Coming home from coffee last night, sitting comfortably in a Jetta bucketseat and staring at a wicked impending storm front, I got goose bumps. One of those moments when the stark blackness contrasts against the fire-violet sunset sky and reminds you of the intangible power around us. The sight stopped me mid sentence and wiped my mind clean of its trivial thoughts.
Then I remembered sitting at Jason's house, chatting and waiting for Lauren to arrive after a long day of substituting. The sun had set on a clear afternoon, but the wind-induced creaks and strong scent of moisture indicated something substantial had invaded the empty skies. Lauren came in and we scurried out the back screen door to admire Mother Nature's ire. It took some coaxing, but we persuaded Jason to join us.
The three of us sat down, back to back to back, on the moist and overgrown grass in the yard; stared upward at the technics display of lights, shadows, crashes. From above I'm sure we looked like some strange paisley design: one bald head, one beanie-clad head, and one ball of curls, lots of white teeth and mouths agape in awe-struck silence. The moment erased time, or better yet reversed it, and we all felt like five-year-old children experiencing thunder and lightning for the first time ever.
Jason, especially, emanated the vibe of a young child. Well into his chemotherapy treatments, and far from finished, he clutched his lanky legs to his chest with frail arms and bony fingers, chuckling, laughing, then quiet. He began shivering even before Lauren did, and I was soon half-naked having passed my coat onto Jason and my sweatshirt to Lauren. I went inside to grab more cloth and they remained spine-to-spine, losing themselves in the wonder and humility only such occurrences can instill.
We all finally came in, by then well-beyond damp and ready for hot beverages and dry duds. A phone call, some TV, a meal later, we had all aged twenty-years again. Old and calloused and mature just like before the storm.
3.29.2005
3.23.2005
we'll see...
That is, we will see how long this lasts. I've finally scrambled down to a coffee shop to procure a wi-fi connection, since the existing connection in the house I'm sitting is being quirky and balking at my every attempt to access the world wide waste of time.
We'll see how long this lasts, since one eye is on this screen and one eye is blinking nevervously at my unchained road bike outside. Lots of googlies on Idaho Street, passing by and snapping lusty teeth at my shiny ride. Yet another eye on my battery (blink, blink, you have no power cord, blink, sucker, blink), and another on my watch. Yes, I am blessed with at least four eyes (eight since I wear contacts) and they are all busy.
I am housesitting this week, have been since Saturday night, and absolutely dig it. Spring break, you see, has presented me the opportunity to relax with school and amplify the cycling training... the weather is not cooperating, not adhering the the prearranged contract I've been scheming since January. Vicious undulations in temperature and precipitation create blue skies one minute and black slush-vommitting clouds the next. The plan was to slap down at least thirty hours this week of ride time, much of which with specific interval and strength-training efforts, and although I've not yet strayed from the schedule I am not going to log the next four days on an indoor trainer.
Times like these... thank God I have a coach. You see, knowing me (I started this tweaked-out behaviour in high school) I would pedal like mad inside, I would log the full thirty hours indoors. John is there to keep my head on straight and my ass from going numb on an indoor trainer, there to reveal the truth that mental freshness is directly correlated to physical prowess. Could I ride inside that much? Sure. Would I hate my bike next week, and the week after, and the week after... perhaps. Trying to avoid that means revamping this week's schedule, trading quantity for quality, and being confident in the decision.
So just me and Sierra in my rained-in training camp cottage; just up the hill from the North End of Boise in a late-eighties style box-trend casa, complete with stucco walls and huge sunrise-catching windows facing the sun's origin. Sierra is a yellow lab, probably twelve years old, likely oblivious to the fact that her owners are gone since (as we all know) labs operate solely by the whim of their bellies, and she has not missed a meal since her owners left Saturday morning. If anything she may be slightly confused that she's no longer having to guard her dog-bowl against the one and three year-old children usually running around. I myself do not prefer dog food, so Sierra is eating well and seems content.
I do feel, however, almost too out of touch with the normal Boise world. I haven't seen Greg in a few days, which sucks, and the crap-rain continues to fall and often traps me indoors. Lauren and I have done a good job of keeping in touch. She lives about three minutes from the house and drove up last night to make me Spaghetti...
I can not wait for Scott to get back. Not that I am tired of house-sitting, but since I'm watching over his dog and possessions I've discovered that we share a whole lot of common interests. He and Mallory (and perhaps the little bumpkins, too) apparently enjoy indy music as much as I do. Plus, considering that Scott is in his mid-thirties (I think?) he has an amazing collection of albums that he actually listened to before they were cool. I am a wannabe, just jumping on the indy music bandwagon, and Scott's collection is overwhelming and exciting to have access to.
Plus, his bookshelf contains all the books I've read and am anxious to read: from Thomas Pynchon to Cormac McCarthy. I had no idea that his interests lied in such areas. Can't wait to chat with him more whence he returns. In reality I'm flattered that he and Mallory trusted me with their house and pooch, I do not know either of them that well but must've come across as reasonably competent and responsible.
Turf, little girl just sampled some carpet next to me whilst running to the bathrroom. Damn loose shoe laces, every time. Remind me sometime to tell you about my sister's mishap with the laces of her high-top sneaks. I had no more than five years at the time, but I remember the incident like it was yesterday.
I'm out. Extemporaneous wanderings, ramblings and ideas from a bald cyclist on his spring break from master's engineering college. Thanks.
We'll see how long this lasts, since one eye is on this screen and one eye is blinking nevervously at my unchained road bike outside. Lots of googlies on Idaho Street, passing by and snapping lusty teeth at my shiny ride. Yet another eye on my battery (blink, blink, you have no power cord, blink, sucker, blink), and another on my watch. Yes, I am blessed with at least four eyes (eight since I wear contacts) and they are all busy.
I am housesitting this week, have been since Saturday night, and absolutely dig it. Spring break, you see, has presented me the opportunity to relax with school and amplify the cycling training... the weather is not cooperating, not adhering the the prearranged contract I've been scheming since January. Vicious undulations in temperature and precipitation create blue skies one minute and black slush-vommitting clouds the next. The plan was to slap down at least thirty hours this week of ride time, much of which with specific interval and strength-training efforts, and although I've not yet strayed from the schedule I am not going to log the next four days on an indoor trainer.
Times like these... thank God I have a coach. You see, knowing me (I started this tweaked-out behaviour in high school) I would pedal like mad inside, I would log the full thirty hours indoors. John is there to keep my head on straight and my ass from going numb on an indoor trainer, there to reveal the truth that mental freshness is directly correlated to physical prowess. Could I ride inside that much? Sure. Would I hate my bike next week, and the week after, and the week after... perhaps. Trying to avoid that means revamping this week's schedule, trading quantity for quality, and being confident in the decision.
So just me and Sierra in my rained-in training camp cottage; just up the hill from the North End of Boise in a late-eighties style box-trend casa, complete with stucco walls and huge sunrise-catching windows facing the sun's origin. Sierra is a yellow lab, probably twelve years old, likely oblivious to the fact that her owners are gone since (as we all know) labs operate solely by the whim of their bellies, and she has not missed a meal since her owners left Saturday morning. If anything she may be slightly confused that she's no longer having to guard her dog-bowl against the one and three year-old children usually running around. I myself do not prefer dog food, so Sierra is eating well and seems content.
I do feel, however, almost too out of touch with the normal Boise world. I haven't seen Greg in a few days, which sucks, and the crap-rain continues to fall and often traps me indoors. Lauren and I have done a good job of keeping in touch. She lives about three minutes from the house and drove up last night to make me Spaghetti...
I can not wait for Scott to get back. Not that I am tired of house-sitting, but since I'm watching over his dog and possessions I've discovered that we share a whole lot of common interests. He and Mallory (and perhaps the little bumpkins, too) apparently enjoy indy music as much as I do. Plus, considering that Scott is in his mid-thirties (I think?) he has an amazing collection of albums that he actually listened to before they were cool. I am a wannabe, just jumping on the indy music bandwagon, and Scott's collection is overwhelming and exciting to have access to.
Plus, his bookshelf contains all the books I've read and am anxious to read: from Thomas Pynchon to Cormac McCarthy. I had no idea that his interests lied in such areas. Can't wait to chat with him more whence he returns. In reality I'm flattered that he and Mallory trusted me with their house and pooch, I do not know either of them that well but must've come across as reasonably competent and responsible.
Turf, little girl just sampled some carpet next to me whilst running to the bathrroom. Damn loose shoe laces, every time. Remind me sometime to tell you about my sister's mishap with the laces of her high-top sneaks. I had no more than five years at the time, but I remember the incident like it was yesterday.
I'm out. Extemporaneous wanderings, ramblings and ideas from a bald cyclist on his spring break from master's engineering college. Thanks.
3.17.2005
Blink, four weeks.
Perched on the edge of a poorly-constructed 'oak' chair, sipping mud (as usual) and supporting a large coffee shop that does not need supporting, it is time to write again.
I often hear people say that they are too busy to think about things. I have seen relationships failing in which the issues get 'slid to the back burner' for months or even years due to the tedium and relentless procession of life. I used to think it was bullshit, a scapegoat for the refusal to internally cope with challenges. I am now eating my words; there is some validity to it. Life can actually crank up the intensity enough to drown out your internal thoughts and perspective. Labeled: drone.
I am busy. I am busy, like sun-up to well beyond sun-down busy, and although I am handling things fine I recognize that I am nearing the apex of my abilities... the utmost pitch of a roof that slopes drastically on the other side. I do not search for this; I do not spot a spare 20-minutes in my day and procure additional projects to keep me busy. These things happen, especially to over-achievers like myself, and the challenge lies in prioritizing and setting some personal parameters.
But I digress, I have a point that I want to make today, right now. I have not fully digested Jason's death and its significance... How? What is my excuse? See paragraph one: full-throttle schedule equals a mindless drone that does not progress emotionally. I look back at the three weeks since Jason's death in awe and horror, amazed and terrified that I so easily bury myself in my own world. My own world: much of which is irrelevant and skewed in regards to what Jason's death showed us all.
I am still sad and feel much guilt about Jason's death. I am feeling the typical post-mortem regrets of wishing I had spent more time with him, more rides together, more deep conversations, more appreciation of his character. But I am also facing a lot of grief over the present tense. Speaking to my counselor, she pointed out the shame we often feel for appreciating the good things in life and relishing in one's accomplishments... when deep down we feel obligated to grieve and dwell on the void created by a friend's death. That evokes a slew of unanswerable questions related to magnitude and duration of sadness. How much should it affect me, and for how long? Must I feel terrible that things are going well for me? Should I bow my head in a moment of reflective sadness each time I am rewarded a personal achievement?
