The worst part about being sick, I believe, is watching your environment crumble down around you: lacking the effort to effectively pick up after yourself, yet continuing to consume and create byproducts of your diseased state.
There's my bag, still fermenting with sweat and rain-drenched clothing from three days of racing; and there's my shoes, dishes, bike parts strewn all over, inanimately stalled in confusion as to why I've yet to unpack and refresh my situation.
The cold hit me hard shortly after completing the final stage on Sunday. Yet again, I was out the back of the peloton once the going got tough, but decided to diesel onward for another 2.5 hours to finish. Tough guy turned to sick guy, driven home by the soggy final seven miles pedalled in the rain. At the finish line I expected to see my bag full of dry, warm clothes, but to my dismay had to wait another hour for it to arrive in my friend's car. My immune system, which in retrospect had likely battled with a virus for the past few days, finally seceded and flayed itself open in surrender. I got sick, way sick, and although the symptoms are changing the overall status is not.
And yet it's consoling, having something tangible to blame my terrible legs on. Yes, I believe the weekend's misfortune is mostly due to last week's stress load, but I needed something physical and tangible to clutch on to. Who knows, the point is that now I'm sick and I'm getting the rest I need. Deserve?
One take-home final left, then the summer truly begins. I found out I got that job through the university (http://coen.boisestate.edu/research/RPlab.asp) so by next week I'll be in a new, slower yet more satisfying, routine. I'll be nerding out at a computer, designing things using SolidWorks and actually earning money for my engineering brain. Schweet. Twenty to thirty hours of work per week, twenty of riding, and the rest for relaxing and enjoying relationships, weather, etc.
OK, off to nap, or eat soup, or... what else when you're sick? I'm sure I'll end up back at this screen, voicing cough-syrup induced delirium for my expansive audience of bloggees. Aren't you lucky?
5.10.2005
5.07.2005
Columbia, Plat-OH
On the road. On my ass, sitting in a crowded gymnasium and nerding out being the only leg-shaver staring at a computer screen. Today was hell, probably the worst day of my life in the race world.
I do not know what went wrong. How much was physical, ie poor rest and poor nutrition? How much was mental? I tell you what, I have a lot to blame it on. Let’s blame it on school, let’s blame it on mowing lawns the day before my race. Let’s blame it on inadequate sleep and jerky professors and flakey team mates. How about this, from my sister last night before I left:
“So Dad has a cell phone. He told me ‘hey I am really trying to make some changes and be more reachable. I’d really like Calvin to know my number. I won’t call him but if you could give it to him just in case he wants to call, well, please give it to him’. So yeah, J, Dad wanted me to give it to you. Do you want to write this down?�
Silly thoughts swarm one’s synapses while peddling solo into a 25mph head wind, FORTY minutes behind the leading pack and at least Twenty-Five minutes behind the laughing pack.
Just typed up some independent research garbage. It will be the last report to turn in this semester, due on Tuesday. Then… then, then what? Bikes? I rode so shitty today and blew so hard that I fear putting all my eggs, hell, even one egg in that basket.
Wah. Must go walk. More later, you can count on it.
24 HOURS LATER
We are in Fossil now. Put in a decent TT this morning and was holding my own in the road race. Suddenly… “Lady Fortuna, Inconstant Goddess�, my freaking seat post busted midway down, and I shot out the back of the peloton like a mach 3 dookie. I managed to ride about seven miles, including a three mile descent, whilst standing, before finally flagging down the Cat 3 mechanical support car to explain my problem.
We threw on a woman’s saddle and post and I started dieseling in attempt to reclaim some ground. News flash: my saddle was set about three inches too low, and within two miles of pedaling my legs were pulling the strangest of muscle groups in to assist with pedaling. I stopped at the first feed zone, raised my saddle, and then resumed my independent journey.
So yeah, day number two of two plus hours solo. Though I must admit I felt considerably better this go around. I’ve procured another post to ride on tomorrow. Perhaps I can finish with a pack? What the hell is going on?
Sima and Shane offered me shelter this evening, some I’m sitting in the comfort of their rented motor home instead of battling the stench and news of three hundred other cyclists in the gymnasium.
Must go. More later.
5.05.2005
SMP: standard meltdown procedure
Finally got a minute to scribble some words...
Although I have been through this numerous times before, nine times to be exact, it is still hard to effectively step up to the challenges of finals week.
But it's coming along. I just delivered a (decent) oral presentation in my Biomechanics class over "Full Squats versus Partial Squats: Electromyographic muscle analysis versus knee joint stress." Hoopty doopty, sounds more techy than it is (was, I'm done!). Email me if you'd like to see the powerpoint presentation... any takers?
