Sandal Wisdom: Ramblings of the Village Idiot

In Homage to Mark Twain

2011-01-27T22:03:00.000-08:00

The more I read of Mark Twain’s (Samuel Clemens’) autobiography, published, as was his wish, 100 years after his death, the more I realize I am but a poseur. I am no writer when judged against his genius. Next to his gold and platinum verbiage I am but rusty tin. Compared to his rolling, voluminous and hilarious characterizations, my writing is as a chicken scratching at the floor of its coop.

His insults, published now for all to see with none left to be offended, are a sublime joy. In our current era of gross and unsubtle character assassinations, Clemens schools us in the art of the restrained and comically understated rebuke of any person deemed idiotic. Were he to write about today’s politicians, especially the unqualified hackers and Palin-ites, Clemens would suffer no restraint, but would call them by their rightful and regrettable names, in a way so poetic that the objects would themselves be unaware of the insults rained upon their sorry heads. Their ineducation would buffer them from realizing the heavy rebuke and verbal keel-hauling they were enduring, all the more to make Clemens’ point.

To be deemed a fool by Clemens is a fate I would not wish on any I love, because his wit, acerbic and bulls-eye sharp, would reduce one to a lump of unidentifiable jelly on the cold wooden floor of his Hartford home. A man with such a masterful command of the language and of nuanced sarcasm is as formidable as an armed enemy bent on exacting maximum torture from its victims. One stands bereft of defense, struck dumb and mute while he rips the flesh from one’s bones while one is still standing. Mere nakedness would seem a benefit after he is done reducing one to a skeleton.

The more I read of him the more I love him, though he would recoil at my fanatical adulation. He is the professor I’d fight to have yet in whose gaze I would loathe to be caught. For to be caught in his literary laser would be to be unhinged, unclothed; foibles exposed so thoroughly and so intelligently as to render one so pitiful that to be a laughingstock would be a step upward. No, when Clemens is done with you they only mutter quietly as you stumble mindlessly away, if you are even aware enough to realize you’ve just been sumptuously and forever humiliated.

There is a derision that is so exquisitely performed that one feels almost fortunate to be its object. Samuel Clemens performs this service to the high-born and lowly with equal skill. I, for one, am ecstatic that in his foresight he has made us recipients of his most unadulterated thoughts a century after his death and that we can learn a thing or two from him yet still.

Testicles, La Niña, Miss Frizzle and Other Musings

2010-12-16T20:55:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I come up with stunning revelations while bicycling, especially up long, steep hills where the line between sanity and hypoxia becomes as blurred as my vision. Today’s revelation: Testicles are completely useless in any athletic activity – unless you consider procreation an athletic activity.

This bit of here-to-fore unspoken wisdom came at mile 10 of a 45-mile ride through the moist, green pastures of Sonoma and Marin counties in Northern California in late Fall. While riding I was marveling at another sunny, balmy day in November, courtesy of La Niña. I think I’m in love with La Niña. I’m not a pedophile. La Niña is a weather condition; the yin to El Niño’s yang. Her gift of two weeks of sunny skies and warm weather in November brought me more joy from outdoor sports than I had all summer. Between surfing and cycling during that time I felt as though I finally had the summer that never came to Northern California this year.

It was a Sunday morning. That’s a good time because at least some people are at church and off the roads. I chose the start point in the middle of lush Sonoma County farmland where the smells of cattle, sheep and mossy ground are a far cry from the industrial stench of the city.

Armed with a 2-quart Camelback of water, two CLIF Bars, a banana, Shots electrolyte blocks and two 20oz bike bottles of Cytomax, I was ready for a few hours of solitude and exercise. Maybe better cyclists don’t need all this stuff, but I was going where I wasn’t sure how many stores I’d encounter to buy water and food along the way. I sure didn’t want to bonk 10 miles from civilization.

I started a bit late because I had to buy a new watch on the way. My sport watch chose the previous night to run down the battery for the last time. Faulty design meant that any time I bumped the watch the light went on, draining the battery. Braving the pre-Christmas crowds at Target I picked up another $39.99 special.

With contact lenses in place and face slick with 45 SPF sunscreen, I was on my way.

This day I was doing the center portion of the Marin Century route. I was only going to do 45 miles of it, but this route had two of the biggest hills and 2,930 feet of total climbing. I’ve dedicated myself to several training rides on the course of the Marin Century so I’ll be mentally and physically ready for the August 2011 event where I’ll ride the 100-mile century for the first time since 1993.

Two lane country roads have their own hazards, like no shoulders, fast cars and blind corners, but today I noticed another: snakes. Most were small – only a foot long – but others, thankfully flattened by cars, were up to three feet long. I’m no lover of snakes, even if they’re non-poisonous, and I’d never seen so many on a ride before.

This area is best known for its cows. As I rode out I could hear many moos bellow from a dairy farm. At one place I was greeted by stereo mooos from a cow on my left and a bull on the right. The de-horned bull sounded a mix of a mooo and a snarl. I was glad there was a barbed wire fence between him and me.

Just a few miles from the start I heard another, rather unsettling sound: gunshots echoing off the hills. Thinking it was just some farmers shooting at tin cans, I rode on, but the sound only got louder. Eventually it was right in front of me. And there, to my left, was the Circle S Ranch, full of people lined up at a shooting range. Apparently while some good Christians were at church, these folks were getting ready for Armageddon or the next invasion of liberal Democrats. I rode on.

A hazard of solo riding is that, without someone to talk to, you’re stuck with whatever song is in your head. There’s no way I’d ride with an iPod and earphones. That’s just asking for trouble. But I would have liked something to help get Creed’s “Can You Take Me Higher” out of my head for the first 10 miles. I have no idea what perverse mental tweet put the song there in the first place. Later, after I chewed a Shot electrolyte cube my brain chose to fixate on the 1960s jingle for Fruit Chewies. “You get two hundred and two mouth watering chews in every pack of new Fruit Chewies…” Boomers will relate.

How is it I can remember every word of a stupid candy jingle after 45 years but I can’t remember the name of a guy I met yesterday? Maybe if he danced and sang while telling me his name it would help.

Out on the gorgeous scenery of Tomales Bay in the Point Reyes National Seashore, my brain picked up a few bars of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” That was preferable to the annoying jingle and Creed’s signature song, but it wasn’t exactly enlivening cycling music. I changed the words to “Somewhere over the next hill…” Corny, but effective.

But way back at mile 10 I was feeling a little uncomfortable. “The boys” were chafing a bit in their spandex prison, squeezed between the pointy end of the seat and my thighs. Cyclists don’t wear underwear beneath their spandex pants. We rely on the gel or chamois sewn into the crotch to give us sufficient padding. I’m not sure where the bare-assed tradition got started, but it leaves no place for jock straps or cups like other sports. Besides, what little space there is “down there” is so tight that any undergarment would only exacerbate the problem.

The chafing of skin has lead to great inventions such as “Butt Butter” to smear between all the moving body parts to keep them from igniting under the friction of cycling. Without such ingenious products you could poach an egg with the heat and humidity generated down there, and no man wants his eggs poached.

I thought how much more comfortable the ride would be without a fist’s worth of bulk between my legs that was only contributing irritation to the ride. But I have no desire to change genders, so I just adjusted “the boys” and kept riding.

This also got me thinking about bike saddles, particularly the racing styles on road bikes. They resemble male genitalia in a way. They have a long, narrow section that goes between your legs and two wide parts that meet your buttocks or pelvic bones. When I was 11 years old I had a bike with what a neighborhood girl called a “dirty seat.” She had taken the bike for a spin and found that the seat bolt wasn’t tightened enough so when she sat on the wide part it caused the penile part to, um, contact her female parts. I got lots of pre-pubescent joy from that.

My current saddle could be described as intersex because it has elements of both genders. Aside from the usual male shape it has a long, oval hole cut down the middle to alleviate some pressure on my male parts. Ah, the wonders of ergonomics.

Ergonomics and aerodynamics are partners in today’s cycling world. Cyclists like to say that the wind is your friend. A stiff headwind is like a personal trainer, making you work your butt off to attain greatness. Well, turning west out of the tiny town of Tomales toward the sea I met my “friend” head-on. Even dropping to my aero bars to be more aerodynamic I struggled against a growing northwest breeze. Finally making it to a rise and turning south on Highway One I could see the whitecaps starting to dance on Tomales Bay. That meant the wind was at least 25 knots. Good thing the wind would be at my back from then on.

All this beauty and fun was ok, but I knew what lay ahead: the infamous “Marshall Wall.” Cyclists spoke about it as if it were some impenetrable, vertical monster to be reckoned with. I was conserving my energy for this implacable monstrosity.