It is easy to say "No, embrace it, Jason would have wanted it that way." Easy to say but not to believe. It is a hard balance to find: focusing on ourselves and our goals to continue progressing, but maintaining the lucid and radiant memory of a lost friend and the impact made in your life. Too much egocentrism and the memory fades, too little and you stall, which your departed companion surely would not want. If anything I am feeling too egocentric. In the past three weeks I have done little to honor his memory... even if that itself is vague and nearly indefinable.
There you have it, I am mired internally between moving forward and respecting the past. Are things going well? Hell yes. Do I miss Jason? Well yeah. What is the proper way to progress, what is the typical time frame? Questions, unanswerable.
I often hear people say that they are too busy to think about things. I have seen relationships failing in which the issues get 'slid to the back burner' for months or even years due to the tedium and relentless procession of life. I used to think it was bullshit, a scapegoat for the refusal to internally cope with challenges. I am now eating my words; there is some validity to it. Life can actually crank up the intensity enough to drown out your internal thoughts and perspective. Labeled: drone.
I am busy. I am busy, like sun-up to well beyond sun-down busy, and although I am handling things fine I recognize that I am nearing the apex of my abilities... the utmost pitch of a roof that slopes drastically on the other side. I do not search for this; I do not spot a spare 20-minutes in my day and procure additional projects to keep me busy. These things happen, especially to over-achievers like myself, and the challenge lies in prioritizing and setting some personal parameters.
But I digress, I have a point that I want to make today, right now. I have not fully digested Jason's death and its significance... How? What is my excuse? See paragraph one: full-throttle schedule equals a mindless drone that does not progress emotionally. I look back at the three weeks since Jason's death in awe and horror, amazed and terrified that I so easily bury myself in my own world. My own world: much of which is irrelevant and skewed in regards to what Jason's death showed us all.
I am still sad and feel much guilt about Jason's death. I am feeling the typical post-mortem regrets of wishing I had spent more time with him, more rides together, more deep conversations, more appreciation of his character. But I am also facing a lot of grief over the present tense. Speaking to my counselor, she pointed out the shame we often feel for appreciating the good things in life and relishing in one's accomplishments... when deep down we feel obligated to grieve and dwell on the void created by a friend's death. That evokes a slew of unanswerable questions related to magnitude and duration of sadness. How much should it affect me, and for how long? Must I feel terrible that things are going well for me? Should I bow my head in a moment of reflective sadness each time I am rewarded a personal achievement?
It is easy to say "No, embrace it, Jason would have wanted it that way." Easy to say but not to believe. It is a hard balance to find: focusing on ourselves and our goals to continue progressing, but maintaining the lucid and radiant memory of a lost friend and the impact made in your life. Too much egocentrism and the memory fades, too little and you stall, which your departed companion surely would not want. If anything I am feeling too egocentric. In the past three weeks I have done little to honor his memory... even if that itself is vague and nearly indefinable.
There you have it, I am mired internally between moving forward and respecting the past. Are things going well? Hell yes. Do I miss Jason? Well yeah. What is the proper way to progress, what is the typical time frame? Questions, unanswerable.
2.21.2005
surreal
A solid two weeks since my last post, and fifteen days since any real substance. Here I had all kinds of quirky observations I wanted to write down, interesting and bizarre occurrences in my restricted bubble of life.
Things change; all anecdotes are now erased or overcast by a substantial happening. Saturday February 20, 2005, my dear friend Jason Broome passed away due to lymphoma complications. Surrealism describes the haze I am under; but honestly, for the first time in my life does the term 'surreal' carry such dismal connotation.
I met Jason in the Fall of 1999 at Boise State University. He was one of the 150+ students enrolled in Physics 211 with me, and one of the meager three dozen or so that actually showed up to lectures. We did not have much in common at first, maybe a shared amusement with Dr. Willy Smith who rubbed his stomach, spoke some garbled resemblance of Arabic and answered questions with questions during lecture. Nonstop laughs. Else, we seemed to be on very different paths: he smoked, drank, was majoring in GeoScience or GeoPhysics (which I, in my egotism, didn't even bother to ask); I was nineteen years old, an engineering over-achiever and racer-boy.
He saw no such social boundaries with me or anyone else in this world. During class, outside of class, he learned that I raced bicycles and always used it as an ice breaker. I also found that he was beyond capable of every topic we covered in Physics, and I must admit that our early friendship was fortified through sharing and comparing homework solutions. I recognized his genius, and his generosity, but in true Jason Broome fashion he would never accept praise without praising me in return. More on that later.
Sophomore year passed, then junior and finally senior year. Throughout my mechanical engineering mayhem our occasional encounters fueled a subtly blooming friendship, and we started creating excuses to spend time together. He would often pass by the study table in the Engineering Center just to say hello, even though it was a stiff twenty-minute walk out of his way. The topic of cycling never lost its affinity between us; in fact since we'd met he had quit smoking, quit boozing, and lost the equivalent weight of a third grader. I remember him telling me that he'd finally had enough and decided to quit abusing his body. His diligence and tenacity drew much respect from me and everyone else he knew. Again, he would never acknowledge praise, or when he did it was considerably downplayed in comparison to another's achievements. Not insecurity, just a refusal to be highlighted.
We rode a few times and I learned of his cycling aspirations. I was (and still am) quite interested in physiology, nutrition, and sport, and he flattered my ego by barraging me with questions, then praise and admiration, then more questions. He was a sponge for any and all types of information, and for some reason he valued my input. He wanted me to be his coach, and though I had little to offer other than an objective perspective, I agreed. Soon after, however, I went to Spain. And like my many other relationships here on the mainland, ours slid to the back burner. It didn't matter. That is, was, the amazing thing about Jason. No maintenance required, just one-hundred percent loyalty, encouragement, and support regardless of the circumstances.
Two more years passed: our interaction undulating but the relationship unwavering despite the months sometimes spent without contact. Around Christmas of 2003, on the verge of my trip to Arizona and the eminent emotional meltdown, I recommitted to coaching him. I felt pretty phony in my status: I being bulimic and spiraling out of control and he trusting my input. I went to AZ, Cali, and cracked hard before coming home. He offered me a place to stay, just like that, with he and Christy and baby Philip. Just like that. He had always alluded to an extra room for me, but this was serious considering I was trying to restructure my life and redefine my persona. He was there, selflessly offering everything he could.
Within a month's time Jason went in to see a family doctor regarding some strange breathing difficulties and chest pains, and in a week the cancer diagnosis snapped its jaws around him and all of us with him.
This is where things get fuzzy... Not in my memory, but in life's motives and purpose. Jason battled his lymphoma for months and months: radiation, chemo, more chemo, more chemo. You could ask Jason any day about his outlook, his perspective, and it was always overflowing with optimism. It was not naivete, it was refusal to dwell on the shit he was dealt.
I remained living with he, Christy, and the Little Man until August, in which time he asked me about my status at least four-times as much as I questioned his. Even in times of devastating sickness and weakness he made me feel like a rockstar. Me? Who was I, who am I compared to him?
Jason will be remembered. Wow, those words seem so... hollow, and do not convey how strongly his image shines in my mind. He taught me and so many others the true definition of love: shoving aside yourself to feel another's emotions. Jason could feel your pain, your joy, your fear and your confidence even better than you could, well before you could. He took it too far though, as I do not think he ever fully realized his own magnitude in this world. If I can apply just a fraction of his character in my own life...
I will always think of you and always miss you Jason. I'll make damn sure Phillip knows what a man of integrity you were, and he'll be hearing stories about you as long as I'm alive. Thank you for teaching us all so much, and revealing the significant in life. Goodbye.
Things change; all anecdotes are now erased or overcast by a substantial happening. Saturday February 20, 2005, my dear friend Jason Broome passed away due to lymphoma complications. Surrealism describes the haze I am under; but honestly, for the first time in my life does the term 'surreal' carry such dismal connotation.
I met Jason in the Fall of 1999 at Boise State University. He was one of the 150+ students enrolled in Physics 211 with me, and one of the meager three dozen or so that actually showed up to lectures. We did not have much in common at first, maybe a shared amusement with Dr. Willy Smith who rubbed his stomach, spoke some garbled resemblance of Arabic and answered questions with questions during lecture. Nonstop laughs. Else, we seemed to be on very different paths: he smoked, drank, was majoring in GeoScience or GeoPhysics (which I, in my egotism, didn't even bother to ask); I was nineteen years old, an engineering over-achiever and racer-boy.
He saw no such social boundaries with me or anyone else in this world. During class, outside of class, he learned that I raced bicycles and always used it as an ice breaker. I also found that he was beyond capable of every topic we covered in Physics, and I must admit that our early friendship was fortified through sharing and comparing homework solutions. I recognized his genius, and his generosity, but in true Jason Broome fashion he would never accept praise without praising me in return. More on that later.
Sophomore year passed, then junior and finally senior year. Throughout my mechanical engineering mayhem our occasional encounters fueled a subtly blooming friendship, and we started creating excuses to spend time together. He would often pass by the study table in the Engineering Center just to say hello, even though it was a stiff twenty-minute walk out of his way. The topic of cycling never lost its affinity between us; in fact since we'd met he had quit smoking, quit boozing, and lost the equivalent weight of a third grader. I remember him telling me that he'd finally had enough and decided to quit abusing his body. His diligence and tenacity drew much respect from me and everyone else he knew. Again, he would never acknowledge praise, or when he did it was considerably downplayed in comparison to another's achievements. Not insecurity, just a refusal to be highlighted.
We rode a few times and I learned of his cycling aspirations. I was (and still am) quite interested in physiology, nutrition, and sport, and he flattered my ego by barraging me with questions, then praise and admiration, then more questions. He was a sponge for any and all types of information, and for some reason he valued my input. He wanted me to be his coach, and though I had little to offer other than an objective perspective, I agreed. Soon after, however, I went to Spain. And like my many other relationships here on the mainland, ours slid to the back burner. It didn't matter. That is, was, the amazing thing about Jason. No maintenance required, just one-hundred percent loyalty, encouragement, and support regardless of the circumstances.
Two more years passed: our interaction undulating but the relationship unwavering despite the months sometimes spent without contact. Around Christmas of 2003, on the verge of my trip to Arizona and the eminent emotional meltdown, I recommitted to coaching him. I felt pretty phony in my status: I being bulimic and spiraling out of control and he trusting my input. I went to AZ, Cali, and cracked hard before coming home. He offered me a place to stay, just like that, with he and Christy and baby Philip. Just like that. He had always alluded to an extra room for me, but this was serious considering I was trying to restructure my life and redefine my persona. He was there, selflessly offering everything he could.
