saturated, finito

I am sitting in a living case study, an experiment to investigate how many repititions of the same cheesy Kenny G song are required to catalyze nuclear fission and psychological meltdown for customers here in the coffee shop. I finally capped off the ENGR 352 assignment… only 5.5 hours sunk into that grading episode; I have never hated anything deeper in my soul.

OK, that is a bit dramatic but you get the picture that I am not currently enjoying the grading opportunity. I could barely stand being in that class (title Advanced Mechanics of Materials) back in the day, now in a beautiful twist of karma I am reliving the same conceptual and algebraic errors via thirty-five homework packets per week.

I did, however, end up teaching a different class at the university this past week: ENGR 220, titled Engineering Dynamics. Literally stemming from the Latin root Dynamis, meaning movement, the lucky students learn all about coordinate systems, velocities, accelerations, rotations, yada yada yada. I enjoyed teaching the class but of course it’s a stress load to have over thirty students critiquing your work, especially when the majority is older than I am.

I ripped off a few Billy Crystal-esque joke lines thoughout and kept the mood light. Akin to “I can tell you’re out there, I can hear you reloading� sort of thing, I asked if they agreed or disagreed with a math ‘ninja-trick’ I pulled on the greaseboard. “You must be OK with that; else I would have gotten smacked with someone’s calculator in the back of the head.� Once they picked up on my sarcasm, which I am learning is almost TOO dry for strangers to grasp, they relaxed and the learning environment cracked wide open.

A fleeting moment, however, and I am thrown back into anonymity and representation only by my red grading pen and redundant smiley faces scribbled on their papers. Do non-traditional thirty-year-old students feel condescended by a “stupedipular� comment on occasion? Do I care?

Onto bigger and better things, I anticipated running into Lauren down here. In her truly unique style, I have not heard from her since she left for Portland on Friday morning. How does one not take it personally when someone you care deeply for neglects to call? Thus, I left her a message earlier in the day suggesting she come down to Starbucks once settled into town, and hey hey she still has not arrived. Too much time to think today. Mental time warps me during yard work, during grading, during this journal. The contrast between our styles taxes me, at times, more than it should.

Off for now, perhaps I will speed home and bake those scones I promised to Greg. Nothing says domestic like floor moppage and pastry baking in the same day. Greg either enjoys my personality or my housewife-style habits… either way I believe he is content with me back in the bachelor pad.

Misc. details:

Music Choice of the Day: The Fiery Furnaces

Website of the Day: www.StolenUnderground.com

Book of the day: All the Pretty Horses.

Diversion of the Day: Wandering aimlessly through Winco, marveling at the six-dozen finches inhabiting the rafters above the bulk food section.

here

Seems that this is my first taste of wi-fi, the wireless internet mayhem that is sweeping (OK, I am behind, past tense swept) the nation. So far it’s more than I could have dreamed…. Yank. In all actuality, this is the first time I chose to reward myself today by goofing off and surfing the net, instead of grading papers, calculating dynamics problems, or memorizing biomechanical jargon.

There you have it, those three terms summarize the last four weeks in my life, save the fifteen to twenty hours per week I spend prepping for the upcoming cycling season. A lot has passed in addition to classes and bikes, however, and I will do my best to inform.

First and foremost, my VeloNews article came out in this month (February 2005) issue. I have not even seen it yet! I knew that it would make this month's pages, but understood that the editor had to chop and reduce it to a side-bar case study due to spacial concerns. I feared that my article, already distilled and rendered down to its pure essence, would be over-chopped and make me out to be a freak, not a normal cyclist who fell into a common pitfall.

Thankfully I was mistaken, and apparently my article still has enough soul and coherency to reach out and smack some readers; evident from the emails I began and continue to receive starting last Thursday. I could not be more ecstatic about its effect those who read it: as one email respondent put it- "At first I was shocked, then empathetic, then amazed and inspired by your bravery." I am not trying to be a hero here, I just want to crack the lid a bit on what I believe to be a wicked sleeper problem. So far I am acheiving just that, and the emails continue to roll in.

Which makes me question some things, mostly regarding that of life's purpose. I am one hundred percent content with life right now: Lauren and I are doing awesome, school is plugging along at the perfect balance of challenge and reward, I am suddenly motivated to job hunt and apply my degree, and through this article my emotional health continues to ascend. But what about bikes? What about my future in this silly sport? Now that I've taken the emphasis off, diversified myself, what am I destined to acheive?

My mother raised me to believe in purpose, a God-given purpose, for my life. Whether you are 'religious' or not, whether spiritual or atheist or nihilist, the possibility of a pre-determined meaning to our existence is consoling. My mother also taught me (and tells me on a regular basis) that God would not 'dangle a carrot' in front of me and my dreams. Here then, is my fear, and the subsequent conflict with those teachings: What if my purpose in cycling was to enter the sport, progress just enough to become slightly high-profile, burn-out spectacularly in a binge/purge-fueled explosion, then tell my story and 'touch' other struggling athletes in search of perfection. Is it so wrong of me to want more? What if I am not content with only that. In a pure vein of stingy elitism, I still want to dominate this sport.

My article and its obvious affect is mind-blowing, yet the article is not enough to fulfill my personal expectations with this sport. Is it wrong to yearn for that podium opportunity, where I could look down and deliver my pre-rehearsed speech entailing the 'trancas y arrancas' (toils and hardships) I had to overcome to reach that level? Can I not feel I've paid the price and learned the hard way, now God may reward me by throwing my dreams at me full throttle? Is this justified or a gross misinterpretation of King-James Bible text? Am I still not at the right maturity to appreciate and swallow my future as it comes; if so is apathy a sign of personal growth?

Ramblings on a Sunday afternoon, subject to the cosmic forces of a male in his mid-twenties, a student on the weekend, a boyfriend on hour 78 away from his love, an aspiring world-class athlete on his rest day, and a conscious but searching scholar in the doldrums of spirituality. Here's to life and embracing what I've got, and not worrying too much about what is yet to come. Thanks.