The “Marshall Wall” is a 3-mile climb from sea level to 755 feet elevation with many sections having a 15.5% grade (steepness measure). To put that in perspective, most highway grades rarely go above 7%. The infamous Grapevine on I-5 north of Los Angeles is only a 6% grade. Unless you’re racing the Tour de France, most mortals my age climb a 15.5% grade in the lowest gear we have, moving at about 4 mph. The good part of a climb is that you go downhill for miles afterwards. That’s the flying, fun part.

But you have to climb it first.

I didn’t have a map with me and my recollection of the terrain was that it went up then back down to sea level before the really big climb. I climbed the steep, curving road at a relaxed pace, conserving my energy for the ultimate wall yet to come looming (because that’s what hills do, they “loom”) around any corner. The ocean breeze cooled the sweat on my back as I rode.

Another of the challenges of two lane country roads is the unexpected traffic. I had been passed by lots of cars, pickups and vans during the ride, but near the apex of one of the steepest sections I heard a low rumble behind me. About 200 feet ahead of me was a blind curve to the left. Behind me was a big truck and I heard the driver shift into a lower gear. This was going to be close.

I was out of the seat, standing on the pedals trying to make headway on a 15-20% grade with a big truck literally on my ass. At a heroic 5 mph I tried to stay as far to the right as I could, but the blacktop sloughed off onto the nonexistent shoulder, leaving mini San Andreas Fault lines for my skinny tires to negotiate. I couldn’t pull over ‘cause there was a drop off to the right. I couldn’t stop ‘cause I’d probably fall into the path of the truck. All I could do was keep going.

The huge truck began passing me going barely faster than I was. It was a logging truck! What the hell was a logging truck doing on this road? The logging truck lumbered slowly past me (yes, I did just say it “lumbered”) taking up several feet of the oncoming lane to do so – going into the blind curve. I bet the driver and I were thinking the same thing: “I hope to God there isn’t a car coming the other way!”

I imagined an oncoming car hitting the truck amidships but not penetrating the five tree trunks stacked and chained together. I might have been spared the impact but I would have gotten a face full of debris for sure.

No car came the other way and the truck driver gambled with death one more time. I was just happy to make it to the top and rest my shaking legs.

After that I went down a nice, fast descent, climbed some more, then down a longer descent to sea level. “OK,” I thought, “the Marshall Wall is next.” The road flattened out to rolling terrain for the next few miles. Eventually I realized I was getting close to the second big challenge, Wilson Hill. But where was the Marshall Wall?

Sure enough, I came to an intersection I recognized as the start of Wilson Hill. I had completely conquered the Marshall Wall without realizing it. I laughed out loud, partly out of relief and partly out of the joy of having overcome something I had built up to be a major obstacle.

But then Wilson Hill sneered at me (because that’s what it does, it “sneers.”) It taunted me (yes, it does that too), with its vertical rise of 315 feet from where I was. Few curves, no shade, just a 3/4-mile vertical wall of road with up to a 14% grade. Like a giant standing with his hands on his hips, Wilson Hill stares down and dares you to climb it.

I had almost failed before on Wilson Hill. When I first got my expensive new bike I did some training rides for the 2010 metric Marin Century (60 miles) and Wilson Hill was part of the course. With the stock gearing I found I couldn’t ride straight up this hill, I had to weave back and forth to maintain any forward motion. Twice I climbed that hill and couldn’t keep from weaving at least part of the way. So I got new gears that added three teeth to the lowest gear and that made all the difference. The irony was that the final course for the 2010 Marin Century had us come down Wilson Hill after climbing it from the east side which was longer but not as intimidating.

But I knew I could conquer this hill. I was so happy to have beaten the Marshall Wall that Wilson Hill was just a short endurance test. Near the top another cyclist passed me slowly. We greeted each other and he said he’d just gotten off work and needed to get a ride in while the good weather was still around. I rationalized that he passed me because he was fresh and I had already ridden more than 30 miles. I stopped at the summit to take in the 360˚ view of the rolling hills of rural Marin County and to send a text message to my wife that I was still alive.

The descent was a glorious, over 40 mph, 2-mile romp, dropping 530 ft in elevation down the east side of Wilson Hill. Near the bottom, on a particularly hairy bend that had me contemplating my mortality, I saw a large cluster of colorful flowers at a roadside memorial covering the bottom of a tree. Some cyclist or motorist had not negotiated that turn and had ended in tragedy. As if to underscore the point, a few hundred yards later two red-headed turkey buzzards stood on adjacent fence posts and watched me go past. Always on the lookout for road kill, several buzzards hung out at the bottom of Wilson Hill.

Next I turned left onto Chileno Valley Road. The green pastures and rolling hills were a stark contrast to the last time I’d ridden this road. That was during the 1993 Marin Century and the temperature was 107˚ in August. What were now green grasses were then dry, closely shorn stalks of straw that looked like they would spontaneously combust from the heat.

Cresting a small hill I was hit, almost literally, by a mind-numbing stench of cow manure. There were no cows to be seen, just a brown field of freshly spread fertilizer. Yes, this was “organic” but far more nature than nature intended. I forced myself to breath through my nose to filter the acrid stench, but to no avail. I needed air and in the process gulped down far more parts-per-million of cow shit than the EPA would surely recommend. I could taste it. I felt like I was riding through a slaughterhouse stockyard but there were no animals. I resolved to give myself a sinus rinse and salt-water gargle when I got home. Whatever noxious residue was in my lungs would just have to find its own way out.

In that moment I slipped into a fantasy of Miss Frizzle, of the Magic School Bus books I used to read to my children, explaining to her students how the dung in my lungs would be processed through my body. Her magic school bus became magically microscopic, entered my lungs and followed the path of the nano parts of cow poop through my bloodstream. Oxygenated blood cells polluted by bovine dung got the stink-eye from clean blood cells sloshing down the rapids of my blood vessels. Thigh muscles needing replenishing blood were fouled by the cow filth. Brain cells, already suffering from hypoxia went into a toxic reverie and, with the school children in Miss Frizzle’s class, I started reciting a Dr. Seuss-inspired poem:

“There’s dung in his lungs,” said the man with two thumbs.

“What’s strange about that?’ asked the cat in the hat.

“He’ll be bovine bamboozled and peckish and plastered

If he can’t peddle that peddler an awful lot faster!”

Gasp!

Finally free of the effects of organic air pollution, I rode on. I was still 10 miles from the end of the ride on rolling hills. It seemed to take forever. All the big challenges were conquered and this part was merely getting back to the car and finishing the ride. Finally the sign for Coast Guard Training Center came into view amid the pastures and farms. That was where I’d started. An odd location for a Coast Guard center but ideal for my purposes, especially since the quarts of liquid I’d drunk that I hadn’t already sweated off in the last three hours had now filled my bladder.

Peeling down the spandex pants in the restroom I needed to coax the important private parts from their shrunken state in order to complete the most basic of human functions. Unimportant though they had been during the ride, I was glad to free Johnson and the boys to dangle in celebration of another great ride.

Amo, La Niña. Muchas gracias.

From Alameda to Afghanistan in the Blink of an Eye

2010-03-09T20:27:00.000-08:00

“Can I call you back, Daddy? I’m talking to Jon.”

And with that my mind boggled.

Jon was in Afghanistan, my daughter was in Morocco and I was in Alameda, California, strolling outside with my cell phone. With the casual delivery of a common phrase I was stopped in my tracks.

As a Baby Boomer I suddenly felt awestruck by the technology that has become available in my lifetime and what it means to our daily lives. Here I was, casually taking a break from too much computer time and calling my daughter. Not too uncommon, except that she’s in Morocco. She, in turn was talking to her boyfriend – a Special Forces Medic in a remote village in Afghanistan.

Through the magic of cell phones, voice-over-internet-protocol (VOIP), satellite phones, and computer-based video chat programs we can talk with ease now when our time zones match up. In the fall of 2008, when my daughter first got to Morocco, we tried various methods of cell phone coverage with less than awesome results. But Apple’s iChat came in very handy for late night video calls during a particularly tough time last winter. There we were, looking at each other in real time, talking from opposite sides of the planet.

Maybe for some this doesn’t seem like such a big deal, but for a man who still remembers the first trans-Atlantic phone calls (via a cable at the bottom of the ocean), the first satellites (Sputnik & Telstar), and the first electric typewriters, it takes me aback to realize how far our communications have come in the last half century.

I still remember a trip to Disneyland at the age of 11, seeing a Bell Telephone exhibit in Tomorrowland that promised that some day we’d all have the capability to talk on the phone and see each other at the same time! They had a small black and white TV screen set up and, if you coordinated with someone on the East Coast, you could arrange to have a short telephone conversation there. Oh my god! What incredible technology. Keep in mind that personal computers were still nearly 20 years away at that time and laptops nearly 30. Viewing full color, live images of my daughter over iChat or Skype now makes me smile as I remember that seemingly impossible prediction from the mid-1960s.