Within a month's time Jason went in to see a family doctor regarding some strange breathing difficulties and chest pains, and in a week the cancer diagnosis snapped its jaws around him and all of us with him.
This is where things get fuzzy... Not in my memory, but in life's motives and purpose. Jason battled his lymphoma for months and months: radiation, chemo, more chemo, more chemo. You could ask Jason any day about his outlook, his perspective, and it was always overflowing with optimism. It was not naivete, it was refusal to dwell on the shit he was dealt.
I remained living with he, Christy, and the Little Man until August, in which time he asked me about my status at least four-times as much as I questioned his. Even in times of devastating sickness and weakness he made me feel like a rockstar. Me? Who was I, who am I compared to him?
Jason will be remembered. Wow, those words seem so... hollow, and do not convey how strongly his image shines in my mind. He taught me and so many others the true definition of love: shoving aside yourself to feel another's emotions. Jason could feel your pain, your joy, your fear and your confidence even better than you could, well before you could. He took it too far though, as I do not think he ever fully realized his own magnitude in this world. If I can apply just a fraction of his character in my own life...
I will always think of you and always miss you Jason. I'll make damn sure Phillip knows what a man of integrity you were, and he'll be hearing stories about you as long as I'm alive. Thank you for teaching us all so much, and revealing the significant in life. Goodbye.
2.06.2005
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
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.
1.18.2005
In-between
So suddenly you realize that a while has passed and that the thousands, trillions of individuals tuned into your blog are on the verge of packing up their attentive baggage and heading to some other rambling waste of literary time.
But wait! I'm here, promise. Things are well, and as often the case I am occupied and content enough not to "need to write". Need or no need, it is time for an update.
1) School rules: As in- school is a blast this semester. I'm scheduled for two classes, Biomechanics and Advanced Dynamics, and the necessary diligence to the subject matter is already beyond last semester's classes. Dynamics is a whole lot of vector calculus with crazy inertial terms thrown in, and Biomechanics is (so far) a crash Anatomy and Physiology course with prosthetics thrown in. Both will require some concentration but I'm eager to do so.
2) Independent Study: I am approved and underway with my continuously variable / infinite gear ratio bicycle transmission design. It's in the early stages, so I won't show too many of my cards until I have something substantial to share. In the meantime I've some sassy ideas floating through my mind and at least one is bound to mature.
3) Housing: Yay! Moving back in with Greg Kelley! Apparently, despite bulimia's damnedest attempts to sabotage the relationship, he's willing to open his doors to me once again. Over the years, through all the poop, we have retained a mutual respect and admiration of each other, and the tried-and-true living environment is something I'm looking forward to. With the thought and impending date to move out, however, comes many emotions regarding Lauren and Drew and I. Tough issues or not, I've enjoyed living there and will really miss so many details.
Yeah yeah yeah, I will still be spending a lot of time at Lauren's, probably even passing the night there every now and then, but officially I will be located at Greg's and that brings changes. The challenge for Lauren and I now is to view my relocation as a healthy independent choice, not one that reflects or affects our time together. In short, I need a different living environment, and it is crucial that Lauren doesn't take that 100% personally. We both subscribe to the "too slow better than too fast" idea with relationships, and right now this move may scale things back but is not aimed at all toward our relationship. Ideally this will take the quantity of time and distill it down to the quality time. I will keep you posted.
Hmm... what else? I took out my first student loan this semester. My first tasted of debt... and so far the immediate alleviation of financial stress outweighs the eminent re-payment stress. For example, I just ponied up the cash for my own laptop. Yes, yes! Soon I'll have the means to work on-the-fly, facilitating my independent research, university work, and of course blogging my brains out. The computer is 'being modified' by HP as we speak, should be here in a few days. Sweet.
Leg is good, damn good. I was told that fractures rarely heal that fast... I guess there's a lot to be said for being healthy and balanced. Plus, much credit is due to my time in Texas: between the vacation location and the tenacity of my grandmother to keep me from walking too much I healed rapidly. I also attribute the healing to the two grams of Calcium I pop (and have popped for three years) before bed. The fracture capped itself off wonderfully: in the x-ray the fortified bone closely resembled one of the calcium pills I ingest. Good good.
So I'm back on the bike, back in the weight room (tenderly for now). The beauty, and I will end on this thought, is that I didn't lose much fitness or experience much weight fluctuation during my injury. That is truly indicative that bulimia's yo-yoing effect on health and body mass may be loosening its grip. What a load off.
Anyway, there you are for now. Like I mentioned I will soon have my own laptop, my own sqwack-box, so get ready! For now I am off to school, dig it.
But wait! I'm here, promise. Things are well, and as often the case I am occupied and content enough not to "need to write". Need or no need, it is time for an update.
1) School rules: As in- school is a blast this semester. I'm scheduled for two classes, Biomechanics and Advanced Dynamics, and the necessary diligence to the subject matter is already beyond last semester's classes. Dynamics is a whole lot of vector calculus with crazy inertial terms thrown in, and Biomechanics is (so far) a crash Anatomy and Physiology course with prosthetics thrown in. Both will require some concentration but I'm eager to do so.
2) Independent Study: I am approved and underway with my continuously variable / infinite gear ratio bicycle transmission design. It's in the early stages, so I won't show too many of my cards until I have something substantial to share. In the meantime I've some sassy ideas floating through my mind and at least one is bound to mature.
3) Housing: Yay! Moving back in with Greg Kelley! Apparently, despite bulimia's damnedest attempts to sabotage the relationship, he's willing to open his doors to me once again. Over the years, through all the poop, we have retained a mutual respect and admiration of each other, and the tried-and-true living environment is something I'm looking forward to. With the thought and impending date to move out, however, comes many emotions regarding Lauren and Drew and I. Tough issues or not, I've enjoyed living there and will really miss so many details.
Yeah yeah yeah, I will still be spending a lot of time at Lauren's, probably even passing the night there every now and then, but officially I will be located at Greg's and that brings changes. The challenge for Lauren and I now is to view my relocation as a healthy independent choice, not one that reflects or affects our time together. In short, I need a different living environment, and it is crucial that Lauren doesn't take that 100% personally. We both subscribe to the "too slow better than too fast" idea with relationships, and right now this move may scale things back but is not aimed at all toward our relationship. Ideally this will take the quantity of time and distill it down to the quality time. I will keep you posted.
Hmm... what else? I took out my first student loan this semester. My first tasted of debt... and so far the immediate alleviation of financial stress outweighs the eminent re-payment stress. For example, I just ponied up the cash for my own laptop. Yes, yes! Soon I'll have the means to work on-the-fly, facilitating my independent research, university work, and of course blogging my brains out. The computer is 'being modified' by HP as we speak, should be here in a few days. Sweet.
Leg is good, damn good. I was told that fractures rarely heal that fast... I guess there's a lot to be said for being healthy and balanced. Plus, much credit is due to my time in Texas: between the vacation location and the tenacity of my grandmother to keep me from walking too much I healed rapidly. I also attribute the healing to the two grams of Calcium I pop (and have popped for three years) before bed. The fracture capped itself off wonderfully: in the x-ray the fortified bone closely resembled one of the calcium pills I ingest. Good good.
So I'm back on the bike, back in the weight room (tenderly for now). The beauty, and I will end on this thought, is that I didn't lose much fitness or experience much weight fluctuation during my injury. That is truly indicative that bulimia's yo-yoing effect on health and body mass may be loosening its grip. What a load off.
Anyway, there you are for now. Like I mentioned I will soon have my own laptop, my own sqwack-box, so get ready! For now I am off to school, dig it.
1.11.2005
Mid-Flight #2
Poop-coffee refill, excellent.
Interesting: the ground below, dry and drawn like the swirled head of a fresh-pulled cappacino, presents a network of white polka-dots interconnected at random by ribbons of yellow dirt. Each dot only accessed by a single road: picture dendrites speckled with round polyps at the ends. Beautiful from this angle, though at ground/eye level the story may be different.
Perhaps, at that ground level, the dirt rumbles anxiously wishing to regurgitate buried radioactive waste, or trembles in trepidation of incoming mortar shells from amateur navy pilots on training runs. The spots, curiously random yet surely intentional, must serve some purpose. Here in the desert so distant from human life I can't imagine the purpose is benign.
Wait, a water-source. Dozens (hundreds?) of metallic edifices cluster around the only river in sight, a sickly black vein scratched into the crust straight enough to appear man-made. The buildings so reflective and the water so murky it resembles balled-tinfoil grapes bound around a diseased, charred vine. Further down the vine, the blackness widens and spreads into a large, green-black kidney bean, also tinselled with grapes at its perimeter.
Then: nothing. This plane waits for no one, no thing. Dry expanses veiled by a dingy sheet of gray tacked securely from horizon to horizon. I am left to my immediate surroundings and the eight individuals within my four-foot radius.
Gangsta Boy's special lady, properly clad to represent all of her Latina roots (and then some), steals away his headphones. For two eternal seconds the cabin swells with hard-core rap music. Little is discernible through the bass distortion besides 'bee-otch' and 'nigga', before she seals the speaker shells around her ears (hoop J-Lo style earrings dangling at the bottoms). Nigga and Bee-otch are soon emulated from G-Boy's mouth as he rips back the cones, replacing them on his skull to drown out his Latina's reprimands and the rest of the world with it.
The sheet rips and a green-brown slice of agricultural Swiss-cheese flashes through the 'clouds'. This soot-cotton looks too dirty to be normal clouds, and too thin to offer precipitation. I, like most children, harbored fantasies of running atop the clouds, speculating a texture akin to cotton and warm snow. But these... the most imaginative child would be unable to fantasize properties other than mud, beef stew, exhaust, for the air below.
Crap-coffee refill, stewardess? Surely the attendants are near... in the back, front, prepping Ritz and P-nut snacks and vigorously muddling black tar to dissolve oil, corn syrup solids, misc. chemicals to make the 'coffee' taste like sugary-butter instead of poly-vinyl-chloride.
Interesting: the ground below, dry and drawn like the swirled head of a fresh-pulled cappacino, presents a network of white polka-dots interconnected at random by ribbons of yellow dirt. Each dot only accessed by a single road: picture dendrites speckled with round polyps at the ends. Beautiful from this angle, though at ground/eye level the story may be different.