The accompanying report (15 pages in length) is done, too, though not due till next Wednesday. No worries remain... except the dozen items left on my "to do" list before I head to a race at 5:00am tomorrow morning. It's raining outside, which actually wipes a few things off my list and alleviates some stress.
Greg left for Singapore yesterday to find us a wife. Er, wait, he went over to do some programming for his employer, Power Engineers. Sir Calvin stepped up and offered (really?) to take care of his landscaping/mowing business for a couple weeks. Well, it is crunch time and the thought of heading out to mow for four hours this evening just might melt me. Hooka Hooka Hooka (the sounds of my rain chant... keep it coming).
Headed to my final advanced Dynamics class in 23 minutes. The final exam is a take-home, which I've actually learned to fear. You see, the prof is savvy enough to realize our time and ability limitations during in-class exams; consequently they are much, much easier than those we get to pack home and work on. I will be taking my exam to central Oregon with me over the weekend... can't wait to attempt Lagrange Analysis of double gimble gyroscopes after four hours of 95% heart rate exertion.
I realize that this is my life, the path i have chosen and the path that I love. but gosh I need to streamline my priorities a bit. I often end up overbooking myself because I refuse to take a hit anywhere. What the heck am I typing this for, all of you (readers) know that.
Kudos of the day go out to my friends, Cody and Mary Hall. Amongst all of this week's academic mayhem was thrown the challenge of finding a ride over to Columbia Plateau (the race: www.columbiaplateau.org). None of my team mates are going and the other cyclists from Boise are being clicky, snobbish turdsters; I had a ride lined up with a married couple, then another, before they both made it obvious I was infringing on their precious love bubble. On the eve of packing Greg's GMC Suburban and pouring my bank account into the gas tank, Cody and Mary Hall (you guys freaking rock) offered to let me use their commuter car... a well-maintained and dependable Subaru hatchback. I owe you so, so much, you've saved me a considerable amount of stress.
Bah bah bah (motorcycle sounds, not hum-bug disgust), I'm looking to tear some legs off this weekend. Hopefully others' legs, not just my own.
Off to Dynamics. Wish me luck.
Captain Clavin, Cavlin, C-anvil, SweetCheeks.
Although I have been through this numerous times before, nine times to be exact, it is still hard to effectively step up to the challenges of finals week.
But it's coming along. I just delivered a (decent) oral presentation in my Biomechanics class over "Full Squats versus Partial Squats: Electromyographic muscle analysis versus knee joint stress." Hoopty doopty, sounds more techy than it is (was, I'm done!). Email me if you'd like to see the powerpoint presentation... any takers?
The accompanying report (15 pages in length) is done, too, though not due till next Wednesday. No worries remain... except the dozen items left on my "to do" list before I head to a race at 5:00am tomorrow morning. It's raining outside, which actually wipes a few things off my list and alleviates some stress.
Greg left for Singapore yesterday to find us a wife. Er, wait, he went over to do some programming for his employer, Power Engineers. Sir Calvin stepped up and offered (really?) to take care of his landscaping/mowing business for a couple weeks. Well, it is crunch time and the thought of heading out to mow for four hours this evening just might melt me. Hooka Hooka Hooka (the sounds of my rain chant... keep it coming).
Headed to my final advanced Dynamics class in 23 minutes. The final exam is a take-home, which I've actually learned to fear. You see, the prof is savvy enough to realize our time and ability limitations during in-class exams; consequently they are much, much easier than those we get to pack home and work on. I will be taking my exam to central Oregon with me over the weekend... can't wait to attempt Lagrange Analysis of double gimble gyroscopes after four hours of 95% heart rate exertion.
I realize that this is my life, the path i have chosen and the path that I love. but gosh I need to streamline my priorities a bit. I often end up overbooking myself because I refuse to take a hit anywhere. What the heck am I typing this for, all of you (readers) know that.
Kudos of the day go out to my friends, Cody and Mary Hall. Amongst all of this week's academic mayhem was thrown the challenge of finding a ride over to Columbia Plateau (the race: www.columbiaplateau.org). None of my team mates are going and the other cyclists from Boise are being clicky, snobbish turdsters; I had a ride lined up with a married couple, then another, before they both made it obvious I was infringing on their precious love bubble. On the eve of packing Greg's GMC Suburban and pouring my bank account into the gas tank, Cody and Mary Hall (you guys freaking rock) offered to let me use their commuter car... a well-maintained and dependable Subaru hatchback. I owe you so, so much, you've saved me a considerable amount of stress.
