After that you’d come to the MTC and the Provo Temple.

Tom moved his family to the on-campus married housing part way through our law school experience. This made it possible for Tom to leave their white Buick LeSabre at home. Instead, Tom would coast his ill-fitting older mountain bike down the long sweeping hill from the Temple and married housing past Heritage Halls and onto the law school campus. Obviously, the trip home was a different kind of experience. After all, what goes down, must come up . . . ? 

So anyway, one day during our third year in the school, Tom came in looking a little more tired than usual and perhaps a little stiff. Out of habit, I asked him about his evening. He then proceeded to tell me how he had been hit by a car on the way home from school. Tom had been riding his bike past the Heritage Halls parking lot when a young, student plowed into him with her car. She hit him so hard that he rolled up on to the hood of the car and the bike was damaged.

I sat there completely dumbfounded. My jaw ajar, I looked at him trying to find any indication of trauma. Nothing. Tom wasn’t one to show emotion. He had a sheepish grin on his face when he told me, “All I could think, when she hit me, was ‘finally something exciting is happening to me!’” Words to live by from a wise man who has gone on to accomplish great things.

I’ve thought about those words a lot over the years. Today, as I sit in the hospital and stare out at the dripping soggy bleakness and contemplate another day of inactivity followed by a long recovery, it could be easy to mope a little. But I don’t feel that way. Yesterday, as the Urgent Care doctor—clearly enjoying something a little different—explained his diagnosis to a room full of nurses and two very engaged medic teams, Rachael turned to me and said: “Finally, something exciting is happening to us.”

 

And you know what? I was thinking the same thing. That is, at least before they carted me off to the A-car. Trouble is, I never thought to ask Tom—all those years ago—if “something exciting” was supposed to be a good thing or not.

A Revisionist's History: I Will Fly

All that talk about the Grand Caravan reminded me a little of a different vehicle: the Plymouth Volaré! I contend that the Volaré—the down-sized Chrysler station wagon of the post-embargo era—is the spiritual predecessor of the Grand Caravan. Both vehicles were designed and manufactured to more effectively haul families and gear. Both vehicles, once reaching a certain mileage, wound up among the ranks of service vehicles littering constructions sites and industrial parks the nation over. Not that this can be proven, but I have my reasons for believing it.

 

Before leaving on an LDS mission with my Grandmother in the late 80’s, my grandfather sold dish soaps and supplies to restaurants, bars, and other roadside eateries sprinkled throughout Southeast Idaho and Western Wyoming. Most summers growing up, I would spend a week or two living with Grandpa Howell in Idaho Falls, or in later years, Boise. During those early years, when Grandpa stilled lived in Idaho Falls, he would often take me with him as he ventured to scenic locales like Bone, Ririe, Swan Valley, Jackson, and Driggs. I don’t remember much about these trips. But I do remember a few things. . . .

One time grandpa bought me a sandwich at a convenience store. Still naïve enough to believe that all prepared food you pay for must be good, I consumed more than half before Grandma Howell pointed out that my sandwich was moldy. Grandpa Howell insisted the green moldy flecks were "spices." As I recall, I finished the sandwich. One time as Grandpa Howell maneuvered through a windy, dirt, “short curt” through the mountains, the car rolled a little too closely to the edge. While Amy and I stared on with mixed horror and fascination, Grandma Howell came to the rescue vocally expressing her concern.

 

The one common thread through all these experiences and many others was the Plymouth Volaré station wagon. Over a period of several years, I remember Grandpa Howell driving both a Plymouth Volaré station wagon (complete with faux wood paneling) and a Dodge Aspen sedan (a badge-engineered twin to the Volaré). I traversed many a mile ensconced in their luxurious, vinyl-swathed appointments.

 

As a career, soap salesman doesn’t rank high on the relative compensation scale. No doubt with an eye to supplementing income, Grandpa Howell would often bring home his clientele’s discarded commercial dishwashers. He would clean ‘em, repair ‘em, and resell ‘em to his clientele. Even as a boy, I admired that. At least until he would ask me to detail the stainless steel dishwashers with an S.O.S. pad in the driveway. What was truly impressive though was his ability to shoe-horn those dishwashers into the back of the Volaré. Somehow, with the tailgate up, the cavernous maw of the Volaré managed to swallow the dishwasher. I want to say that Grandpa also strapped a dishwasher to his handy, chrome-plated roof rack, but that may be entirely fictional.  

 

Born in 1929, my grandpa was the product of the depression—as if that were not already immediately apparent. Resourcefulness, pragmatism, and frugality, these things ran deep in Grandpa Howell. To carry the family through the tight times or perhaps to free up valuable income, Grandpa used a sledge to crack the concrete pad in his garage. Then he excavated a potato cellar beneath the floor, covering it with an oil-stained piece of plywood to prevent an unintended trip into the inky blackness below.

 Only once did I manage to muster the courage to descend into the pit. The cool, the dark, the moist and a spare patch of relatively bright light from the cobwebbed garage window above left a clear impression on my young mind. I vaguely recall that the potato farmers in Grandpa’s ward or stake would allow members of the Church to harvest the potato “remnants.”

I’m still not sure how I managed to swing this, since potato harvest was usually in the Fall, but I once joined Grandpa on his potato harvest. Lending the whole event an air of near criminality, all this went down at dusk. Again, reaching back into the dustbin on this one, I remember Grandpa driving his Dodge Aspen, the sedan, out into the fields. We filled the trunk and the entire backseat with potatoes. It was a stupefying volume of the potatoes. It must have weighed several hundred pounds. By the time we finished it was dark and light from the dome-lamp spilled out onto the dry dusty field. Staggering beneath the load, the Aspen’s wheels sank into their wells while the headlights shone skyward as we bounced back to town.