Perhaps, at that ground level, the dirt rumbles anxiously wishing to regurgitate buried radioactive waste, or trembles in trepidation of incoming mortar shells from amateur navy pilots on training runs. The spots, curiously random yet surely intentional, must serve some purpose. Here in the desert so distant from human life I can't imagine the purpose is benign.
Wait, a water-source. Dozens (hundreds?) of metallic edifices cluster around the only river in sight, a sickly black vein scratched into the crust straight enough to appear man-made. The buildings so reflective and the water so murky it resembles balled-tinfoil grapes bound around a diseased, charred vine. Further down the vine, the blackness widens and spreads into a large, green-black kidney bean, also tinselled with grapes at its perimeter.
Then: nothing. This plane waits for no one, no thing. Dry expanses veiled by a dingy sheet of gray tacked securely from horizon to horizon. I am left to my immediate surroundings and the eight individuals within my four-foot radius.
Gangsta Boy's special lady, properly clad to represent all of her Latina roots (and then some), steals away his headphones. For two eternal seconds the cabin swells with hard-core rap music. Little is discernible through the bass distortion besides 'bee-otch' and 'nigga', before she seals the speaker shells around her ears (hoop J-Lo style earrings dangling at the bottoms). Nigga and Bee-otch are soon emulated from G-Boy's mouth as he rips back the cones, replacing them on his skull to drown out his Latina's reprimands and the rest of the world with it.
The sheet rips and a green-brown slice of agricultural Swiss-cheese flashes through the 'clouds'. This soot-cotton looks too dirty to be normal clouds, and too thin to offer precipitation. I, like most children, harbored fantasies of running atop the clouds, speculating a texture akin to cotton and warm snow. But these... the most imaginative child would be unable to fantasize properties other than mud, beef stew, exhaust, for the air below.
Crap-coffee refill, stewardess? Surely the attendants are near... in the back, front, prepping Ritz and P-nut snacks and vigorously muddling black tar to dissolve oil, corn syrup solids, misc. chemicals to make the 'coffee' taste like sugary-butter instead of poly-vinyl-chloride.
Raw Imagery - Mid-flight #1
To my left: Gangsta boy, Adidas-clad w/ massive headphones, blue-green prison ink half-concealed by a long-sleeve undershirt, gothic lettering on the nape of his neck oddly resembles a bar-code from this angle and distance.
To my immediate left: Four ounces of instant coffee with granular sugar and cream (still visible afloat) pinning down a mapkin (cartographic wipe) and stained with the turbulence-induced overflow.
Below: El Paso, Lubbock, Odessa perhaps? Ants... grids of roadways and reservoirs that spark memories of abused toy trucks in a dirty childhood. I do not know my altitude; 4500 meters maybe, high enough that forests emulate mold growth on the wheat-roll crusted earth. The terrain shifts dryer and dryer as we speed over Texas, into New Mexico: outcroppings of ferritic rock appear like leprous blotches of eczema, replacing any and all vegetation.
So concludes twenty-one days visit with those I love, and so begins visits with those I also love, allbeit friends vs. family. The trip overall was, well, amazing but three weeks is a lot of time to be away from home living out of a duffel bag. This is a good time to reflect, and my mood is such that I am noticing beauty in everything around me.
To my immediate left: Four ounces of instant coffee with granular sugar and cream (still visible afloat) pinning down a mapkin (cartographic wipe) and stained with the turbulence-induced overflow.
Below: El Paso, Lubbock, Odessa perhaps? Ants... grids of roadways and reservoirs that spark memories of abused toy trucks in a dirty childhood. I do not know my altitude; 4500 meters maybe, high enough that forests emulate mold growth on the wheat-roll crusted earth. The terrain shifts dryer and dryer as we speed over Texas, into New Mexico: outcroppings of ferritic rock appear like leprous blotches of eczema, replacing any and all vegetation.
So concludes twenty-one days visit with those I love, and so begins visits with those I also love, allbeit friends vs. family. The trip overall was, well, amazing but three weeks is a lot of time to be away from home living out of a duffel bag. This is a good time to reflect, and my mood is such that I am noticing beauty in everything around me.
1.04.2005
Nylonbaum
And so the days continue to pass, I pretending not to but secretly stealing glances at the calendar, the clock, the minute and secondhands. I return to Boise in 72 hours, give or take, and though feeling somewhat guilty I know my return occurs just in time.
I often encounter this feeling with/against family members. Back in the 2002-2003 holiday season, while trying frantically to repair my VW to head for warmer southern climates, I spent an entire month living with my mother and Bob. For a couple weeks, maybe fifteen days, I absorbed the hospitality and felt like a guest in their home. Sure, I had a bed and a room and even my own pair of slippers by the door, but the house was not mine. Soon I felt that I was a burden, that some unspoken tension existed between Bob and I and that I was cramping his style and consuming his resources.
The shift always occurs, but is this shift my mental hang-up or a change in the host's attitude? One of the main nettles here in Texas is my lifestyle versus theirs; but am I worrying more than necessary about my habits and characteristics? The fact that I eat differently, sleep differently, exercise... I fear they feel me disapproving of their differences. I do not, do I? Consequently I begin to feel like a quirky pest, a guest that has overstayed the welcome and unknowingly comes across as pompously oblivious to their feelings.
Now imagine, if you will, this emotional preoccupation thrown in with a raging eating disorder. Thank God that is out of the way. I literally was consuming Bob's resources, and the perpetual scramble to cover my tracks and hide my vice further exacerbated the guilt. This is the first duration in years I have spent with family/friends and been fully up-front and healthy, thus I am surprised that my feeling of impedance, of molestance, is still an issue.
Though we find little diversions each day to 'mix up the routine', my daily schedule consists of: a poopy six hours of sleep, breakfast/coffee, 1.0 hour ride on the indoor recumbent, breakfast, read, lunch, read, nap, read, solitaire, blog, dinner, 1.5 hour ride on the indoor recumbent, read. Repeat. The aforementioned diversion usually slips in somewhere between the afternoon read-read session.
Yesterday, por ejemplo, we made it out on the boat. 67 casts later I managed to hook a 3-inch lunker that wrapped itself around a nylon rope buoy. We barely got him off in time, and I almost had to explain tears to my grandfather over a baby cold-blooded pisces. To continue this nylon train of thought, that afternoon we stripped the house of all Christmas decorations. It's been years since I've participated in decorating the tenanbaum, so de-decorating (corating, then?) the artificial nylon-baum was in the same ballpark. There's always something melancholic yet refreshing gained from stripping the house of its holiday essence.
Tonight at dinner, whilst scraping the fried breading off of my flounder, my grandfather took the opportunity to express his disagreement with my diet. I explained that my loathing of fried foods was both mental and palatal: I know their nutritional (de)value and also think they taste bad. Although it did not seem heated, he soon left the table and retreated to his 'den', feigning interest in the news or some OLN duck-hunting show. That, I suppose, is my motivation for writing tonight. My motivation for voicing my feelings. Am I inadvertently holding those around me to a standard, do my actions create guilt in those I love? Do I seem judgmental? Time to go home.
I often encounter this feeling with/against family members. Back in the 2002-2003 holiday season, while trying frantically to repair my VW to head for warmer southern climates, I spent an entire month living with my mother and Bob. For a couple weeks, maybe fifteen days, I absorbed the hospitality and felt like a guest in their home. Sure, I had a bed and a room and even my own pair of slippers by the door, but the house was not mine. Soon I felt that I was a burden, that some unspoken tension existed between Bob and I and that I was cramping his style and consuming his resources.
The shift always occurs, but is this shift my mental hang-up or a change in the host's attitude? One of the main nettles here in Texas is my lifestyle versus theirs; but am I worrying more than necessary about my habits and characteristics? The fact that I eat differently, sleep differently, exercise... I fear they feel me disapproving of their differences. I do not, do I? Consequently I begin to feel like a quirky pest, a guest that has overstayed the welcome and unknowingly comes across as pompously oblivious to their feelings.
Now imagine, if you will, this emotional preoccupation thrown in with a raging eating disorder. Thank God that is out of the way. I literally was consuming Bob's resources, and the perpetual scramble to cover my tracks and hide my vice further exacerbated the guilt. This is the first duration in years I have spent with family/friends and been fully up-front and healthy, thus I am surprised that my feeling of impedance, of molestance, is still an issue.
Though we find little diversions each day to 'mix up the routine', my daily schedule consists of: a poopy six hours of sleep, breakfast/coffee, 1.0 hour ride on the indoor recumbent, breakfast, read, lunch, read, nap, read, solitaire, blog, dinner, 1.5 hour ride on the indoor recumbent, read. Repeat. The aforementioned diversion usually slips in somewhere between the afternoon read-read session.
Yesterday, por ejemplo, we made it out on the boat. 67 casts later I managed to hook a 3-inch lunker that wrapped itself around a nylon rope buoy. We barely got him off in time, and I almost had to explain tears to my grandfather over a baby cold-blooded pisces. To continue this nylon train of thought, that afternoon we stripped the house of all Christmas decorations. It's been years since I've participated in decorating the tenanbaum, so de-decorating (corating, then?) the artificial nylon-baum was in the same ballpark. There's always something melancholic yet refreshing gained from stripping the house of its holiday essence.
Tonight at dinner, whilst scraping the fried breading off of my flounder, my grandfather took the opportunity to express his disagreement with my diet. I explained that my loathing of fried foods was both mental and palatal: I know their nutritional (de)value and also think they taste bad. Although it did not seem heated, he soon left the table and retreated to his 'den', feigning interest in the news or some OLN duck-hunting show. That, I suppose, is my motivation for writing tonight. My motivation for voicing my feelings. Am I inadvertently holding those around me to a standard, do my actions create guilt in those I love? Do I seem judgmental? Time to go home.
1.03.2005
persona
I am… on vacation:
Tivo commander, GameBoy conqueror,
Hot beverage junky, Internet floozy,
Napmaster, novella peruser.
I am… grateful:
Gratis travel, fancy new shoes,
Borrowed time, southern-soul-submersion.
Knitting world inductee, amateur rummy athlete,
Appreciated cared for acclaimed respected admired
I am… satiated, ready:
Less humidity, broad culture,
Frosted windows, familiar grub,
(Damn) good espresso, open arms.
Local calls friends accessibility disclosure western mindset
I am a cornucopia of contradictory emotions.
I am content but concerned,
Confident but apprehensive,
Proud but awkward, embarrassed,
Resolved but vacillating.