It’s not just the technology but what it does to our everyday experience that becomes challenging. Here we are in the USA with two wars going on in foreign countries. For the first time in history military service members can communicate in real time with families back home, not just from R&R centers, but from the battlefield, via their own cell phones or satellite phones.

A friend of mine, Teri Mackey, wrote a book called I know It Happened Because I Heard It, A sociological study of instantaneous communication from the battlefield. In it she studies how the ability to communicate with your military family member in a war zone radically affects your life back home. She recounts one story of a soldier in Iraq who called his parents in the midst of a heavy firefight to tell them he loved them and that he wasn’t sure he’d make it out of this battle alive. Can you imagine it? I can understand the soldier’s mindset, but can you imagine the trauma to the parents? They could hear the battle raging over the words their son was saying. What a powerless moment, filled with anguish!

It’s been said that America isn’t at war it’s in the mall. And for the vast majority of Americans that’s true. Our daily lives aren’t even remotely affected by Iraq or Afghanistan unless we have loved ones in those places. We go to the mall and go about our daily lives as if nothing were happening in the rest of the world. With no military draft in place the average American finds little reason to even pay attention, beyond whatever the nightly news tells us. In past wars the prospect of being drafted or of one’s loved one being drafted gave everyone a stake in the battle.

And in past wars news traveled slower.

Before “the first Gulf war,” Desert Storm, battle reports were the work of reporters on the scene who posted daily stories with video footage (or film before that) to be broadcast a day or week or month later. Desert Storm blew us away with videos shot from the noses of missiles hitting Baghdad along with other instantaneous images. “Shock and Awe” night became something like an action movie rather than a real, deadly, dirty, gruesome war. Chanting groups of “liberated” Iraqis were keenly aware of the camera’s presence and played it up for the viewers back home. We saw whatever the camera saw and what the editors let us.

This time around the soldiers themselves have been posting videos on the Internet. YouTube has become the place for unedited, raw coverage of the war. Even the Pentagon leadership has become concerned with the access and ease that soldiers have to express themselves in blogs or videos. And we can see it all from home. Maybe the Bush administration didn’t want us seeing pictures of flag draped coffins coming home at Dover Air Force base, but soldiers in the field are showing us what it looks like when an IED blows up a Humvee.

Which brings me back to my daughter talking to her boyfriend in Afghanistan. They’re maybe not as far apart physically as we in the USA, but still her life in Morocco is far removed from his bivouac, wearing fatigues, and dodging Taliban rockets and grenades. Yet he was cheered and cheering when she shared great news of her being accepted to an Ivy League school PhD program. Mature young man that he is, he was able to rejoice with her and support her, even though his reality was so different from hers at that moment.

And maybe that’s a good thing about this instantaneous communication. While it brings the possibility of devastating news or a traumatic call during a battle, it can also be a means of helping our military members stay in touch, up to date, and feel a vital part of our lives as they fight in the cause our country sent them overseas for. Lord knows they need to know and feel our support.

So, for a moment, in the middle of my mundane workday, I was connected, however briefly, with Jon in Afghanistan, via my daughter in Morocco, and the war became a bit more personal, a bit more tangible, and a bit more real.

And as I lift Jon in my thoughts and positive energy as I do every day, he seems today less remote and much closer than before. We don’t need a cell phone for that connection, but somehow this experience helps me to more accurately speed my supportive love and energy to him.

Sunday Sunny Reprieve: a cyclist knows the feeling.

2010-02-09T20:01:00.000-08:00

This Sunday lived up to its name. It was a beautifully sunny morning in February, made all the more special because we’d had weeks of rain and I’d felt stymied in my exercise of outdoor exercise plans. Near constant wind and rain had turned the ocean into a mass of turbulent water and chemical runoff that defied any attempt at surfing. I’d also had a head cold that had thwarted my desire to bicycle even on the rare non-rainy days last week. So, having the clear sky coincide with my newfound wellness I was elated.

It had been too many weeks since I’d stretched into the spandex pants and skintight jersey that is the uniform of the road cyclist. Adding a layer against the cold I donned my chartreuse rain jacket. “Lawsuit yellow” a friend called it because if a car hit me while I was wearing this neon color then the driver was clearly at fault. Taking those first pedals into the brisk morning felt like I’d been given a day pass from prison. The whole world opened up in glorious color and a feeling of freedom.

I decided not to push myself too much because I hadn’t had decent exercise in a while, so I started on a flat bike path taking me from city streets out 15 miles to the lush hills of Sonoma County. The sunshine brought like-minded folk onto the bike path: People of all kinds walking dogs of all kinds; joggers, families on their bikes, serious cyclists and cruisers and the occasional guy just trying to get to work.

You can’t help but meet people on a busy bike path. When you’re cycling you meet many from behind so you must have proper etiquette, assertiveness, and a penchant for the unexpected. I was feeling my oats and going a little faster than the posted 15 MPH limit so I had to announce my arrival in plenty of time to allow for the vagaries of human nature.

Vagaries like people not knowing their left from right. My vocal mantra, as I approach, is, “Passing on the left,” said with just enough inflection to break through the conversation of the people ahead but not too much to cause panic. Panic leads to disaster!

At one point there were three women walking abreast, taking up the whole lane. I said, moderately loudly, “Passing on your left,” to which they all looked over their right shoulders. Actually that was preferable to having them all look to the left because people tend to walk where they look and these women would have walked right into my path. Sometimes approaching a group of two one will go left while the other goes right so I split the difference.

Walkers and dog walkers can be troublesome because they often have their ears plugged with an iPod and can’t hear my polite announcement. In one case the dog was far smarter – or had a better survival instinct - than his master. On hearing my approach and figuring I was a big enough threat to his life, the short Scottish Terrier looked over his right shoulder and scampered closer to his oblivious iPodded master.

At the tiny town of Graton, terminus of the bike path, I decided I still had enough energy to try a hill climb. I stretched, ate an electrolyte cube, and texted my wife that I’d changed plans and wouldn’t be home for another couple of hours. Then I took off up the road used by the Santa Rosa Cycling Club to separate the amateur recreational riders from their competitive clubmates. This climb is their “speed trap.” You time yourself over the five-mile stretch of hills to the summit and that tells you which category you fall into for club rides. Anything over 26 minutes and you’re in the “A” group – or slowest (i.e. amateur) group. The “B” and “C” groups are significantly faster.

A few months ago I’d done this same ride and came out at 27 minutes. An amateur. I consoled myself with saying I’d already ridden 15 miles before taking the test. That was small comfort since some of these riders are just warmed up at 15 miles, on their way to their weekly century rides. But I’m like an old car engine with worn piston rings. I’m great on the flat, but gutless on the hills. At the first sign of an incline I’m grinding away in the granny gears.

Notwithstanding, I took up my own challenge and tried not to think about times. I was thinking about the beautiful day, the smooth feel of my bike, and trying to stay alive.

Sound is important when riding on two-lane country roads with no shoulder. Some sounds are calming, like the rush of a rain swollen creek 200 feet below me down a steep embankment, almost hidden among the moss-covered tree trunks and rocks. Other sounds give a different sensation, like tires speeding up behind you. As they approach with a menacing roar I imagine how it would feel to be clipped and sent tumbling down that mossy ravine toward the creek and how long it would be until someone found me, unconscious and bleeding.

The sound of tires is louder than the sound of engines and I can tell if the vehicle is a passenger car or a pick-up truck equipped with fat, knobby tires. Even a silent Prius puts out a threatening tire roar.

As the tires approach I feel comfort when I hear the rapid-fire bap-bap-bap-bap as the tires hit the rumble bumps and reflectors along the double yellow lines. This means the car has seen me and is passing me with a wide berth. It’s when I don’t hear that sound I brace for imminent impact.

About two-thirds of the way up the summit I felt my body shut down in stages. My fingers had long ago succumbed to numbness, the result of years of carpal tunnel syndrome. My groin felt like it had grown to the size of a softball and was tingling with a not-unpleasant numbness. It felt as if I’d wrapped a Novocain-soaked handkerchief around the family jewels. Not that I’d know what that feels like, but it’s the best way I can describe it. This phantom largesse was a trick, however, because, in fact, my manhood had shrunk in its spandex corset to something more resembling a button mushroom in a thicket. The body, in it’s effort to strip blood from every non-essential muscle, had found the only one not helping it climb the hill and shut it down cold.

I know this is what happened between my legs because when I got home after my first 100-mile century ride, when I was much younger and fitter, I stripped the spandex off to get into the shower only to see my lovely wife look down and say in amazement, “I didn’t know it could get so small!”

Ah, a man longs for such validation of his masculinity.