Bah bah bah (motorcycle sounds, not hum-bug disgust), I'm looking to tear some legs off this weekend. Hopefully others' legs, not just my own.
Off to Dynamics. Wish me luck.
Captain Clavin, Cavlin, C-anvil, SweetCheeks.
4.27.2005
Kosher Implants and Primitivo
Hello all.
I'm red-faced and bored and looking for an excuse to take a break from this freaking Biomechanics report... lucky you for tuning in to experience my self-diversion.
In true cyclist fashion, I uncorked a bottle of cheap-ass pinot noir and poured myself about four fingers' in attempt to 'facilitate' the writing process. Two fingers later and the keyboard is already playing trecks on mee. I feel the fire in my cheeks and the sass in my brain, not too conducive to report-writing.
The past weekend was crazy: a ton of travel and race experience. I drove up to Walla Walla with Eric J. Rumps, leaving on Friday at about 4pm and arriving around 8:30. Rump(elstiltskin) is the definition of eccentric, and the four hour journey still has me reeling from cultural, physiological, and moral overload. He's a chemist/material scientist out at Micron and manages to put in enough training otherwise to really turn the screws on the local race scene, so we decked him in team clothing and styled him out for the weekend (that is, paid entry fee and made him wear one of our saggy retro jerseys).
Between topics of life on the farm and nanotech-specific polymers, he suggested I reach behind the seat and pour us out some fruit of the vine. He rolls in style: a fine, fine bottle of Primitivo aside two softball-sized wine glasses (custom etched from the Mondavi winery) in a convenient foam package. The trip went rapidly, to understate it, and upon rolling in to Walla Walla we decided to chase the fab red with a chicken burrito at La Casita Mexican restaurant.
We found our host house at about 9:30pm... Shawn and Matt had yet to arrive so we were the first to survey the scene and claim the most "ideal" bed space. Well.... let's get something straight about host houses: in general you end up with a pretty sweet family of cycling enthusiasts eager and willing to stuff you full of succulent simple sugars and tuck you in tight to a comfy bed. The ugly flipside are host bachelors; recent divorcees looking to rejoin any and every social scene by volunteering for random community events. We got the latter. Due to the scents of stale beer and sweat (urine?) Eric and I opted to sleep out on the trampoline.
Just like old (old) times as a lad, I was zipped up in a mummy bag lying on my back and staring at the full moon, with the plastic support beneath and the vibrations from Eric reverberating (and resonating) from the other side of the trampoline. However, I have aged in a few ways: 1. Mummy bags suck, and I can not sleep well on my back with my arms perfectly glued to my sides (if you really want to know I sleep with my forehead in the sheets and my arms akimbo... jsut kidding), 2. The omnipotent light from a fabulous full moon is actually too bright to sleep under, and 3. I can't see half the damn stars anymore since my eyesight is declining and I had to take out my contacts before bed. Nevertheless, the ambient noise from frogs, the smell of roses and Dogwoods and Lilacs, and the metronomic rhythm of Eric's gas problem made for some decent sleep with lucid dreams.
I'll skip the race crap, you don't want to hear that and I don't want to explain. I had a blast but am more eager to explain a quirky scenario: Lining up for the TT, approximately four minutes to "Go Time", I was chatting with an aquaintance regarding my upcoming thesis in the field of Biomechanics. So this referee/official overhears me and says "You biomechanists need to design an artificial appendix, one that works."
We get into this discussion (lasting about 3.5 minutes till I sped off for my event) about the incompatibilty of materials and the body's tendency to scoff at anything man-made we try to insert.
"Hell," he says, "I also got a bad heart, and they wanted to put a pig valve in me."
"Yeah, funny that our body is OK with swine material." Says I.
"Funny my ass, I'm Jewish. You think they make Kosher implants? Can you see a Rabbi blessing a chunk of ham-heart?"
I had a decent ride, got cleaned up and went out to breakfast. Chuckled to myself as I crouched over my plate of French Toast and Sausage.
Back to my report.... take care.
I'm red-faced and bored and looking for an excuse to take a break from this freaking Biomechanics report... lucky you for tuning in to experience my self-diversion.
In true cyclist fashion, I uncorked a bottle of cheap-ass pinot noir and poured myself about four fingers' in attempt to 'facilitate' the writing process. Two fingers later and the keyboard is already playing trecks on mee. I feel the fire in my cheeks and the sass in my brain, not too conducive to report-writing.