I am secure yet wishing for change,
Assured of independence yet sensitive of paternal origin,
I am pensive but diverted.
I am a Hemmingway wannabe, a terrible lyricist, a klepto of literary material.
I am rambling
I am bored, done.
I am off like a prom dress.
Tivo commander, GameBoy conqueror,
Hot beverage junky, Internet floozy,
Napmaster, novella peruser.
I am… grateful:
Gratis travel, fancy new shoes,
Borrowed time, southern-soul-submersion.
Knitting world inductee, amateur rummy athlete,
Appreciated cared for acclaimed respected admired
I am… satiated, ready:
Less humidity, broad culture,
Frosted windows, familiar grub,
(Damn) good espresso, open arms.
Local calls friends accessibility disclosure western mindset
I am a cornucopia of contradictory emotions.
I am content but concerned,
Confident but apprehensive,
Proud but awkward, embarrassed,
Resolved but vacillating.
I am secure yet wishing for change,
Assured of independence yet sensitive of paternal origin,
I am pensive but diverted.
I am a Hemmingway wannabe, a terrible lyricist, a klepto of literary material.
I am rambling
I am bored, done.
I am off like a prom dress.
12.28.2004
Seasoned
Day, let’s see, day twelve with my grandparents on my stint here in Texas. Perhaps I inadvertently sensed my stay’s midpoint and chose to retrospect (and anticipate) on the visit.
Christmas came and went in literary buildup/climax/resolution fashion. Aided by music from Kenny Rogers, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and a gaggle of easy listening giants, we partook in the standard modern American traditions of food and festivities.
Two nights before Christmas, on the eve of Christmas Eve, I flexed my culinary muscles and gifted my grandparents with an eclectic home-cooked meal. Baked salmon- soy, honey, and fresh ginger marinade; roasted root vegetables- turnips, parsnips, carrots and baby red potatoes in rosemary and thyme olive oil; and rice- coconut curried Jasmine grains with raisins. Sounds fancy, but anyone that reads this whom I have cooked for knows these are tried-and-true classics in Calvin’s repertoire. I only wished for acceptance from my grandparents’ palates. Thankfully they enjoyed all three items. I could not have asked for more!
I spent Christmas Eve on the telephone with family and friends and trying my hand at Rummikub with grandma and grandpa. My grandparents are both ex-NASA employees and thus veritable machines at all math-based games. Rummy may not seem too challenging mathematically, but keen arithmetic combined with rapid logical skills makes my grandparents stone-faced assassins of the card table.
My grandmother Milly retaliated with her culinary expertise on Christmas day by baking foods that I, as a relatively inexperienced and unmarried college student, have never tackled. Turkey, cranberry sauce, corn-pudding, herbed stuffing, and sweet potatoes blanketed the table to create a traditional yet Southern feast. We all ate well and are still reaping the leftovers at least once a day.
Holding true to our habit of traveling into Crockett nearly every day, we’ve made the twelve-mile drive five times in the past week. From groceries, to movies, to more groceries and hair appointments there is always a reason to hop in the truck. I say hop, though of course I mean gimp up to the door, throw my crutches in the backseat, and hoist myself up into the cab.
The injury is going quite well. Actually, if not for the memory of the X-rayed fracture I would assume nothing is wrong. I began exercising in earnest five days ago with Pilates and stretching exercises, then via doctor/physical therapist recommendations began pedaling on the stationary recumbent bicycle in the living room. How sweet it was to crack a sweat again, even if it took wearing a beanie and Polartec top while sitting near the fire! Over the subsequent days I have upped the resistance and duration and now am nearly at full time and exertion. Riding places less load on my fracture than standing; I feel no pain.
Funny, though I know that I have progressed so much in regards to self-esteem and personal identity, I still place a lot of emotional health on exercising daily. Now, however, the zeal seems less aesthetic and more chemical, I simply feel better if I get in some aerobic activity. Is that healthy or not? I believe that it’s OK to need to feel driven, and if I’m unchallenged in other aspects I fall to exercising for relief. Heck, there are worse vices and coping mechanisms in the world, and I feel like my motivations are sound.
Tomorrow we head off to Houston for a slew of touristy events; I’ll be certain to write afterwards. Today I’m pre-cooking some homemade meatballs for a dinner with family on Thursday… feeding four children and five adults is something new to me so I need luck on my side.
Calvin
PS, In divine timing, I finished reading Anna Karenina on Christmas morning. The Tolstoy novel concludes on a rather spiritual note, in which Levin realizes that his own over analysis and scientism stood in the way of a relationship with God. He always had the answers but was mired in the wrong questions. It was a good way to start Christmas day.
Christmas came and went in literary buildup/climax/resolution fashion. Aided by music from Kenny Rogers, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and a gaggle of easy listening giants, we partook in the standard modern American traditions of food and festivities.
Two nights before Christmas, on the eve of Christmas Eve, I flexed my culinary muscles and gifted my grandparents with an eclectic home-cooked meal. Baked salmon- soy, honey, and fresh ginger marinade; roasted root vegetables- turnips, parsnips, carrots and baby red potatoes in rosemary and thyme olive oil; and rice- coconut curried Jasmine grains with raisins. Sounds fancy, but anyone that reads this whom I have cooked for knows these are tried-and-true classics in Calvin’s repertoire. I only wished for acceptance from my grandparents’ palates. Thankfully they enjoyed all three items. I could not have asked for more!
I spent Christmas Eve on the telephone with family and friends and trying my hand at Rummikub with grandma and grandpa. My grandparents are both ex-NASA employees and thus veritable machines at all math-based games. Rummy may not seem too challenging mathematically, but keen arithmetic combined with rapid logical skills makes my grandparents stone-faced assassins of the card table.
My grandmother Milly retaliated with her culinary expertise on Christmas day by baking foods that I, as a relatively inexperienced and unmarried college student, have never tackled. Turkey, cranberry sauce, corn-pudding, herbed stuffing, and sweet potatoes blanketed the table to create a traditional yet Southern feast. We all ate well and are still reaping the leftovers at least once a day.
Holding true to our habit of traveling into Crockett nearly every day, we’ve made the twelve-mile drive five times in the past week. From groceries, to movies, to more groceries and hair appointments there is always a reason to hop in the truck. I say hop, though of course I mean gimp up to the door, throw my crutches in the backseat, and hoist myself up into the cab.
The injury is going quite well. Actually, if not for the memory of the X-rayed fracture I would assume nothing is wrong. I began exercising in earnest five days ago with Pilates and stretching exercises, then via doctor/physical therapist recommendations began pedaling on the stationary recumbent bicycle in the living room. How sweet it was to crack a sweat again, even if it took wearing a beanie and Polartec top while sitting near the fire! Over the subsequent days I have upped the resistance and duration and now am nearly at full time and exertion. Riding places less load on my fracture than standing; I feel no pain.
Funny, though I know that I have progressed so much in regards to self-esteem and personal identity, I still place a lot of emotional health on exercising daily. Now, however, the zeal seems less aesthetic and more chemical, I simply feel better if I get in some aerobic activity. Is that healthy or not? I believe that it’s OK to need to feel driven, and if I’m unchallenged in other aspects I fall to exercising for relief. Heck, there are worse vices and coping mechanisms in the world, and I feel like my motivations are sound.
Tomorrow we head off to Houston for a slew of touristy events; I’ll be certain to write afterwards. Today I’m pre-cooking some homemade meatballs for a dinner with family on Thursday… feeding four children and five adults is something new to me so I need luck on my side.
Calvin
PS, In divine timing, I finished reading Anna Karenina on Christmas morning. The Tolstoy novel concludes on a rather spiritual note, in which Levin realizes that his own over analysis and scientism stood in the way of a relationship with God. He always had the answers but was mired in the wrong questions. It was a good way to start Christmas day.
12.21.2004
Zee Humans
“Yah, zee humane body is a strange thing. We fall off dee building, we are fine. Zen, we eat cooked speenach and chip zee tooth.�
-Gwenyth
I agree, Gwenyth. En route to Houston aboard SWA flight 679, thanks to a plane change in Las Vegas Nevada, I met German-born-turned-Vegas-high-roller Gwyneth. Even seated one could see she failed to stand more than five feet tall, and her attire and various souvenir knick-knacks revealed she often traveled internationally. As an awarded micro-biologist employed by the government (tiz top seecret, I can not reeveel), the conversation should have revolved around her work and lifestyle; but my circumstances fueled the dialogue.
I have a brace on; full leg, yes, but bendable at the knee and compact enough to fit between airplane ‘seats’. On Wednesday December 15, T-minus 42 hours till departure for Texas, a car hit me: pedaling home from the university around two p.m., a car shot out of a parking lot and side-swiped me into traffic. The irony is almost too great! Read Twisted Metal written on December 8 where I describe a horrific cycling accident and the human spirit revealed in such a situation.
This scenario failed to rekindle my trust in the human species. I picked myself up off the road and stepped down onto a sloppy left knee, immediately indicative of torn ligaments or a fractured lower leg. Hopping, then, on my right leg onto a nearby patch of grass, I looked over at the mid-thirties female driver, dressed in scrubs and apparently commuting to/from work, expecting her to get out and frantically offer help. Instead, in true “the world is lost and our species are egotistical ass-wipes fashion�, she lit her cigarette and stared blankly ahead of her. I, clutching my leg, began refocusing on the scene around me: my bike in the middle of the road, cars returning to speed and honking at each other in late-for-work frustration, and the sound of sirens already approaching.
Someone called it in, apparently, but it was not the driver. Only after an onlooker pulled my Redline out of the road, after someone pushed a cell-phone to my ear to call anyone of relation or acquaintance, did she exit the vehicle (Kia, silver, crappy) and strike up a conversation. “You have cell phone, you have?�…. Great. Any and every anti-white-bread-American fiber inside me inflamed at her obviously foreign accent. The police showed, took a report, plopped me in the ambulance and shuttled off to the ER.
To make a long story short, three hours at the ER with Lauren and her mother revealed a Tibial Plateau fracture, non-displaced, on the outside of my left knee. No torn ACL, no surgery required, and little internal bleeding. Shattered femurs sometimes turn fatal and internal bone shrapnel requires hours of surgery to fish out… I am lucky. Lauren and her mother, Mary, helped pass the time and replace some of my disillusion with mankind: we tried desperately to keep the mood light and the topics varied, and Lauren gently massaged my feelings about the impending Christmas/Training venture in Texas. She knew the potentially negative precipice my mind was balanced upon, though between her, Mary and a moderate dose of Vicadin I staved the depression.