I finally made it to the summit and glanced at my time. I was a full two minutes within the amateur group’s cutoff. By then I was numb from helmeted head to cleated foot. Hypoxia and lactic acid had robbed every muscle cell of energy and flexibility and I felt a kind of drug-free high. It was all I could do to stand, much less walk as I got off my bike. Steadying myself against a tree I removed my shoes to let blood flow to my cold and unresponsive toes.

After a few minutes, and with still numb feet, I chose the descent. Here was the reward for all that climbing.

Clicking into top gear I flew down the shaded, winding and wet descending road at a respectable 35 MPH in a 40 MPH zone, not wanting to push it on the slippery pavement. I moved toward the center of the lane to give me more room to maneuver to avoid potholes, cracks, debris and occasional rivers of water crossing the street. I also chose the center of the lane to avoid being swiped off the road by one of Sonoma County’s ubiquitous pick-up trucks.

As if on queue, a white pick-up truck came up behind, hesitated through a turn, then passed me in a hurry, giving me a prolonged blast on his horn to signal his disapproval. I waved a big, open-handed wave to blunt the insult and leave him thinking I was just another clueless cyclist. In reality I thanked my chartreuse jacket and bright strobe, red taillight for alerting the driver that I was even on the road. All I had to endure was a horn honk and not a hospital stay.

The final miles on the flat bike path were pleasant enough. I soaked up the midday sun and watched as a couple of ducks floating at about 8 knots down the full creek in what must have been their version of whitewater rafting. I reached home pleasantly exhausted and happy. And to top it off I didn’t have a flat tire this time!

Relaxing in the hot shower and regaining the feeling in important body parts I thanked the universe for my having survived another fantastic outing. An outing that put me closer to my goal of riding another century by the time I reach my 60^th birthday.

Widescreen TV to Blame for Obesity Epidemic

2010-02-04T21:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve decided that flat screen TVs are to blame for the obesity epidemic in the United States of America. Yes, wide, flat screen, plasma TVs.

You can’t go anywhere without seeing images on wide, flat screen TVs depicting fat people doing everything non-fat people used to do. When I go to the electronics store, there they are, fat, wide people prancing around on wide screen TVs. In the gym I can see a whole row of plasma TVs and on every one there are fat people talking, selling, jumping up and down on game shows, fat, talking heads on news shows, and infomercials all populated by wide, fat people. I suppose exercising while fat people are on TV can make you feel good. At least they’re not skinnier than you. Even sports athletes have become huge! Football players look shorter and much heavier now. I guess it must be the steroids.

I don’t own a widescreen, plasma TV. My CRT-style TV goes into widescreen mode if I watch a movie, but for normal TV viewing I enjoy my squarish box. I’ve also been reading books like Omnivore’s Dilemma and Skinny Bitch and Skinny Bastard to get a handle on my eating and to lose more weight. I know that food portions today are many times larger than they were when I was in high school in the ‘60s. I’ve read how high fructose corn syrup has almost single-handedly created a population of eaters who never know when they’re full and can’t help but eat too much food and drink too much soda. So I’m losing weight but the world around me is getting fatter. The evidence is on widescreen TVs.

Now, every once in a while when I travel I’ll have a plasma TV in a hotel room. When I do I see if the remote control allows me to change my reality. It should allow me to change the ratio of the TV picture. This really makes me happy. I can pick the usual 3:4 ratio instead of the pre-programmed widescreen ration and, lo and behold, I’m back to watching normal people again. The obesity epidemic stemmed at the mere push of a button. Of course 4 inches of TV screen on either side is now black, but the faces at least look normal again. I’m happy in my Ozzie and Harriet days of small screen TV and normal looking faces. For the time being the obesity epidemic is outside my room and I’m happy in my make-believe world of right-sizedness.

This begs an important question that might be at the root of the problem. Do average Americans not see that their plasma TV screens have fat people on them? Are they as oblivious to that as they are to the outrageous portions at a restaurant; the oversized fountain drinks at any dispenser? Are they as unconscious as they watch TV as they are when they buy food that is mostly corn in a myriad disguises? Do they not see their young children with soft, round faces, getting softer and rounder with each trip to the fast food place and each soda drunk with dinner?

I think that people don’t notice themselves and people around them getting fatter with the “normal” American diet of the 21^st century because when they watch TV the images mirrored back to them look exactly like them! They used to say that TV added 10 pounds to your look. Today, widescreen TV adds about 100 pounds. That svelte news anchor looks about 200 pounds now and her companion isn’t any lighter. Her face is as wide as a balloon instead of being normally elongated with nice cheekbones. It’s no wonder average Americans don’t see how obese they’ve become. All their TV hosts are fat too.

I used to think that fat people were just lazy. But then I got fat. I was also lazy and didn’t exercise then, but that’s beside the point. True laziness seems to be sitting in front of the TV for hours and never adjusting the picture to match the ratio of the incoming program. Not everything is produced in widescreen format.

What makes so many of us go out and spend thousands of dollars to buy plasma screen TVs and then sit and watch fat people all day without figuring out that people don’t really look that way? Is it because they’ve just plunked down a month’s salary on a widescreen TV and are gonna watch every inch of that widescreen even if it makes their football team look like wider Munchkins than in the Wizard of Oz? Are we so proud or unquestioning or dazzled by electronics that we can’t say, “What’s wrong with that picture? She looks huge.”

And it’s not just at home either. I was at a military briefing this week and in the briefing room was a pull-down screen flanked by two plasma screens mounted on the wall. The center screen was in proper ratio and pictures of ships and airplanes looked like ships and airplanes and words on the screen were round and readable. But the images on the two plasma screens were squashed and the words were flattened making the already too-wordy slides almost illegible. Did nobody but me notice? This is a room where admirals are briefed every day, for goodness sake. Are they all silent when faced with squashed images on a full, wide screen?

Are we so enamored of wide, flat screens that we don’t say, “I don’t care if the picture doesn’t fill the screen. I want the people to look normal goddammit!”

Well, my experience has taught me that most people really don’t even notice the fatness on their plasma TVs. I’ve pointed it out sometimes only to have people look at me quizzically and not bother to change the image. I’ve said, “Look, his head is round. It’s supposed to be oval.” Or, “Look at the basketball. It’s supposed to be round not like a rugby ball.” They look and stare, but don’t get what I’m saying. It appears that obesity has become a set point in our minds and we can’t recognize it when it’s right in front of us.

So plasma TVs are surely the cause of obesity in America. What we see on TV reflects what we see in real life and we’re OK with that. Nobody questions the image on TV and so they accept the ever-growing images they see on the street and in the mirror as well.

For the obesity epidemic to slow down or be reversed would require Americans to pay attention, read labels, educate themselves, take action, and get off their asses once in a while. It would require similar skills and curiosity to those needed to adjust the picture on their plasma TVs. Since we can’t even adjust our TVs, what are the chances we’ll do the tough work on obesity?

Age Is What You Make It.

2009-09-03T20:50:00.001-07:00

Maybe it was having to trim my rogue, long eyebrow hairs so they wouldn't get in my eyes when I surfed; or maybe it was being glad I could still touch my toes with ease; or maybe it was seeing my old lifeguard friends from the 1970s recently, but something got me thinking about being old. Not old in a drooling-on-myself-in-diapers-a-wheelchair kind of old. But older than I imagine myself to be.

This month I will be well into my upper 50s and realized that, no matter how long I live, I am past the midpoint now with fewer days ahead than have gone before. That thought doesn't bother me, but it is a marker of sorts. I still don't feel anywhere near 60. I feel about 28 years old. It's only when I look at my mottled, sun damaged skin, or feel the familiar nerve pain screeching down my legs towards the end of the day that I am forced to admit I am ever so much older than I think.

And yet "old" is a relative term. Growing up I thought my father was "old" in his 40s. But then he acted old. I can't imagine him ever riding a bicycle at that age, much less surfing; both things I still love to do and find necessary for my mental and physical well-being. I rode a century (100 mile) bike ride when I turned 40 and plan to do the same when I turn 60, albeit on a much better and more expensive bike.

I guess that's part of it: our toys have become high-dollar adult necessities. While justifying the cost of a new carbon fiber bike recently my ever-supportive wife suggested I look at it like a gym membership. Amortized over the useful life of the bicycle, or my likely term of using it, the cost was actually much less than a gym. Still I feel a little like a poseur. I'm not Lance Armstrong and won't compete as a cyclist, like one friend my age does, but I do like quality stuff and the acceptance of my cycling peers. So I will likely pay more than I want to in order to feed the illusion that I am still young, strong and healthy. Such is the marketing strategy of countless companies targeting the aging Baby Boomer population.

And so what if 60 is the new 40? As our life expectancy increases so does our need to stay fit and enjoy those years. That, to me, is where the effort is. I could be a couch potato like the next guy but I've seem what it does to me. It makes me unable to enjoy the things that make life worth living. That includes being physically and mentally sharp for my twentysomething children. So I force myself past the pain to enjoy the sports I love. Lord knows we have to actively force ourselves to stay in shape as we age. Between our increasingly sedentary work lifestyles and the oil and agriculture industries turning our food into corn by-products and sugars we don't need, it takes real effort to avoid obesity and type II diabetes.