The past weekend was crazy: a ton of travel and race experience. I drove up to Walla Walla with Eric J. Rumps, leaving on Friday at about 4pm and arriving around 8:30. Rump(elstiltskin) is the definition of eccentric, and the four hour journey still has me reeling from cultural, physiological, and moral overload. He's a chemist/material scientist out at Micron and manages to put in enough training otherwise to really turn the screws on the local race scene, so we decked him in team clothing and styled him out for the weekend (that is, paid entry fee and made him wear one of our saggy retro jerseys).
Between topics of life on the farm and nanotech-specific polymers, he suggested I reach behind the seat and pour us out some fruit of the vine. He rolls in style: a fine, fine bottle of Primitivo aside two softball-sized wine glasses (custom etched from the Mondavi winery) in a convenient foam package. The trip went rapidly, to understate it, and upon rolling in to Walla Walla we decided to chase the fab red with a chicken burrito at La Casita Mexican restaurant.
We found our host house at about 9:30pm... Shawn and Matt had yet to arrive so we were the first to survey the scene and claim the most "ideal" bed space. Well.... let's get something straight about host houses: in general you end up with a pretty sweet family of cycling enthusiasts eager and willing to stuff you full of succulent simple sugars and tuck you in tight to a comfy bed. The ugly flipside are host bachelors; recent divorcees looking to rejoin any and every social scene by volunteering for random community events. We got the latter. Due to the scents of stale beer and sweat (urine?) Eric and I opted to sleep out on the trampoline.
Just like old (old) times as a lad, I was zipped up in a mummy bag lying on my back and staring at the full moon, with the plastic support beneath and the vibrations from Eric reverberating (and resonating) from the other side of the trampoline. However, I have aged in a few ways: 1. Mummy bags suck, and I can not sleep well on my back with my arms perfectly glued to my sides (if you really want to know I sleep with my forehead in the sheets and my arms akimbo... jsut kidding), 2. The omnipotent light from a fabulous full moon is actually too bright to sleep under, and 3. I can't see half the damn stars anymore since my eyesight is declining and I had to take out my contacts before bed. Nevertheless, the ambient noise from frogs, the smell of roses and Dogwoods and Lilacs, and the metronomic rhythm of Eric's gas problem made for some decent sleep with lucid dreams.
I'll skip the race crap, you don't want to hear that and I don't want to explain. I had a blast but am more eager to explain a quirky scenario: Lining up for the TT, approximately four minutes to "Go Time", I was chatting with an aquaintance regarding my upcoming thesis in the field of Biomechanics. So this referee/official overhears me and says "You biomechanists need to design an artificial appendix, one that works."
We get into this discussion (lasting about 3.5 minutes till I sped off for my event) about the incompatibilty of materials and the body's tendency to scoff at anything man-made we try to insert.
"Hell," he says, "I also got a bad heart, and they wanted to put a pig valve in me."
"Yeah, funny that our body is OK with swine material." Says I.
"Funny my ass, I'm Jewish. You think they make Kosher implants? Can you see a Rabbi blessing a chunk of ham-heart?"
I had a decent ride, got cleaned up and went out to breakfast. Chuckled to myself as I crouched over my plate of French Toast and Sausage.
Back to my report.... take care.
4.14.2005
This Just In: Racer Boy Press Release
Antelope Island: 9 April 2005
Despite legitimate attempts to provide a neutral, unbiased recount of Saturday’s race, the following will most likely convey a grotesquely skewed version of how the BODE Team conducted itself. If you prefer an impartial report, speak to an inactive member of the peloton who was content to simply hang on instead of race bikes. Chris McGill and I, Don Calvino, did not travel 280-miles (each direction) to sit at the back of the pack. Nor did Chris parents’ offer the emotional and caloric support (host housing with scrumptious burritos) to see us passively pedal in the draft of other teams.
We loaded the BODE-mobile and escaped Boise’s magnetic field at 4:30pm on Friday afternoon, mentally and technically prepared for the forecasted 34-degrees-and-raining race on Saturday morning. The weather was surprisingly nice on the drive down, and although we didn’t risk ‘jinxing’ it we quietly prayed for similar weather during the race. Four point five hours later we pulled our oh-so-pro-looking Volvo into Chris’s parents’ driveway, visited a bit and ate some Mexican food, then crept into bed. I zonked out before Chris, but by 11:30pm we were both dreaming of antelopes and glory.