First off, I did not even consider canceling my trip to Texas. If anything the distance from my bicycle facilitates being crutch-bound. I still fully subscribe to the idea “things happen for a reason�, so maybe I was meant to catch more fish, read more books, and of course spend more time with my family here in the South.
It is still a jagged pill to swallow, primarily since I have witnessed a phenomenal build-up of fitness in anticipation of three weeks pedaling in 68-degree Texas “winter� sunshine. To my left, through the large bay-windows overlooking Houston County Lake, the sun’s glare reflects off glassy-smooth water, dissecting itself through dense Oak leaves before invading my retina. Curse this beautiful weather with its summer breezes, pinched Fall-like sunshine, and cornucopia of rich, moist, living scents.
So here I am. Surely I would enjoy two weeks away from home and visiting family, though I fear that three weeks without diversion might push it. I may be happy that third week, but I do not want my grandparents fearing my boredom… I suppose that the “Calvinisms� in me try and always will try to make everyone happy. Thanks for reading. Wish me luck in healing; I view this as a great opportunity for my health and lifestyle to reveal itself through unprecedented recovery.
Regards-
Calvino
-Gwenyth
I agree, Gwenyth. En route to Houston aboard SWA flight 679, thanks to a plane change in Las Vegas Nevada, I met German-born-turned-Vegas-high-roller Gwyneth. Even seated one could see she failed to stand more than five feet tall, and her attire and various souvenir knick-knacks revealed she often traveled internationally. As an awarded micro-biologist employed by the government (tiz top seecret, I can not reeveel), the conversation should have revolved around her work and lifestyle; but my circumstances fueled the dialogue.
I have a brace on; full leg, yes, but bendable at the knee and compact enough to fit between airplane ‘seats’. On Wednesday December 15, T-minus 42 hours till departure for Texas, a car hit me: pedaling home from the university around two p.m., a car shot out of a parking lot and side-swiped me into traffic. The irony is almost too great! Read Twisted Metal written on December 8 where I describe a horrific cycling accident and the human spirit revealed in such a situation.
This scenario failed to rekindle my trust in the human species. I picked myself up off the road and stepped down onto a sloppy left knee, immediately indicative of torn ligaments or a fractured lower leg. Hopping, then, on my right leg onto a nearby patch of grass, I looked over at the mid-thirties female driver, dressed in scrubs and apparently commuting to/from work, expecting her to get out and frantically offer help. Instead, in true “the world is lost and our species are egotistical ass-wipes fashion�, she lit her cigarette and stared blankly ahead of her. I, clutching my leg, began refocusing on the scene around me: my bike in the middle of the road, cars returning to speed and honking at each other in late-for-work frustration, and the sound of sirens already approaching.
Someone called it in, apparently, but it was not the driver. Only after an onlooker pulled my Redline out of the road, after someone pushed a cell-phone to my ear to call anyone of relation or acquaintance, did she exit the vehicle (Kia, silver, crappy) and strike up a conversation. “You have cell phone, you have?�…. Great. Any and every anti-white-bread-American fiber inside me inflamed at her obviously foreign accent. The police showed, took a report, plopped me in the ambulance and shuttled off to the ER.
To make a long story short, three hours at the ER with Lauren and her mother revealed a Tibial Plateau fracture, non-displaced, on the outside of my left knee. No torn ACL, no surgery required, and little internal bleeding. Shattered femurs sometimes turn fatal and internal bone shrapnel requires hours of surgery to fish out… I am lucky. Lauren and her mother, Mary, helped pass the time and replace some of my disillusion with mankind: we tried desperately to keep the mood light and the topics varied, and Lauren gently massaged my feelings about the impending Christmas/Training venture in Texas. She knew the potentially negative precipice my mind was balanced upon, though between her, Mary and a moderate dose of Vicadin I staved the depression.
First off, I did not even consider canceling my trip to Texas. If anything the distance from my bicycle facilitates being crutch-bound. I still fully subscribe to the idea “things happen for a reason�, so maybe I was meant to catch more fish, read more books, and of course spend more time with my family here in the South.
It is still a jagged pill to swallow, primarily since I have witnessed a phenomenal build-up of fitness in anticipation of three weeks pedaling in 68-degree Texas “winter� sunshine. To my left, through the large bay-windows overlooking Houston County Lake, the sun’s glare reflects off glassy-smooth water, dissecting itself through dense Oak leaves before invading my retina. Curse this beautiful weather with its summer breezes, pinched Fall-like sunshine, and cornucopia of rich, moist, living scents.
So here I am. Surely I would enjoy two weeks away from home and visiting family, though I fear that three weeks without diversion might push it. I may be happy that third week, but I do not want my grandparents fearing my boredom… I suppose that the “Calvinisms� in me try and always will try to make everyone happy. Thanks for reading. Wish me luck in healing; I view this as a great opportunity for my health and lifestyle to reveal itself through unprecedented recovery.
Regards-
Calvino
12.08.2004
Twisted Mettle
The weather is crap today, super heavy rain with no chance of abating. I woke up and took Lauren to her subbing job and was thus granted access to a vehicle. Near the university, I saw a few cops lined up placing cones and waving people around what appeared to be a nasty accident. It was hard to see through the raindrops but I could see only one car involved... and one bicycle. I passed the black Cutlas and a few yards further passed a crumpled 1980's Peugeot road bike. Neither the driver nor the cyclist were to be seen.
I went into the nearby Jackson's to fuel up and grab some caffeinated sugar-water (they try to call it coffee) and asked the clerk if she knew the details of the accident. "Yeah," she says, "some idiot bike rider was in the middle of the lane wearing full black clothing and no lights." She chuckled. "Idiot didn't have any lights on, I don't feel bad for him a bit." Jaded low-life gas-selling chain-smoking yellow-toothed overweight goonie ape hooker. She has no clue, even if that guy was in the wrong, he was still someone and no one deserves that. I took my crap-coffee and bid her a good day.
The day has continued on this interesting streak. I completed and will display my acoustics design in, oh, five minutes. Quite the crunch-time scenario involving impossible-to-machine PVC pipe and burns from a hot glue gun. Plus, I got into a heated (yet frivolous) discussion with my roomies back home. Blah. More to come. I'm feeling vocal today but am out of time. Stay tuned.
I went into the nearby Jackson's to fuel up and grab some caffeinated sugar-water (they try to call it coffee) and asked the clerk if she knew the details of the accident. "Yeah," she says, "some idiot bike rider was in the middle of the lane wearing full black clothing and no lights." She chuckled. "Idiot didn't have any lights on, I don't feel bad for him a bit." Jaded low-life gas-selling chain-smoking yellow-toothed overweight goonie ape hooker. She has no clue, even if that guy was in the wrong, he was still someone and no one deserves that. I took my crap-coffee and bid her a good day.
The day has continued on this interesting streak. I completed and will display my acoustics design in, oh, five minutes. Quite the crunch-time scenario involving impossible-to-machine PVC pipe and burns from a hot glue gun. Plus, I got into a heated (yet frivolous) discussion with my roomies back home. Blah. More to come. I'm feeling vocal today but am out of time. Stay tuned.
12.06.2004
Monday mayhem
Ah, the beginning of another week. I am counting the days for the semester to end... not because school is a bear, but because I am anxiously awaiting my holiday vacation down in Texas. I leave December 17 and won't return for three weeks... lots of time to visit the g-parents and ride my bike in the Texas climate.
Overall I am feeling well, though I have caught myself being a bit irritable this past week. A combination of inadequate sleep, substantial training load, and end-of-semester engineering projects is pushing my mental envelop. Lauren and I managed to get out of town on Friday afternoon, which was a relief, but the respite was halted when I desired to return for training and schoolwork here in Boise. That of course created a minor rift in our romantic excursion, but we survived it and learned to appreciate the time.
I was thinking last night about my living situation, and am pleased that things are going well. Ironically, Drew recently gained acceptance into the University of Idaho and will begin school on January 12, 2005. I started adding up the days and realized I only have ten days left sharing a house with her and Lauren... I leave for Texas then she leaves for school before my return. When I get back Lauren and I will have the house together for another two weeks before we go our individual ways and move somewhere else. I am sad about the situation, I don't want things to change now! However, Lauren and I agree that living together (just her and I) would be possible but too 'marital' for now, so we will pursue other options: most likely I with Dave and Ron, she with ??? We will see how that all plays out.
For now I am off to lift, then ride, then sit in a lab and drill holes in a PVC pipe (silly acoustical design project, don't ask!). The weather is sunny despite local weathermen predictions and I get to pedal 'a fuera' (outside), sweet.
Overall I am feeling well, though I have caught myself being a bit irritable this past week. A combination of inadequate sleep, substantial training load, and end-of-semester engineering projects is pushing my mental envelop. Lauren and I managed to get out of town on Friday afternoon, which was a relief, but the respite was halted when I desired to return for training and schoolwork here in Boise. That of course created a minor rift in our romantic excursion, but we survived it and learned to appreciate the time.
I was thinking last night about my living situation, and am pleased that things are going well. Ironically, Drew recently gained acceptance into the University of Idaho and will begin school on January 12, 2005. I started adding up the days and realized I only have ten days left sharing a house with her and Lauren... I leave for Texas then she leaves for school before my return. When I get back Lauren and I will have the house together for another two weeks before we go our individual ways and move somewhere else. I am sad about the situation, I don't want things to change now! However, Lauren and I agree that living together (just her and I) would be possible but too 'marital' for now, so we will pursue other options: most likely I with Dave and Ron, she with ??? We will see how that all plays out.
For now I am off to lift, then ride, then sit in a lab and drill holes in a PVC pipe (silly acoustical design project, don't ask!). The weather is sunny despite local weathermen predictions and I get to pedal 'a fuera' (outside), sweet.
11.20.2004
Feelings, sha la la la
Dawson's Coffee House is a madhouse this morning. Take the normal freaky-high volume of Saturday caffeine addicts and throw in the new crowd of hot-cocoa-hungry kids downtown to see the holiday parade. There are all kinds of new faces in here: lots of fathers drug in to pacify screaming kids and antsy housewives. I think I've heard the phrase "Ameri-what-oh?, what the hell is that? Don't you have folgers or something?". Good times.
I am feeling quite a few things this morning, all in a positive light. I was scheduled to meet up with a group this morning over at Flying M to discuss the evils of consumerism and corporations... I guess they all had riots or boycotts to attend because no one showed. Water off the proverbial duck, however, and I relocated to my favorite java junction here on 8th street.