I guess that's why it was fun seeing my old lifeguard friends in San Diego recently. In conjunction with the annual lifeguard relays, an event I used to star in as a paddler, there was a reunion of former lifeguards (one of whom was in his 90s). I recognized many of the 25-turned-nearly-60-year-old faces beneath the jowls, thicker bodies and graying hair. But it was only when I saw the group pictures of us later that I realized that I looked just like them! In my mind I hadn't aged that much. I was reminded that even though I hadn't seen them in 30+ years, I had not stayed young while they alone had aged. And yet there was a vibrancy and excitement in each of them and most were in good shape. Sure, some had fallen on hard times, but they kept going. Realities like skin cancer had afflicted many of us but, like battle scars, they were the price of an outdoor, active lifestyle (and lifeguarding before the advent of sunscreen!).

There are times I feel old. Like when the pain is just too overwhelming to relax and practice proper pain management, or when I drive an hour to the beach for the umpteenth time and find the ocean sloppy and staggering like a drunkard. In those times I long for respite and I come close to talking myself out of ever attempting such foolishness as surfing again. It's just as well I find no pain relief on the couch or lounge chair because it would be tempting to sedate myself there. No, I am blessed with a body that demands motion. I literally can't sit still for long. So getting on the bicycle is a decent alternative.

And then there are the days when the ocean cooperates and, clad in a neoprene wetsuit from head to toe, I step into the same Pacific Ocean I first tasted as a 12-year old in Oceanside. There's the rush of cold water down my neck as I duck under successive waves on my way out to the Holy Grail. There's the sheer joy of paddling on a surfboard to match the speed of an incoming wave that's traveled thousands of miles to throw itself upon our beach. Feeling it rise beneath me is like being lifted by a giant hand and flung forward. It's unlike any other sensation in the world: at once out of control and simultaneously jumping to me feet to gain control, shaking the salt water from my hair and face, riding this unique swell of heaving energy.

In that moment nothing else matters. The exhilaration is intoxicating. The only things that exist are the wave, the wind in my hair, my board and me. And for a few seconds I feel ageless.

What Comfort Zone?

2009-05-26T21:12:00.000-07:00

Standing breathless and sweaty outside the Mohammed V airport in Casablanca I tried in vain not to panic. It was 9:55 a.m. In less than 50 minutes my plane would takeoff and I had no idea how to get to it. Just a minute earlier I had confidently strode to the Royal Air Maroc ticket counter in Terminal 2 and announced my flight.

“New York,” I said.

The woman looked puzzled. “What airline?”

That wasn’t a good sign. “Royal Air Maroc,” I almost pleaded.

“Oh. You have to go to Terminal 3.”

“Terminal 3? How do I get there?” I said, fear rising in my throat.

“You have to go downstairs and take the shuttle.”

“Shokran,” I said and sped to the escalator, dragging two rolling bags and trying to keep my shoulder bag from falling.

I had flown out of this airport just four months before and thought I had it all figured out. There were just two terminals, or so I thought. I had said goodbye to my daughter, Jess, in Rabat two hours earlier and taken the train, armed with her verbal instructions and hand-made, color-coded maps of train stations and the connection to change trains in Casablanca for the airport. Up to now I had been moderately relaxed, even during the crowded, initial x-raying of bags entering the terminal, figuring an hour was plenty of time to get through the pitiful security I’d experienced last January when departing to Paris from here. Paris. On Air France. Shit. That’s the difference!

Racing down the escalator and out into the light again I felt the 85-degree heat and 99 percent humidity unleash its humorous effect on my white, panicked, tourist body. I thanked myself for wearing an undershirt and asked a sleepy security guard in a chair where Terminal 3 was. He answered me in Darija (Moroccan Arabic) and I didn’t understand either his words or nonchalant hand gestures.

Moving as fast as I could to a sign marked “Shuttle” and Hotel something, I asked the people in line, in English and French, if this was the shuttle to Terminal 3 as well as the hotel. Their disdainful looks told me they not only didn’t understand me but didn’t want to try. Just then the hotel shuttle pulled up. Rather than take my chances on a wrong bus I backed away and started toward the taxis. There were no signs to Terminal 3 so I could only assume it was more than walking distance away.

A middle-aged man came up beside me and offered, in Darija, to help me. I figured he was one of those guys who gets you a taxi and then wants a tip, but that was OK with me. At this point I was eager for some help. We walked up to the grande taxis, beaten up Mercedes Benzes that hold more people and luggage than the compact petit taxis. He started talking to the taxi drivers walking about, smoking, waiting. None of the first ones were interested in the short fare. Finally one agreed and I was on my way. My helper didn’t hang around for a tip so I chalked it up to the friendliness of Moroccans that I’d experienced many times during my 10-day stay.

In the taxi I tried to make myself understood and realized that in my panic I’d lapsed into Spanish all this time rather than my pitiful French, asking the driver to take me to “terminal tres” and holding up three fingers.

“Katklemmen l’ingleezia?” I asked in Darija.

“La. Arabie,” he responded.

We were not going to communicate in a common language.

Once on the road I finally saw a sign for Terminal 3. Thank God! But the road took us away from the airport.

Now, anyone who knows me well knows I’m an impatient driver and a terrible passenger. Sitting in the backseat of a taxi, running late for my plane, I was climbing the fucking upholstery while the driver sauntered through the surface street at a relaxed pace. Eventually the taxi driver turned back in the direction of the runway and we came to an armed gate. The signs, in French, clearly showed that this was the corporate air gate, not a passenger terminal. I was starting to lose it. I began shouting something about this not being the right place when a guard came up and spoke to the driver.

They chatted in Darija for a minute and I finally asked the guard, in English, if this was the place for Royal Air Maroc to New York.

“Yes,” he said in English, smiling bemusedly at my outright panic. “But your driver has to park first.”

We drove past lots of parked cars and I was thinking I’d have to walk back through all this so I started asking the driver to let me out, forgetting how to say “stop here,” in Darija. Luckily he didn’t understand me because we ended up at another, smaller terminal. Terminal 3!

We got out my luggage and a man came over to help. I pulled out two 5 dirham coins, figuring the trip was shorter than the one Jess paid 10 dirhams for to get us to the Rabat train station earlier that morning. The driver looked upset and held up five fingers. Incredulous, I tried to hand him one coin. Then he got offended. He did more finger miming and finally said, in French, “cinquante!”

“Fifty!” I protested loudly.

Flustered but realizing I had no room to bargain, I handed him two 20-dirham notes and two 5-dirham coins; another ripped-off tourist, glad to be walking briskly away.

At the door to Terminal 3 I tipped the baggage handler and put my bags through yet another x-ray machine. The officer there then frisked me. Whatever he was paid was surely not enough to compensate for the indignity of frisking a profusely sweating, middle-aged tourist! He finished with a smile and pointed me to the ticket counter across the terminal. I rushed directly to it but was directed around a bunch of crowd-control webbing, even though there was nobody else in the terminal, and accosted by another security guard who wanted to look in my bags.

“No seezor or niive?” he said several times while I unzipped my carry-on bag.

“No. No scissors. But I have a Swiss Army knife.”

“Sweeze army?”

I unzipped a pocket on my rolling duffel and, underwear falling on the ground, dug down to reveal my Swiss Army knife.

“OK.” He said.

Then taking pity on me asked if he could help put my stuff back and zip it all up. I saved him the indignity of handling my dirty underwear.

He pointed me to the ticket counter. I hustled over, put my bags on the scale and started to unzip my carry-on bag to get my passport. A man came up behind me and thrust his passport past me and into the hands of the dispassionate woman at the counter. Before I could say, “what the fuck?” she was processing his ticket. I stood there fuming at this breach of American/English waiting-in-line protocol while he filled out his customs and immigration form. But I’d experienced this many times in stores in Morocco. It’s not rude, just efficient - at least to them. A male employee seemed to empathize and gave me a customs form to fill out while waiting for the woman to finish issuing the first man his ticket. I began to relax just a little figuring that although the terminal was empty and everyone was onboard, the plane hadn’t taken off yet. It was 10:25 a.m. and the plane left at 10:45.

Once I got my ticket from the aloof agent she directed me to the security checkpoint. There a man looked through my carry-on bag for the second time. Then they x-rayed my bag. I took out my liquids but kept my shoes and belt on. Nobody seemed to care.

Next it was the passport checkpoint. While the man checked my passport I noticed there were two gates and my ticket didn’t indicate which one I should take. I asked the passport guy and he pointed to gate 1.