Eleven hours, three cups of coffee, and seven dollar-sized wheat pancakes later, we pulled into the parking lot on Antelope Island’s eastern edge. The Cat Fours and Masters were well underway, while hordes of Cat Three riders and roughly sixty Cat Ones / Twos prowled around waiting to begin.
11:45am, the pop-gun barked and everyone snapped in to begin the fifteen-lap, sixty-mile race. The weather held out, and aside from a 20mph wind it was beautifully pleasant. The peloton was quite nervous, as demonstrated when a fellow Boise rider (non-BODE) pegged the first cone on the first lap and nearly wrecked all five-dozen racers. Chris and I moved up to the front third of the group simply to avoid being broken, and within five minutes the attacks started flying.
I countered an attack with the sole (malicious) attempt of blowing an Ogden One rider out the back of the group, and by chance I got a gap with a few other riders. Matt Weyen, to be described later, bridged up to complete our group of nine riders. I assessed the situation: Orbea, Ogden One, Contender, Sportsbase Online, Porcupine, and BODE. Well represented: NAIL IT! We drove hard and within three laps had two and a half minutes on the main group. Back in the main pack, Chris McGill kept a tight rope on any individuals attempting to spoil our break’s success. A few teams missed the break and earnestly wanted to bridge, but McGill (whose legs and race-savvy are blossoming ten-fold each race) would allow no such thing. Within a few more laps the main group lost its impetus, though up ahead we kept it smooth and the gap widened.
In the main group: chaos. The aforementioned 20mph wind created unique conditions on each section of the course. On the tailwind-climb the riders averaged 28mph and were offered no draft, while on the western edge the wind drove hard from the Northeast and swept the riders left, across the yellow line, and into the left-hand gutter. The main group shattered into chunks of colored-lycra-shrapnel, with McGill toward the front and riding strong. However, due to the yellow-line violation by various individuals trying to draft and survive, the officials decided to disqualify the entire field! When alerted of the situation with six laps to go, our break had 4.5 minutes on the main field. At that point our break actually picked up its pace, ironically, and we shed three riders from our group.
To make a long story short, we kept the pace hot until the finish line. With three laps to go, Matt and a Contender Bicycles rider accelerated on the tailwind-ascent to break free from our group. Few people can match Matt’s power at 30mph, and although my legs are coming around I couldn’t respond. I drained my legs driving it hard to try and regain contact, but Matt and his companion widened their lead and maintained it to the end. My group of four popped one of its riders coming into the finish, and I took third in the sprint to the line.
The 52 riders not active in the front break voiced their frustration to the officials, many demanding a refund for entry and travel to a race only half-completed. To no avail, unfortunately. Chris asserts he was riding with a pair of “top-ten legs�, and I believe it, but the disqualification of the group prevented any placing beyond the top seven spots.
Great things are coming around for this team, and I’m anxious to see how the rest of our riders are pedaling. A few local races remain before we test our mettle against bigger fish in bigger ponds. Stay tuned for more blatantly biased accounts of our superhuman individuals. Special thanks to my mom and sister, aunt and uncle and cousin, and Chris’s family for the support at this event.
-Captain Clavin
Despite legitimate attempts to provide a neutral, unbiased recount of Saturday’s race, the following will most likely convey a grotesquely skewed version of how the BODE Team conducted itself. If you prefer an impartial report, speak to an inactive member of the peloton who was content to simply hang on instead of race bikes. Chris McGill and I, Don Calvino, did not travel 280-miles (each direction) to sit at the back of the pack. Nor did Chris parents’ offer the emotional and caloric support (host housing with scrumptious burritos) to see us passively pedal in the draft of other teams.
We loaded the BODE-mobile and escaped Boise’s magnetic field at 4:30pm on Friday afternoon, mentally and technically prepared for the forecasted 34-degrees-and-raining race on Saturday morning. The weather was surprisingly nice on the drive down, and although we didn’t risk ‘jinxing’ it we quietly prayed for similar weather during the race. Four point five hours later we pulled our oh-so-pro-looking Volvo into Chris’s parents’ driveway, visited a bit and ate some Mexican food, then crept into bed. I zonked out before Chris, but by 11:30pm we were both dreaming of antelopes and glory.
Eleven hours, three cups of coffee, and seven dollar-sized wheat pancakes later, we pulled into the parking lot on Antelope Island’s eastern edge. The Cat Fours and Masters were well underway, while hordes of Cat Three riders and roughly sixty Cat Ones / Twos prowled around waiting to begin.