Looking out onto the street, seeing the thick-steam exhalations from mouths outdoors, I am reminded of the chilly holiday seasons, and the subconscious association of climate with family memories. We (the family) used to embrace post-Thanksgiving consumerism and venture up to Boise or over to Twin to get Christmas shopping done, and this morning I am recalling hordes of silly details about those trips. I remember the terrible dichotomy my father faced with shopping malls: must go there for selection but hate the crowds and waiting. The definition of immature ADD, my dad could never stand in line for more than ten minutes before throwing merchandise on the floor and spectacularly stomping out the door. Still, I and my sister and mother really looked forward to those trips, and the onset of winter promised at least one chance to get out of Elko and see the bigger waters of Boise, Salt Lake, or Twin Falls.
There is some sadness associated with that, of course, but the feeling is fleeting and soon replaced with anticipation of the future. I leave this Wednesday for Elko, to which I'll travel with my sister and return with my mother. The time at home will be so rejuvenating and I'm hungry for the family time. Strange feelings this morning.
I am feeling quite a few things this morning, all in a positive light. I was scheduled to meet up with a group this morning over at Flying M to discuss the evils of consumerism and corporations... I guess they all had riots or boycotts to attend because no one showed. Water off the proverbial duck, however, and I relocated to my favorite java junction here on 8th street.
Looking out onto the street, seeing the thick-steam exhalations from mouths outdoors, I am reminded of the chilly holiday seasons, and the subconscious association of climate with family memories. We (the family) used to embrace post-Thanksgiving consumerism and venture up to Boise or over to Twin to get Christmas shopping done, and this morning I am recalling hordes of silly details about those trips. I remember the terrible dichotomy my father faced with shopping malls: must go there for selection but hate the crowds and waiting. The definition of immature ADD, my dad could never stand in line for more than ten minutes before throwing merchandise on the floor and spectacularly stomping out the door. Still, I and my sister and mother really looked forward to those trips, and the onset of winter promised at least one chance to get out of Elko and see the bigger waters of Boise, Salt Lake, or Twin Falls.
There is some sadness associated with that, of course, but the feeling is fleeting and soon replaced with anticipation of the future. I leave this Wednesday for Elko, to which I'll travel with my sister and return with my mother. The time at home will be so rejuvenating and I'm hungry for the family time. Strange feelings this morning.
11.12.2004
House of the Rising Sun
With a title like that, you must be expecting some pretty philosophical scribbling; some insight, some revelations, some optimism. Well hey, that's not the case. It just happened to be the last song I heard on my way out the door this afternoon... which meant I was whistling it when my front tire washed out on my way across a damp bridge down by the university.
Now my elbow is raw and my wool pants, previously a forest green, appear identical to the weather-treated lumber they kissed when I went down. Nothing like a good wake up when you don't need to be woken up. The day has been funky anyway, and I didn't need that to supplement the crappiness.
Things are on the mend hopefully, and I'm really trying to reverse this downward-spiraling toilet-bowl mind-set. Holly is swinging by in a few to grab coffee and possibly a dollar movie with me. Maybe we can get there late so we miss all the consumerism-fueled previews and advertisements.
That is another thing thing feeding the fire this afternoon. I am already seeing Christmas banners and decorations up in businesses all over town. Do you think I see "Celebrate Jesus's Birthday"? Hardly... even the coffee cup I'm sipping out of has a fat Santa asking me to buy Starbucks for my loved ones this year. I am going to send out some propaganda from Adbusters.org to all my friends and loved ones to try and relay my thoughts about this embracing of consumerism. Buy more live more love more or else? If we really need an excuse to purchase, why blend it or mask it behind the facade of a prophetic celebration?
Breath. Just, chill. I've been in knots since watching ER with Lauren last night. Like I needed that: dude comes in off the street, drunker than Captain Morgan, passes out on the ER floor and proceeds to vomit blood from internal bleeding. The writers of ER proceeded to detail Mr. Morgan's battle with alcoholism: from widowed husband, to dysfunctional father, to incarcerated murderer. And now, here he is, dying from Liver/Kidney/Esophagal meltdown but finally realizing all his sins and wanting to make amends with his long-since alienated son.
I stayed calloused and unemotional until Lauren probed into how I could relate it to my own father. Shit. Leave it up to primetime TV to touch the nerves. I read Anna Kerinina for an hour before being able to drift off to sleep.
Holly is here. Take care.
Now my elbow is raw and my wool pants, previously a forest green, appear identical to the weather-treated lumber they kissed when I went down. Nothing like a good wake up when you don't need to be woken up. The day has been funky anyway, and I didn't need that to supplement the crappiness.
Things are on the mend hopefully, and I'm really trying to reverse this downward-spiraling toilet-bowl mind-set. Holly is swinging by in a few to grab coffee and possibly a dollar movie with me. Maybe we can get there late so we miss all the consumerism-fueled previews and advertisements.
That is another thing thing feeding the fire this afternoon. I am already seeing Christmas banners and decorations up in businesses all over town. Do you think I see "Celebrate Jesus's Birthday"? Hardly... even the coffee cup I'm sipping out of has a fat Santa asking me to buy Starbucks for my loved ones this year. I am going to send out some propaganda from Adbusters.org to all my friends and loved ones to try and relay my thoughts about this embracing of consumerism. Buy more live more love more or else? If we really need an excuse to purchase, why blend it or mask it behind the facade of a prophetic celebration?
Breath. Just, chill. I've been in knots since watching ER with Lauren last night. Like I needed that: dude comes in off the street, drunker than Captain Morgan, passes out on the ER floor and proceeds to vomit blood from internal bleeding. The writers of ER proceeded to detail Mr. Morgan's battle with alcoholism: from widowed husband, to dysfunctional father, to incarcerated murderer. And now, here he is, dying from Liver/Kidney/Esophagal meltdown but finally realizing all his sins and wanting to make amends with his long-since alienated son.
I stayed calloused and unemotional until Lauren probed into how I could relate it to my own father. Shit. Leave it up to primetime TV to touch the nerves. I read Anna Kerinina for an hour before being able to drift off to sleep.
Holly is here. Take care.
11.11.2004
A month?
Has it really been more than a month since I've last typed? Not good, not good at all, considering this thing is supposed to be set up as an online vent/therapy session. That either means I have experienced exceptional mental clarity and a seamless lifestyle... or I've botteled everything up.
The whole idea was to scribble daily notes from my relentlessly undulating frame of mind... but in that regard the amplitude has waned considerably. Not so many highs, not so many lows, but a general sense of progress and more confidence in the future.
Today was a wet-chamois day on the bike. Accuweather.com claims a temp of 42 degrees here in the valley. 42 degrees and raining makes for a short ride, typically, though today I managed to log an hour and a half. Jason Dykstra, a team mate and riding buddy, would call my ride today a Gilligan Ride, ie no plan or purpose or time frame; just feeling it out and podunking along. I swung by to see Remi, simply curious whether I would find him alive or not since it has been so long. He is, of course, alive. It is always good and troubling to see him all at once. I hope that he finds some balance someday, not because I doubt his cycling abilities, but because I know the dangers of placing all your eggs in one basket. It is akward to not have anything except riding to talk about, and with Remi we often find dead spots in the conversation.
Things back at the Ranch are tense, but that is all part of living with roommates and living with a significant other. I've never been in the situation I am in now, so there is no retrospection to help me decide the correct way to act or feel. I sometimes wish there was a neutral third party overwatching my life and relationships, helping to sort out when I overstep and when I am stepped on. I won't embellish the relationship topic, but things are OK just hard.
Blah. Most boring entry to date. Hard to feel creative when the weather is so gloomy. Hard to do anything but eat, sleep, and drink hot beverages when the weather is gloomy. Seattle has a whole lot of damn good restaurants and four billion coffee shops for that very reason. Class is calling for me, unfortunately.
The whole idea was to scribble daily notes from my relentlessly undulating frame of mind... but in that regard the amplitude has waned considerably. Not so many highs, not so many lows, but a general sense of progress and more confidence in the future.
Today was a wet-chamois day on the bike. Accuweather.com claims a temp of 42 degrees here in the valley. 42 degrees and raining makes for a short ride, typically, though today I managed to log an hour and a half. Jason Dykstra, a team mate and riding buddy, would call my ride today a Gilligan Ride, ie no plan or purpose or time frame; just feeling it out and podunking along. I swung by to see Remi, simply curious whether I would find him alive or not since it has been so long. He is, of course, alive. It is always good and troubling to see him all at once. I hope that he finds some balance someday, not because I doubt his cycling abilities, but because I know the dangers of placing all your eggs in one basket. It is akward to not have anything except riding to talk about, and with Remi we often find dead spots in the conversation.
Things back at the Ranch are tense, but that is all part of living with roommates and living with a significant other. I've never been in the situation I am in now, so there is no retrospection to help me decide the correct way to act or feel. I sometimes wish there was a neutral third party overwatching my life and relationships, helping to sort out when I overstep and when I am stepped on. I won't embellish the relationship topic, but things are OK just hard.
Blah. Most boring entry to date. Hard to feel creative when the weather is so gloomy. Hard to do anything but eat, sleep, and drink hot beverages when the weather is gloomy. Seattle has a whole lot of damn good restaurants and four billion coffee shops for that very reason. Class is calling for me, unfortunately.
10.04.2004
Getaway, Get Away.
It's been a bit since I've written, just staying occupied I suppose. It took me a full two weeks to finally kick that cold. Although I'm still fighting some serious nose crud I think that it's all attributable to the pm in the air (engineering nerdspeak: particulate matter, ie pollen and pollution).
About two weeks ago, during our bouts with individual colds, Lauren and I decided on a trip down to Elko over the weekend of October second. Five days before departure Lauren changed her mind, justifiably so, citing a need to unwind on her own and soul-search a little. Initially I felt sad and somewhat confused, but after some thought decided that I, too, might benefit from a solo trip down to my homeland. The strange part was using her family's truck... I have a hard time borrowing things from my own family members, and although I'm close with Lauren's mom and dad I still felt awkward using the little red truck. I got over it though once I hit the road. For a beater old Nissan with just shy of 150,000 miles it runs decently; almost reminded me of zipping home in the Metro back in the old days.
I got to Elko on Friday afternoon and logged a nap in the familiar too-short bed in 'my bedroom' at the folks' house. From the moment I arrived I could feel myself relaxing... like tight piano wires inside of me twanging loose in the familiar surroundings. My mom was still at work but left behind the traditional Post-It note on my bed along with some clean towels. She'll never give up hope that I start showering more frequently...