I ran down the corridor to gate 1 where an attendant took my ticket and put it through the automatic reader and handed it back to me. She motioned for me to go to the exit about 30 yards away where a few others were lining up for a bus. It was 10:30 a.m.

I moved to the appointed door only to be stopped, yet again, by another set of security people, one of whom took a third look through my carry-on bag! Another poor security agent frisked me. Then a woman asked for my ticket. She tore off the large portion and handed me back the stub. I stepped into the doorway to board the bus and a tall man stopped me!

“Next bus,” he said. “This one is full.”

OK. At least the busses were still running and the plane hadn’t left yet.

A short bus ride across the tarmac deposited us at the base of the stairs to board the plane. About a mile away it was raining warm rain. Sweat ran down my spine.

I walked onboard looking for my seat in row 40. But row 40 was the last row and there was luggage in it. I asked the flight attendant and she said the luggage belonged to the flight crew but she’d find me another seat. She offered me a window seat in row 37. The plane was half empty and nobody sat next to me.

Collapsing into my seat for the 7-hour flight I remembered that I’d told Jess I wanted to get out of my comfort zone when visiting Morocco. I smiled to myself remembering to be careful what I wished for.

As I buckled my seatbelt, the captain mercifully turned on the air conditioner.

Traveling by Road

2009-02-04T08:25:00.000-08:00

You know you’re in America’s Heartland when the word “decaf” doesn’t even register with your waitress. “Coffee,” she repeated, as if to confirm my choice and produced a steaming pot of regular coffee. Rather than confuse the short, bilingual waitress at The Owl Restaurant and Casino in Battle Mountain Nevada (designated the “Armpit of America” in 2001 by Washington Post Magazine), I took comfort that the coffee was the color of tea, rather than the rich, black color of Starbucks. This was important because not only would I be saved the jitters but I would also not be hit an hour later with caffeine-induced diarrhea 50 miles from the nearest toilet in the February-frozen desert of Nevada.

This experience of middle America came as I was driving to Salt Lake City from the San Francisco Bay Area carrying a trade show display in a white minivan. Not many minivans in Battle Mountain, only dusty sedans, pickup trucks and SUVs. I was also not in the local uniform: blue jeans. My camouflage cargo pants and tan hiking boots drew a few suspicious looks as I overheard the cashier telling a customer how she glued her teeth back in with super glue because it was cheaper than paying the dentist $100. “Heck, a dollar ninety-nine sure beats a hunnert dollars, hey?” Priceless.

I love driving through the desert, whether it’s in Utah, Arizona, Nevada or anywhere. They’re all different and there’s a stark beauty about the desert that always makes an impression. In summer it’s brutally hot, but today, in February, it's clear and cold and the scrub brush has a white coating of snow beneath. The snow clings to the shadow sides of mountains and smooth hills creating a bright contrast to the grey-brown of the vegetation, sand and rocks.

When I’m in the desert I have an overwhelming urge to strip naked and walk deep into the wild emptiness. Maybe it’s because here nature seems naked and stark. It seems wonderfully exposed, yet private. I want to feel that sense of unfettered exposure but without being seen. In our suburban life we have no privacy. We are seen by neighbors whose houses are 10 feet away, people look from passing cars and surveillance cameras of all kinds watch you in stores, parking lots, roads, airports and unexpected places. It’s gotten so bad you can’t even pick your nose without someone with a cell phone taking a video and posting it on You Tube. Some poor guy even got caught on Google Maps (street view) picking his nose. How’s that for international humiliation?

That’s why the desert appeals to me. It’s far away from cameras and the overly entertained masses. I even fantasize about making love in the desert. That kind of open-air freedom must feel great! Of course it’s a fantasy and doesn’t take into account the snakes, scorpions, coyotes and bugs you’d encounter, not to mention rocks and sand. So I keep driving and fantasizing. Even if I were to hike out into the desert someday I know I wouldn’t be totally alone. Somewhere there’d be a guy looking on a monitor linked to a satellite focused on the desert (maybe for Google Earth or the defense department) calling his buddies over to look at this middle aged man walking through the rocks and brush wearing nothing but his tan hiking boots.

But driving across this great country does offer a perspective you completely miss if you fly to your destination. As much as I love flying, there are things you miss by being transported from one city to the next, plopped back down into a hotel that is a clone of the last one with stores and restaurants just like back home, lest you be faced with something slightly unfamiliar and actually feel like you’ve traveled to a different place.

Here are some things I would have missed if I’d flown to Salt Lake City instead of driven:

- Seeing Road Trains: big rigs pulling three trailers through Utah and Nevada.
- 75 mph speed limits
- Learning that “Nevada Pinstripes” are the scratches in the paint on the sides of your pickup truck from driving through brush while hunting.
- Passing more than one “Prison Area: Hitchhiking Prohibited” sign.
- Looking up at jet vapor tails catching the pre-dawn glow, looking like purple scars across a pale blue sky.
- Mile long freight trains, sometimes stopped in the middle of nowhere.
- A dirt track stadium miles from a town, with three vintage airplanes as a kind of museum nearby.
- Getting my country music fix with songs like “Red Neck Yacht Club.”
- Pressing “scan” on the radio and having it sweep the entire FM band without finding a station.
- Solitude and wide open spaces.
- Cresting a hill and seeing the distant scene unfold before me so magnificently that I said out loud, “God, that’s beautiful!”
- Roadside memorials with little crosses, flowers and even stuffed animals.
- Eating at a local Reno restaurant with an assertive Samoan waitress who was as charmingly abusive as she was loud.
- Over lunch hearing my Nevada law enforcement friend talk about seeing a gay couple in downtown San Francisco with multi-colored, spiked Mohawks the way someone might talk about a traumatic incident.
- Telling my Nevada friend he should have gone to the Castro.
- Hearing him say he liked Sarah Palin as a serious national politician.
- Telling him I was losing respect for him with every utterance.
- Seeing wooden bridges over streams of melted snow.

- Hearing the different whine and cadence of road surfaces:
---- The rhythmic, clackety cadence of California slab freeways.
---- The grinding roughness of cement roads through the Sierra Mountains eroded in ruts by years of snow chains.
---- The high whine of Utah’s freeways.
---- A cement section in the Nevada desert that sounded like ululating women on fast-forward.
---- The restful quiet of smooth blacktop.

- Cruise control.
- The high desert in a blanket of snow.

Yes, I’ve had a couple days of magnificently stark scenery and interesting people. It sure beat hassling with airport security, thinking about terrorists and having that obese person squeeze into the middle seat on the plane. And I get to drive back again in a few days.

Safe travels to you.

Trajectory One: Change Trajectory

2009-01-18T08:56:00.000-08:00

I’ve been using the word “trajectory” a lot recently in relation to everything from weight loss to relationships to politics and the economy. It’s not a word we use everyday, unless you’re a rocket scientist calculating the trajectory of a rocket to a distant planet. But we’re all on a journey and it has an overall trajectory with many course changes that influence our final destination.

Inherent in the idea of a trajectory is inertia. Inertia resists changes in a body’s current state. If a body is at rest it will remain at rest until acted upon by outside forces. If it is in motion, it will continue moving in a straight line at constant speed unless some outside force is applied to it. Inertia can be good or bad depending on the situation.

Take something like weight gain. If we eat more calories than we burn each day we will gain weight. Maybe it’s just 100 calories a day, but over time we find ourselves overweight or obese. The inertia of our habit eventually means added pounds and the health consequences that follow.

Or take relationships. In the pursuit of harmony or our perception of some ideal relationship we can repeatedly make small compromises with our core self. We ignore the warning flags from our intuition and find ourselves so deeply entrenched in a dysfunctional relationship that it takes major force to break the inertia and save ourselves. This has been the topic of literature and movies from Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilych to the current movie Revolutionary Road with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.

Or take politics. We have presidential term limits so that the inertia of a given administration cannot go unchecked forever if it is off course. Eventually change must come and swing the pendulum in another direction, otherwise we run the risk of dictatorship or worse.

Or take the economy. The collapse of the credit markets that has wreaked havoc on the US and world economies is a product of unchecked motion along a trajectory that could only end in catastrophe. Without an outside force acting upon the rules of the game, changing the trajectory by overcoming inertia, this collapse was inevitable.

Maybe we each have only a small role in fueling economic recovery, but we can certainly affect our personal lives by thinking long-term about the daily decisions we make. In the midst of a life crisis many years ago my therapist gave me a quote I have used as a mantra ever since: “Inertia is far more dangerous than change.”

He had it posted on his wall. I posted it on mine to remind me too.

Some people make changes easily and quickly. They are decisive, forward-thinkers who seem to make things happen. Others of us are less movers and shakers and more drawn to fulfill our perceptions of safety, security, friendship, love, continuity, consistency and comfort. For many of us a routine is comfort. We want the familiar and eschew or even fear the foreign. Even if a job or relationship isn’t quite right we put up with the discomfort because at least it’s familiar, routine, and safe.