11:45am, the pop-gun barked and everyone snapped in to begin the fifteen-lap, sixty-mile race. The weather held out, and aside from a 20mph wind it was beautifully pleasant. The peloton was quite nervous, as demonstrated when a fellow Boise rider (non-BODE) pegged the first cone on the first lap and nearly wrecked all five-dozen racers. Chris and I moved up to the front third of the group simply to avoid being broken, and within five minutes the attacks started flying.
I countered an attack with the sole (malicious) attempt of blowing an Ogden One rider out the back of the group, and by chance I got a gap with a few other riders. Matt Weyen, to be described later, bridged up to complete our group of nine riders. I assessed the situation: Orbea, Ogden One, Contender, Sportsbase Online, Porcupine, and BODE. Well represented: NAIL IT! We drove hard and within three laps had two and a half minutes on the main group. Back in the main pack, Chris McGill kept a tight rope on any individuals attempting to spoil our break’s success. A few teams missed the break and earnestly wanted to bridge, but McGill (whose legs and race-savvy are blossoming ten-fold each race) would allow no such thing. Within a few more laps the main group lost its impetus, though up ahead we kept it smooth and the gap widened.
In the main group: chaos. The aforementioned 20mph wind created unique conditions on each section of the course. On the tailwind-climb the riders averaged 28mph and were offered no draft, while on the western edge the wind drove hard from the Northeast and swept the riders left, across the yellow line, and into the left-hand gutter. The main group shattered into chunks of colored-lycra-shrapnel, with McGill toward the front and riding strong. However, due to the yellow-line violation by various individuals trying to draft and survive, the officials decided to disqualify the entire field! When alerted of the situation with six laps to go, our break had 4.5 minutes on the main field. At that point our break actually picked up its pace, ironically, and we shed three riders from our group.
To make a long story short, we kept the pace hot until the finish line. With three laps to go, Matt and a Contender Bicycles rider accelerated on the tailwind-ascent to break free from our group. Few people can match Matt’s power at 30mph, and although my legs are coming around I couldn’t respond. I drained my legs driving it hard to try and regain contact, but Matt and his companion widened their lead and maintained it to the end. My group of four popped one of its riders coming into the finish, and I took third in the sprint to the line.
The 52 riders not active in the front break voiced their frustration to the officials, many demanding a refund for entry and travel to a race only half-completed. To no avail, unfortunately. Chris asserts he was riding with a pair of “top-ten legs�, and I believe it, but the disqualification of the group prevented any placing beyond the top seven spots.
Great things are coming around for this team, and I’m anxious to see how the rest of our riders are pedaling. A few local races remain before we test our mettle against bigger fish in bigger ponds. Stay tuned for more blatantly biased accounts of our superhuman individuals. Special thanks to my mom and sister, aunt and uncle and cousin, and Chris’s family for the support at this event.
-Captain Clavin
4.08.2005
Ya hace un ano
"Isn't it ironic that, now that you aren't bulimic and obsessing about your weight, you're the smallest and fittest you've ever been?"
- Lauren Dorsch, an observation of her pasty-white, partially-clothed and apparently fitter-than-hell boyfriend on Thursday evening.
So nice to be out of that cloud. That unconquerable haze of worry and preoccupation that tweaked my emotions for so long. I can not believe that it is dead and gone, but it is. Do I still think about food; still get frustrated when I don't eat a 100% perfect diet all the time? Am I a cyclist? A perfectionist? Yes, to all of the above. The difference now is perspective. I now have the ability to step back and see my overall progression, the ratio of forward to backward steps, and to use that perspective to halt my temporary back-slides with food.
It's been about a year. Ya hace un ano. There is no tilda key on this white-bread-American keyboard so perhaps I should write an-yo instead of ano. Good things are happening in every facet of my life, but I am especially jazzed about my athletic fitness. An analogy, courtesy of my counselor:
Look at dogs. Look at greyhounds, St. bernards, labradors, and dachshunds. Have you ever seen a labrador as skinny, as lean as a greyhound? If you did, would you think him healthy? What about a greyhound; have you seen a greyhound as large as a labrador? Would you think that greyhound was healthy?
Within each species, each race or body type, there is a certain degree of variation. A robust and athletic labrador may reach a certain level of fitness, but will never look like a greyhound. The point? I'm nearing the bottom end of my spectrum of labrador fitness, and while I may still occasionally view those vieslas and greyhounds with slight comtempt, I am optimizing myself to the best of my abilities. And I AM FREAKING STRONG.