Over the next two days we had a lot of time to visit, a lot of time to think. My mom is a coffee junkie like I am (though she's managed to switch primarily to decaf while I'm still 'chasing the caffeine dragon') so we hit every java-hut at least once during my visit. It's not the coffee, you know, just the reason to sit down and spill thoughts. My mom is a great friend and more. She knows that we can share things on many levels, both friendship and kinship. My sister doesn't swill the mud like we do, but we found our own reasons to sit and catch up.
Saturday morning I watched Jacob play football in what is his first season of tackle football. Yep, big kid stuff. He's a big kid for his age- tall that is, but looks awfully outweighed against the kids one or two years older on the field. He's figuring it out though and made the last tackle of the game. The sweet part is that he has so much fun out there, much more than I ever did in team sports. From 30-yards away we could see him, from the free-safety position, extending his Gatorade-stained tongue out at us. Sweet, how many kids could make faces while on a football field?
Mattie's Bar and Grill, the local 'hot-spot' in Elko, charges $1.00 per game for billiards. My good friend Steve Crapo was bartending and hooking us up with some beverages, however, so we were able to afford a few games. For a Saturday evening it was pretty dead in there, which I relished. I don't particularly enjoy running into old friends at the bars in Elko, nor do I enjoy inhaling so much tobacco smoke. The scant crowd improved my visit with my pool opponent, my sis. The game itself reminded us both of my father, which of course drew out a lot of sighs, head-shaking, some cuss-words, and a general sick feeling in my gut.
My father is an extremely skilled billiard-boy, a skill he's never seemed to lose nor grow modest in, regardless of time or chemical saturation. Apparently Mr. James Allan is residing once again in Elko, Nevada, and I was prepared to run into him (and anticipating it). Never happened, though, which I can attest did not affect me one way or the other. The last time my sister saw him he was spun out worse than ever: grinding teeth, darting, wild eyes, busy hands and fingers, sweaty hair and skin. An oh-so-upsetting feature is his smell, she said; sour and indicative of a whole lot of time away from soap and water. Despite all that I was prepped to see him.
The visit concluded with a short drive up Lamoille canyon to witness Fall's effect on the plants and animals there. Bob, who was stuck working all weekend, had made the drive a few days earlier and said "the colors are unbelievable, unbelievable. Wait till you see them, unbelievable." He didn't lie a bit, I saw colors that even Crayola would have a hard time naming. Try: Golden Fizz Yellow, Grenadine Red, Mantis Green perhaps. It looked as if humungous drops of paint, hundreds of yards across, had fallen from the sky and splashed imaginary and impossible colors in clumps across the canyon walls and the valley floor. Groves of canary-yellow aspen butted up against opposing thickets of citron-green birch and elm. I have oftenseen the confetti-like muddle of leaves on trees in other areas during the Fall season, but there in the canyon entire fields flaunted shades I'd never seen in my life.
Soul-clearing, for sure. You know, throughout the Bible the wilderness is mentioned as a place where man goes to find God; to escape the bustle of culture and life and open his ears to something higher. Even Jesus went on a little 'outing' for 40 days to really connect with God. There is no coincidence there. Standing a gasp with a yawning canyon before you, spilling colors and sounds and smells so alien to society, you find something more.
I wanted to tell all about the drive home and my reconnection with Lauren, renewed with appreciation for her presence in my life. But for now I'm riding the high of that memory in the canyon. I'm tired of riding, I'm going for a hike.
Regards-
calvino
About two weeks ago, during our bouts with individual colds, Lauren and I decided on a trip down to Elko over the weekend of October second. Five days before departure Lauren changed her mind, justifiably so, citing a need to unwind on her own and soul-search a little. Initially I felt sad and somewhat confused, but after some thought decided that I, too, might benefit from a solo trip down to my homeland. The strange part was using her family's truck... I have a hard time borrowing things from my own family members, and although I'm close with Lauren's mom and dad I still felt awkward using the little red truck. I got over it though once I hit the road. For a beater old Nissan with just shy of 150,000 miles it runs decently; almost reminded me of zipping home in the Metro back in the old days.
I got to Elko on Friday afternoon and logged a nap in the familiar too-short bed in 'my bedroom' at the folks' house. From the moment I arrived I could feel myself relaxing... like tight piano wires inside of me twanging loose in the familiar surroundings. My mom was still at work but left behind the traditional Post-It note on my bed along with some clean towels. She'll never give up hope that I start showering more frequently...
Over the next two days we had a lot of time to visit, a lot of time to think. My mom is a coffee junkie like I am (though she's managed to switch primarily to decaf while I'm still 'chasing the caffeine dragon') so we hit every java-hut at least once during my visit. It's not the coffee, you know, just the reason to sit down and spill thoughts. My mom is a great friend and more. She knows that we can share things on many levels, both friendship and kinship. My sister doesn't swill the mud like we do, but we found our own reasons to sit and catch up.
Saturday morning I watched Jacob play football in what is his first season of tackle football. Yep, big kid stuff. He's a big kid for his age- tall that is, but looks awfully outweighed against the kids one or two years older on the field. He's figuring it out though and made the last tackle of the game. The sweet part is that he has so much fun out there, much more than I ever did in team sports. From 30-yards away we could see him, from the free-safety position, extending his Gatorade-stained tongue out at us. Sweet, how many kids could make faces while on a football field?
Mattie's Bar and Grill, the local 'hot-spot' in Elko, charges $1.00 per game for billiards. My good friend Steve Crapo was bartending and hooking us up with some beverages, however, so we were able to afford a few games. For a Saturday evening it was pretty dead in there, which I relished. I don't particularly enjoy running into old friends at the bars in Elko, nor do I enjoy inhaling so much tobacco smoke. The scant crowd improved my visit with my pool opponent, my sis. The game itself reminded us both of my father, which of course drew out a lot of sighs, head-shaking, some cuss-words, and a general sick feeling in my gut.
My father is an extremely skilled billiard-boy, a skill he's never seemed to lose nor grow modest in, regardless of time or chemical saturation. Apparently Mr. James Allan is residing once again in Elko, Nevada, and I was prepared to run into him (and anticipating it). Never happened, though, which I can attest did not affect me one way or the other. The last time my sister saw him he was spun out worse than ever: grinding teeth, darting, wild eyes, busy hands and fingers, sweaty hair and skin. An oh-so-upsetting feature is his smell, she said; sour and indicative of a whole lot of time away from soap and water. Despite all that I was prepped to see him.
The visit concluded with a short drive up Lamoille canyon to witness Fall's effect on the plants and animals there. Bob, who was stuck working all weekend, had made the drive a few days earlier and said "the colors are unbelievable, unbelievable. Wait till you see them, unbelievable." He didn't lie a bit, I saw colors that even Crayola would have a hard time naming. Try: Golden Fizz Yellow, Grenadine Red, Mantis Green perhaps. It looked as if humungous drops of paint, hundreds of yards across, had fallen from the sky and splashed imaginary and impossible colors in clumps across the canyon walls and the valley floor. Groves of canary-yellow aspen butted up against opposing thickets of citron-green birch and elm. I have oftenseen the confetti-like muddle of leaves on trees in other areas during the Fall season, but there in the canyon entire fields flaunted shades I'd never seen in my life.
Soul-clearing, for sure. You know, throughout the Bible the wilderness is mentioned as a place where man goes to find God; to escape the bustle of culture and life and open his ears to something higher. Even Jesus went on a little 'outing' for 40 days to really connect with God. There is no coincidence there. Standing a gasp with a yawning canyon before you, spilling colors and sounds and smells so alien to society, you find something more.
I wanted to tell all about the drive home and my reconnection with Lauren, renewed with appreciation for her presence in my life. But for now I'm riding the high of that memory in the canyon. I'm tired of riding, I'm going for a hike.
Regards-
calvino
9.20.2004
down-time
I have a hard time letting myself be lethargic. OK, see, there I go. I have a hard time letting myself rest and be idle because I view it as lethargy.
For the past five days I have been battling a cold, helplessly letting it run its course from my nose, to my throat, now to my chest. Geez let's hope it ends there instead of continuing the journey southward. This is a predictable and seemingly unavoidable pattern in my life: after a season of traveling and racing my bike I often catch some bummer virus once I settle down in the Fall.
Lauren had the same bug about a week before I did, though she managed to kick it in much less time. Why? She truly embraces the downtime... sure, it sucks to be sick and it sucks to feel miserable; but does napping all day, journaling, and catching up on corny soap-operas really seem that bad? To me, yes, though I don't condemn her for it. If anything I am jealous; even with the flu I pop my eyes open at six a.m. and start mentally arranging my day. Let's say I manage to lock myself in the house in an attempt to rest... well, the house needs cleaning and the clothes need washing and my bike needs maintenance. I am my own worst enemy, and my virus's best friend.
Fortunately the weather encourages me to rest. The past week has been dark and damp here in the "City of Trees", and the temperature low enough to entice me into sinking into a down comforter. Nonetheless I am still sick and still stir crazy.
That's all I've got for now. I am at the school studying for my first test of the year: Chapters one through five in ME 532: Fundamentals of Acoustics. Yay, wish me luck. I'm hepped up on cold medicine, coffee, and Brownie Bites and ready to go! Just kidding. Later.
For the past five days I have been battling a cold, helplessly letting it run its course from my nose, to my throat, now to my chest. Geez let's hope it ends there instead of continuing the journey southward. This is a predictable and seemingly unavoidable pattern in my life: after a season of traveling and racing my bike I often catch some bummer virus once I settle down in the Fall.
Lauren had the same bug about a week before I did, though she managed to kick it in much less time. Why? She truly embraces the downtime... sure, it sucks to be sick and it sucks to feel miserable; but does napping all day, journaling, and catching up on corny soap-operas really seem that bad? To me, yes, though I don't condemn her for it. If anything I am jealous; even with the flu I pop my eyes open at six a.m. and start mentally arranging my day. Let's say I manage to lock myself in the house in an attempt to rest... well, the house needs cleaning and the clothes need washing and my bike needs maintenance. I am my own worst enemy, and my virus's best friend.
Fortunately the weather encourages me to rest. The past week has been dark and damp here in the "City of Trees", and the temperature low enough to entice me into sinking into a down comforter. Nonetheless I am still sick and still stir crazy.
That's all I've got for now. I am at the school studying for my first test of the year: Chapters one through five in ME 532: Fundamentals of Acoustics. Yay, wish me luck. I'm hepped up on cold medicine, coffee, and Brownie Bites and ready to go! Just kidding. Later.
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