Sometimes the status quo might be the right course for a time, given the circumstances, one’s place in life, or the affect that change might have on others at that time. But often we’re just too scared to make a change that could be good for us and those around us.

Have you ever walked down the sidewalk and bumped into someone coming the other way because neither of you made clear enough course changes for the other to tell where you were going? You made tentative adjustments and neither of you could figure out which way the other guy was going. Bam! You were face-to-face with a total stranger.

Similarly, when two ships are headed towards each other at sea a prudent mariner will make a substantial course change so the other ship can tell he’s altered course. In that case, a clearly discernable change is required to avert tragedy. Sometimes our lives need a substantial change in course to avert personal tragedy or achieve a goal. This could be a change in a relationship, job, school, location or other jolt to our trajectory. A course change like this is necessary to get our lives back on track, heading in the desired direction.

The open ocean is like our lives. There are no freeways, no road signs, no lanes painted on the water to guide us. On the sea you set your course and make constant small course changes to counter the effects of wind, swell and current on the ship. You might leave the Golden Gate Bridge and set a course for Hawaii, but unless you make constant adjustments to your heading you will miss the islands and end up in Australia.

On the journey of life we have to be constantly scanning the horizon to see if we’re making progress toward our intended destination. If we’re not, then we need to make adjustments. A long-range view is essential to successfully navigating the distractions, challenges, enticements, and pitfalls that can get us off course.

I learned this lesson from a fellow Coast Guard officer candidate named Keith while we were going through the officer version of boot camp. I was whining and complaining and doubting my ability to complete the course. I had joined the service to change the trajectory of my life but I lacked the resolve to pull it off. When I spoke to Keith about it, he just calmly said, “I’m here for the duration.” He had a long-range view that saw the end as accomplished. He didn’t let all the BS thrown at him distract him from his goal. I decided to embrace his long-term attitude and we graduated together a few months later. Nearly 30 years afterward I am grateful for that lesson and the shift in trajectory that influenced every part of my life since then.

I keep re-learning that lesson in different areas of life. I’ve been applying it to weight loss, fitness, travel, job choices, friendships, and generally getting out of my “comfort zone” and experiencing more of life. It’s so easy to let the inertia of life move us along without conscious effort. But inertia is far more dangerous than change.

None of what I’ve said here is rocket science. It is not even new. You knew it already. But it is good to remember once in a while.

VP Debate: Sex vs Logic

2008-10-03T18:07:00.000-07:00

I woke up the morning after the vice presidential debates feeling vaguely dirty and groggy, but sexually aroused. It was like the feeling you get after a date when you realize the person you fell in love with in the flirty, hormone-charged excesses of the evening is not nearly so attractive in the light of day.

As I brushed the taste of the night from my teeth it dawned on me that I felt foolish and cheated. Once again a woman had tried to seduce me only to pull back at the critical moment and not deliver the rewards her smiles and winks had promised.

Sarah Palin didn't debate that night; she seduced. Joe Biden debated, somewhat factually, with a stern face bordering on anger at times. He used logic. Palin flirted with the issues and the American viewers, flashing that high-beam, wide-eyed smile with an occasional wink. She ignored the questions that she didn't understand but it seemed we didn't care as long as she was seducing us with that "doggone" charm of hers. She smiled disarmingly when telling Joe Biden he was full of it and looked directly at the camera, to Joe Six-Pack and soccer moms in living rooms everywhere.

I found myself, undoubtedly like millions of others (males, at least) starting to like her against my better judgement. Her smile was winning me over. Her scattered, stumbling, idiotic performance on the Katie Couric interview was replaced by a sound-bite assured Sarah, confident in her new makeover. She had been well coached and rehearsed and stuck to her script when the questions got the least bit out of her wading pool depth.

And she sold her sex. No male politician could have done what she so brazenly did at that debate. She used the sexy, spunky seduction that some women have mastered to blind us to the fact her answers lacked detail and she lacked the qualifications to be president (according to the Constitution the qualifications for VP are the same as those for president). And we liked her for it.

I can imagine Joe Six Packs all over America lapping up her vivacious sexiness. She has been called a MILF and she played that role to the hilt. Middle-aged men in middle America - and even a pundit or two - were smitten. Some guys will relive that fantasy until November 4th. But for me the magic of the night vanished and clearer thinking came back.

As I contemplated my political hangover while shaving, I realized I felt dirty because Palin had lied. Not so much with her words - although she did her best to play dirty politics - but she lied with the sexual "come-on" approach. In the end she didn't deliver either the implied sex or the political depth implied in being the VP running mate.

She used her sexual deception to distract us from her political naivete and we became tacit approvers by allowing her to skip important questions and rant on using her rehearsed comments instead.

Biden's problem was that he tried to fight Palin with logic. He provided heaps of evidence and real history but he was talking mostly to the choir. Joe Six pack had turned him off in favor of having his libido tickled. Arousal is a strong emotion and emotion trumps logic most of the time. Just look at all the sex scandals if you want proof. One 24-year old man I spoke to joked that he watched the debate with the volume turned down and his hand in his pants. He didn't really, but the sexuality of it wasn't lost on him. Such is the effect of a cock tease on the testosterone-driven mind of some men.

To be sure I wasn't reading more into the Palin problem I raised the seduction idea today to a group of a dozen male and female colleagues. They guys instantly agreed. The women didn't get it. The men knew they were being winked at and smiled at and talked to in that folksy come-on way of hers. They've seen it a hundred times from car sales to romances. Seduction and sex sells. Women and sales execs have used it for centuries to get what they want.

So who won the debate? If you consider political experience, logic and the gravitas to run the United States of America, then Joe Biden won, hands down. But if you consider that voting is an emotional issue for much of the electorate then Sarah Palin won, hands in our pants.

The Real Paul Newman is Gone

2008-09-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

Fifteen days ago, in my first blog (see "Being the real Paul Newman" below), I wondered aloud whether Paul Newman's death might have more effect on me than my own father's death a decade ago. That might sound callous to the rest of my family, but when I found out this morning that Paul Newman (the actor) died yesterday I did feel grief.

It took a while to rise. I had no impulsive burst of tears or emotionality, but a rising sense of something deep and subterranean having shifted. As I discussed it over breakfast with my wife, trying to explain the strange relationship to this famous man I'd never met yet was inexorably linked to, I found myself close to tears. Not for Paul Newman, but for the release that comes with self-revelation of something deeply meaningful.

I realized that I've carried this very personal story in my core that nobody (except other Paul Newmans) has experienced; a story of daily living in a relationship with the actor. It wasn't a symbiotic relationship, but more of a commensalism where I benefitted from him but he was oblivious to me. Yet my life has been shaped by my identification with him.

The actor shunned autograph hounds and avoided the Hollywood life on purpose, yet without my willing it I am greeted daily by his fans even though I clearly am not he. People meet me and we talk about him. It's not that I'm invisible, but that he's an immense figure to get beyond before people see me. If I were truly Paul Newman's son I suppose it would be expected and I'd also have the burden of trying to live up to his hallowed reputation. But being neither related (except possibly distantly) nor even knowing him it is strange to have so much of my life lived in his echo.

Apparently the actor liked a good joke, so he might have been amused today that my son received three text message condolences this morning from his friends. It shows a sharp wit to find a little dark humor in the moment. And yet this proves my point even more. The echoes of the actor reverberate through my family too.

Had my mother named me Damien rather than Paul, as was her initial thought, I might have been fine until the Omen movies came out in the late 70s. I suppose all names come with some baggage. The name Paul is usually translated "small" or "humble" which I internalized at an early age. But sharing the same name as the actor who the Associated Press said today was "the superstar who personified cool" helped me become much more than small, humble, Paul. He helped me reach outside my introverted shell to become a successful, confident man.

I am grateful to Paul Newman that he was handsome, successful, played anti-hero characters, and stood for decent things in his personal life. Things like his charities and The Hole in the Wall Gang camp for children with serious illness. I'm grateful he raced cars and didn't chase women: "I have steak at home why go out for hamburger?" He was more than a movie star and chose to enrich people's lives. My life was enriched in the process.

So is it any wonder I feel sadness and a sense of loss at his passing into the next level?

(See the blog at the bottom for more on Paul Newman)

Out of Body, Out of Mind

2008-09-27T04:57:00.000-07:00

My recent reading has gone from physics to metaphysics and what we usually consider psychic. All scholarly stuff, not "wooo wooo" weird stuff. And it's got me intrigued and posing the usual questions about what we believe, why we believe it, and - more importantly - what happens when we try to change our beliefs?

