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?

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: 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.

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.

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

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.

Today: My Secret Addiction

In spite of a Christian upbringing and the example of good parents, I have these proclivities, these tendencies. It’s no use denying it. On occasion I succumb to a weakness that would shame my parents. If the people with whom I work knew my dark secret, conditions in the office would become intolerable, and for good reason.

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 . . ."

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.