This afternoon I head down to Antelope Island State Park, just north of Salt Lake City, for race number three of my season. Wish me luck and join me in celebrating good health and a balanced perspective in life. This is so cool. -Calvino
- Lauren Dorsch, an observation of her pasty-white, partially-clothed and apparently fitter-than-hell boyfriend on Thursday evening.
So nice to be out of that cloud. That unconquerable haze of worry and preoccupation that tweaked my emotions for so long. I can not believe that it is dead and gone, but it is. Do I still think about food; still get frustrated when I don't eat a 100% perfect diet all the time? Am I a cyclist? A perfectionist? Yes, to all of the above. The difference now is perspective. I now have the ability to step back and see my overall progression, the ratio of forward to backward steps, and to use that perspective to halt my temporary back-slides with food.
It's been about a year. Ya hace un ano. There is no tilda key on this white-bread-American keyboard so perhaps I should write an-yo instead of ano. Good things are happening in every facet of my life, but I am especially jazzed about my athletic fitness. An analogy, courtesy of my counselor:
Look at dogs. Look at greyhounds, St. bernards, labradors, and dachshunds. Have you ever seen a labrador as skinny, as lean as a greyhound? If you did, would you think him healthy? What about a greyhound; have you seen a greyhound as large as a labrador? Would you think that greyhound was healthy?
Within each species, each race or body type, there is a certain degree of variation. A robust and athletic labrador may reach a certain level of fitness, but will never look like a greyhound. The point? I'm nearing the bottom end of my spectrum of labrador fitness, and while I may still occasionally view those vieslas and greyhounds with slight comtempt, I am optimizing myself to the best of my abilities. And I AM FREAKING STRONG.
This afternoon I head down to Antelope Island State Park, just north of Salt Lake City, for race number three of my season. Wish me luck and join me in celebrating good health and a balanced perspective in life. This is so cool. -Calvino
4.05.2005
Two's Day
Back in the swing this week. I don't really feel like I am caught up on sleep yet, and there's a nagging little feeling in the back of my throat, threatening to morph into some nasty bug if I don't heed the warning.
Lauren and I had a great evening last night. As she jokingly put it, "a solid afternoon and evening of pure Calvin time, no meetings or schoolwork or otherwise to pull me away." I went over to her place after my session with Ms. Stacey (counselor), and although Lauren didn't ask I sort of needed some mindless diversion to unwind from my 60 minutes of introspection. The session wasn't too revealing, just challenging in regards to my direction, priorities, and satisfaction. Still stewing on everything... I'll let you know if an epiphany hits me.
But yes, the evening went by splendidly. We decided to hit the transplanted Sun Valley coffee shop "Java", but were soon chased away by the truly poor selection of music blaring on the sound system. Being a Sun Valley-style java junction, you'd expect some decent music; anything other than cheesy late-eighties dance club favorites.... Pump up the Jam, Pump it Up. O---K.
Cooling coffee in hand, and bad electronic music looping through our brains, we skirted over to Barnes and Noble. I had a gift card burning a hole in my wallet since Christmas and Lauren was eager to dig for some literature regarding the Catholic Church's future direction. Ironic, and sad I suppose, that I spent the majority of the visit bobbing my head and sampling new bands, whilst she studied up on the future successors to the papal thrown. Her passion and concern for the situation is amazing, and I feel like a jerk for not deeply understanding the magnitude of the situation. Raised as a Baptist, I more thoroughly understand Pot-Luck Etiquette than ceremonial protocol.
For now I just cant' wait to get home. It's only 12:43pm, but I arose this morning over at Lauren's before seven and came straight down to the U. The lab I taught was boring today, biomechanics was even worse, and my Dynamics homework stopped me dead in my tracks. Not feeling too productive. That's it. I'm off. At least the weather is cooperating today. Commuting and riding in the rain gets old, thus the 45-degree and windy-but-dry climate makes me smile. ~~*~~
Lauren and I had a great evening last night. As she jokingly put it, "a solid afternoon and evening of pure Calvin time, no meetings or schoolwork or otherwise to pull me away." I went over to her place after my session with Ms. Stacey (counselor), and although Lauren didn't ask I sort of needed some mindless diversion to unwind from my 60 minutes of introspection. The session wasn't too revealing, just challenging in regards to my direction, priorities, and satisfaction. Still stewing on everything... I'll let you know if an epiphany hits me.
But yes, the evening went by splendidly. We decided to hit the transplanted Sun Valley coffee shop "Java", but were soon chased away by the truly poor selection of music blaring on the sound system. Being a Sun Valley-style java junction, you'd expect some decent music; anything other than cheesy late-eighties dance club favorites.... Pump up the Jam, Pump it Up. O---K.