 
I’m not sure if there is a moral to this story. But, I will say that if any man ever deserved a pickup (before the age when the pickup became America’s best-selling vehicle for 30 years running), Grandpa Howell was that man. As the owner of a 20-year-old anemic Nissan pickup and the former owner of a Dodge Grand Caravan, perhaps I inherited an ounce of Grandpa Howell’s Depression-era Good Sense.

To The Dearly Departed: 2002 Dodge Grand Caravan

It was a handsome car, as far as prosaic family haulers go. The aggressive belt-line crease lent the car an air of lean athleticism. Our Caravan was clad in silver with black trim and privacy glass, which aged well in my eyes. Of course, Rachael will tell you that my taste in vehiculars is suspect at best. And frankly she may have a point—my taste in cars, like my taste in music, never truly advanced beyond the 90’s. On the inside, the car struggled to find that same timeless appeal. Not that Chrysler measurably fell short of the commercial standard for the age. It did not. Knobs and buttons were laid out in a thoughtful fashion. And yet. . . .

Allow me to describe it this way: when we sold the car last week, the buyer ran a CarFax right there in the front yard as the rain fell around us (a feat not even possible when the van was built 13 years ago). Falling rain, yes. CarFax, no. Turns out, our Grand Dodge Cara-wagon began life as a rental vehicle in Los Angeles. And that pretty much sums up the trouble with the car.

We got the base model mini-people-hauler, complete with navy-blue carpets and carnival-grade plastic appointments. Granted, cheap plastic and color schemes do not a bad car make; they are strictly aesthetic concerns. But, blue carpet shows dirt, which means I vacuum once a week. A task I religiously observed every Saturday. Cheap plastic scratches easily and shows wear unless episodically saturated with copious amounts of Armorall. And this we did not do.

A lover of pragmatic machines, I loved the van. Few cars can compete with a minivan for sheer practical applicability. One minute it hauls people, the next it becomes pickup with a camper. Combine with that the reasonable price tag tied to a Caravan, and suddenly you’re staring at one of the greatest wheeled values known to man.

As I remember it, shooting from the hip now, the van cost us $8500 before the credit we received for the Taurus. In the intervening seven and one half years since that purchase, we drove the van a solid 80,000 miles. Much has been made in the press about the unreliability of American automobiles as compared to their Japanese counterparts. As a young man, fiercely loyal to the country that nurtured me as a youth and continues to offer me liberties of belief and mobility, this rankled.

Now somewhat older and the owner of a ‘95 Nissan XE, my position has softened. Today, I freely acknowledge a clear disparity in build quality and many times in engineering and design. In some cases, American manufacturers simply do not build the type of vehicle I would like to drive. (Think: compact wagon, manual transmission.) And yet in most cases, at least for the last several years, I’m not sure that the disparity in quality and design merits the discrepancy in cost. The act of buying our Caravan put that proposition to the test.

Fortunately for us, the wisdom behind our position has been borne out. In rough numbers, I figure the van cost us at most $13,000 over eight years to own and to maintain (not including gas or oil changes). Since comparably aged and equipped import minivans fetch between $12k and $14k used (with more miles), I feel like we made the right decision from an economic standpoint. Okay, so I’ve waxed didactic and in so doing stand to obscure to true magic of this minivan. What is important for our purposes today is that the van was fairly reliable. When it wasn’t, I was able to handle most of the repairs on my own with a little help from my friends YouTube.

These repairs included replacing the tires, thermostat, blower fan capacitor (twice), serpentine belt, belt tensioner, rotors and pads, alternator, battery, and water pump. Mechanics helped with rear drum brakes, a couple of oil leaks, and the air conditioning (twice). All told pretty minor stuff.

It is not my purpose in writing to justify my position on purchasing American-manufactured automobiles. I offer these thoughts as a memorial to a great vehicle that schlepped our family and gear for the better part of a decade and did so economically. Ultimately, the ever-expanding size of our family (until Ivy, that is) and the growth of our children combined with our interest in gear-heavy outdoor activities (i.e., camping and cycling) led us to begin looking for a larger, more powerful, and more substantial vehicle.

We invested in roof racks, bike trays, a car carrier, a hitch, and a hitch-mounted rack. All this allowed us to extend the van’s hauling capacity as the kids grew and absorbed more of the available space in the van. And yet, the tell-tale reverse rake, wobbly cornering, and increased squealing from the back seat all portended an end of an “transportative” era for our family.
 

One day, I will spend a few minutes memorializing the reasons behind our purchase of the Caravan’s successor. But out of respect for the dearly departed, today is not that day. O Caravan for your years of faithful service we salute you. We do not blame you for your cheap plastics, periodic minor repairs, and waning handling. We lay that at the feet of Detroit with all her troubles. In short, our Dodge Grand Caravan represented a convenient, economical set of wheels for a young family. It’s great gas mileage and sliding doors will be sorely missed.

Dear Caravan, adieu.

 

 

Today: Urges

 

As a full-throated, bare-chested enthusiast of mountain cycling, and as the owner of—not one, but three—“mountain cycles,” I find myself assailed at times by these inexplicable urges. . . .

 

• Urges to seek out the nastiest, rockiest, rootiest horse trails known in these parts.
  
• Urges to leave the mountain cycles, what with their accommodating trail geometry, their knee-preserving crawling gears, and their wide tire munificence, hanging forlornly on the garage wall.
• Urges to mount my 25’s with the reflective whitewalls on the road cycle and then maneuver the road bike through the bottomless mud holes and slimy leaf-strewn obstacles on those horse trails.

That was Friday evening. The urge satisfied, the thirst slaked, I wiped down the steel tubes and hung my century-distance steed back on its hooks in the garage.

 

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.