Cooling coffee in hand, and bad electronic music looping through our brains, we skirted over to Barnes and Noble. I had a gift card burning a hole in my wallet since Christmas and Lauren was eager to dig for some literature regarding the Catholic Church's future direction. Ironic, and sad I suppose, that I spent the majority of the visit bobbing my head and sampling new bands, whilst she studied up on the future successors to the papal thrown. Her passion and concern for the situation is amazing, and I feel like a jerk for not deeply understanding the magnitude of the situation. Raised as a Baptist, I more thoroughly understand Pot-Luck Etiquette than ceremonial protocol.
For now I just cant' wait to get home. It's only 12:43pm, but I arose this morning over at Lauren's before seven and came straight down to the U. The lab I taught was boring today, biomechanics was even worse, and my Dynamics homework stopped me dead in my tracks. Not feeling too productive. That's it. I'm off. At least the weather is cooperating today. Commuting and riding in the rain gets old, thus the 45-degree and windy-but-dry climate makes me smile. ~~*~~
3.31.2005
doper
If this is truly an online vent session, and it's for my benefit more than ya'lls, I need to lay something out.
My dad is a f*@% ing creep. My sister put it quite succinctly when she stated "I'm not even hurt anymore, just mad. Not mad about his absence, but mad about not having the fringe benefits of a functional father." You know, like an available mechanic, hiking and hunting buddy, someone to go to oldies concerts with.
Of course, we both feel the loss deeper than that, but the frustration and bewilderment surfaces in strange ways. I hit a Big Head Todd and the Monsters concert last week... lots of old timers around with their 'old ladies', digging the music. One of those situations in which a real father would love to accompany his mid-twenties son. My dad was likely capping off day seven of a thirteen-day bender, and you bet your ass that was on my mind while sipping my concert beer from the plastic cup.
Finally got the key to my moto-scoot. Honda 360T, look out world! Needs some work, though... Again, no father. After the initial shock of his son riding, as he would refer to it, a piece of "Jap Crap" (white-trash fathers, breed racism, yes, yes!) he might actually help tweak the engine with me a bit... I'd enjoy seeing his reaction to me scurtting by on it, whining in that higher-pitched (yet verifiably more efficient) engine frequency. Sheesh.
So here I am, eleven thirty four on the digital clock, numbers blinking and marching onward without mercy while I wait for the Sandman to knock me upside the head. Too much salad too late at night means an overloaded Buddha belly and delayed onset of sleep. This ensalada mezcla breath is too much, even for me; damn those Vascos for instilling such garlic-scarfing habits in me. Overall things are going pretty well, though the inkspot in my life (labeled James D. Allan) seems so dark when the rest of life shines so brightly. I'm off to bed. Big middle finger to JDA, wherever he's squatting tonight. Ouch.
My dad is a f*@% ing creep. My sister put it quite succinctly when she stated "I'm not even hurt anymore, just mad. Not mad about his absence, but mad about not having the fringe benefits of a functional father." You know, like an available mechanic, hiking and hunting buddy, someone to go to oldies concerts with.
Of course, we both feel the loss deeper than that, but the frustration and bewilderment surfaces in strange ways. I hit a Big Head Todd and the Monsters concert last week... lots of old timers around with their 'old ladies', digging the music. One of those situations in which a real father would love to accompany his mid-twenties son. My dad was likely capping off day seven of a thirteen-day bender, and you bet your ass that was on my mind while sipping my concert beer from the plastic cup.
Finally got the key to my moto-scoot. Honda 360T, look out world! Needs some work, though... Again, no father. After the initial shock of his son riding, as he would refer to it, a piece of "Jap Crap" (white-trash fathers, breed racism, yes, yes!) he might actually help tweak the engine with me a bit... I'd enjoy seeing his reaction to me scurtting by on it, whining in that higher-pitched (yet verifiably more efficient) engine frequency. Sheesh.
So here I am, eleven thirty four on the digital clock, numbers blinking and marching onward without mercy while I wait for the Sandman to knock me upside the head. Too much salad too late at night means an overloaded Buddha belly and delayed onset of sleep. This ensalada mezcla breath is too much, even for me; damn those Vascos for instilling such garlic-scarfing habits in me. Overall things are going pretty well, though the inkspot in my life (labeled James D. Allan) seems so dark when the rest of life shines so brightly. I'm off to bed. Big middle finger to JDA, wherever he's squatting tonight. Ouch.
3.29.2005
Lightning
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.
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.
3.23.2005
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.
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