For most of us our beliefs, religious and otherwise, are a product of what we were taught, experienced, and what we were able to accept as plausible and true. Unfortunately for us, humans believe all kinds of things that are just plain not true, or skewed from truth, and they hold us back from reaching our potential. Politics is a good example of the varied things people believe, and will stake their vote upon, even in the face of facts to the contrary, or evidence that they're voting against their own self-interest.

But I want to talk about our religious beliefs. Almost all religions are based on sacred texts written hundreds or thousands of years ago. We revere these texts as though they were deposited by alien beings with supernatural intelligence that has somehow faded form the earth in the intervening years. In no other area of life do we use ancient writings to guide our daily lives. We want the latest technology, the latest scientific information, the latest foods, even the latest fads. But when it comes to what we believe about the spiritual world (and our world in the spiritual context) we look askance at anything new, preferring to go back to "Sacred Scriptures" written ages ago. Pick a religion. Almost all, except maybe Scientology, have this in common.

So what's wrong with that, you ask? Everything!

We're so scared to deviate from our religious precepts, or maybe we've been so mentally abused by pastors, priests, rabbis and other religious leaders into fearing anything that isn't "scriptural" that we cut ourselves off from vast new information about the spiritual, or non-physical existence. Often, anything not explained in our scripture is considered "of the devil." The witch trials of years ago are but one example. It still goes on today, except we just ostracize and vilify people today, calling them occult, satanic, lunatic fringe, or lost.

But what of the person with real "psychic" abilities? Let's say a devout member of our religion has, without seeking them, premonitions or intuition, or extra-sensory perception that give them access to information the rest of us don't have. Are we to label that person satanic? Maybe we should listen and learn.

Few of us stop to think that, in the Christian religion, for instance, most of spiritual events in the Old and New Testaments were new things at the time. They didn't have a Bible to turn to and say, "Hmm, let's see, a burning bush? Nope. Never happened before. Must be satanic!" Some did accuse Jesus of working miracles by the power of the devil yet today we accept all these radically bizarre events. What would you do if you saw tongues of fire descend on people today and they all started speaking different languages, a la Pentecost? Pretty strange stuff! But we have been conditioned to accept these and reject anything new, as if spiritual phenomena just up and quit somewhere a few hundred years ago.

Well, the "truth" is, spiritual phenomena have been going on unabated for centuries. People have been silenced or otherwise keep their experiences to themselves in fear of ridicule or worse. But the other-worldly has been affecting people and their beliefs continuously. There are a few events that have been given the official seal of approval: various apparitions of Mary come to mind. But even these are scoffed at by more fundamentalist believers.

Yes, thousands of people alive today have experienced such things as out-of-body events and near-death events that took them places they never dreamed - even if that meant just a few feet above their body on an operating table during surgery or childbirth. Some people have traveled across the world in an instant to be near a loved one then returned to their own physical bodies. Others have been to places of such intense beauty they can't describe it when they return.

So what are we to make of these? Are these people crackpots? Lunatics? Deluded fools? I don't think so. They're people like you and me who have had experiences that convinced them of an alternate existence, other planes, and the illusory nature of what we think of as solid reality. Many have a hard time shoe-horning their experiences into previous religious beliefs, but they know what they know and there's no going back.

The world needs more spiritual adventurers and fewer skeptics, particularly when it comes to finding answers to the problems facing us today. Perhaps we could benefit from their experiences and the knowledge they bring back. But we have to conquer our fear first. And that's another topic altogether.

The Nature of the Universe

2008-09-17T19:07:00.000-07:00

Several recent events have me contemplating the nature of the universe again and once again being in wonder at it all.

First was a couple of lengthy conversations with a young woman about Jesus, Christianity and her study of Leviticus. Second was a book I was given for my birthday called The Holographic Universe, from my mentor and spiritual guide, my mother. Third was a series of conversations with and books from my daughter, a mentor from the opposite end of the age spectrum. These books dealt with man's headlong destruction of the planet in search of more Big Macs and Porterhouse steaks; Vegan - The New Ethics of Eating and The Omnivore's Dilemma.

I list the books so you know from whence commeth my influences and to allow you to read them if you so desire.

You'll note a tilt toward female mentors/friends. That's because, for the most part, I find average men to be uninterested in these topics. Male authors abound and all the above books are written by men, but I have yet to find a man in my circle of daily contact who wanted to discuss much more than the latest sports game or favorite alcoholic beverage. That's the topic of another blog, so for now we'll leave it alone.

The foregoing instances created a kind of synergy that re-ignited my quest to know more about how the universe works and how our little planet will survive - or how humans will survive, given the current and projected ecological, political and economic chaos.

For the truly depressed there are even books out now that project what Earth will be like when all the humans are gone. As if the annihilation of humans was a fait accompli these authors look at how Earth will return to some kind of Eden-like stasis, having rid itself of the human virus.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I'm still fascinated by my very limited understanding of quantum physics and how that plays into our understanding of reality. Is what we see real or is it, as some suggest, an illusion? A hologram? Is this really the Matrix we're living in? Could I really fly or transport through walls if I just "got it" sufficiently to never be bound by what I saw but what I knew reality to be?

What about Jesus? I wonder if he was just a man who "got it" enough to break the shackles that kept everyone else bound to their concept of reality. Couched in religious terms and written by first century believers, the Christian gospels still tell a story of someone who seemed to transcend what we understand to be the laws of nature and the universe. But maybe that only shows the limitation of our creative thought or our timidity to buck our religious regime.

I have many quarrels with our deification of the Bible, but if we accept, for a moment, that what was written about Jesus was true; that he healed people, walked on water, created wine from water, rose from the dead, transported through walls after his resurrection, etc., then we need to radically adjust our concept of the rules. To just say Jesus was "the son of God" and drop all further inquest is a cop-out, in my opinion and absolves us of reaching farther into our own potential as sons/daughters of that same creator.

What if it is true that we really could do the things Jesus did, as he said we could? What if "solid" walls were permeable if you just understood that they were merely made of energy vibrations and not solid? What if you understood that, at the smallest, sub-atomic level, all that wood and plaster was a quivering mass of energy that you could alter with your mind? Or better yet, like in the Matrix, you just cease to believe in the illusion and act as if the impermeable was permeable.

Acting "as if" is what belief is. To believe you can do something, heal someone, etc., you have to act as if it has already happened. That's the rule, both inside the Bible and out. It doesn't work any other way. That's how major accomplishments, from building skyscrapers to expanding McDonalds to the last reaches of the planet, denuding forests for grazing land in the process, have been done. Entertaining doubt will have you banging your head against the wall. Acting as if it is already reality - and not looking back - is the basis of real faith. But we are responsible for what we put "out there" into the cosmos to be fulfilled. Great good and great harm can both result from our faith.

I haven't tried walking through walls yet (at least not while anyone was looking) but I have found belief or faith, that works when I act "as if" and leave the rest to that entity we call god, spirit, energy, or whatever. It is actually easier than it seems. The struggle is not in believing. The struggle is in not trying to figure it our for myself and tell "god" how to do it my way.

Letting go of the outcome, or of how it is accomplished, frees me to be a observer of the fascinating way the spiritual side goes about its business. It might take more or less time than I anticipate, but the outcome will assuredly be more satisfying and more universally complete than if I had tried to accomplish the same thing on my own. The process requires me to be very tuned to my intuition so I will pick up the cues and clues of the universe. The interconnectedness of the universe, the holographic nature if you will, starts to become evident and I realize there is much going on I do not understand. I have learned to be comfortable with such ambiguity.

From that place of expectant bliss it is easy to see why most religions are ultimately hindrances to spiritual growth. Stuck in manmade laws and anthropomorphic understandings of the supernatural, religion - certainly Christianity - becomes a box from which it impossible to extricate oneself without breaking faith. It becomes the antithesis of what Jesus said and was. Maybe he had to break faith with the religion of his time to show us the Way.

I could go on for hours but this is just a blog. Try this: Stare at the stars sometime and see if it doesn't make you feel wonderfully small, insignificant and ignorant. What we know is as infinitesimally small as the smallest, flickering star, compared to the rest of the universe. I love that place of wonder.

Being the real Paul Newman

2008-09-12T19:16:00.000-07:00

"Are you the real Paul Newman?" she asked on the other end of the phone. My choice of responses would determine if I was truthful, a liar, or felt sadistic enough to string someone along for my own enjoyment, which I have done from time to time. I once even created an elaborate story of working with Tom Cruise on The Color Of Money for two totally, like, clueless teenage girls who, although I was standing right in front of them, obviously had no idea what the "real" Paul Newman looked like.

For those older than 50, the name Paul Newman is synonymous with great acting, drop-dead gorgeous blue eyes, and every woman's sexual fantasy, not salad dressing. Long before he made popcorn, spaghetti sauce, fig Newmans and organic Oreo-style cookies, he was the best leading man in Hollywood movies. So what, you say?

Well, when you live under the influence of someone else's name all your life it matters what they are famous for. God-forbid my name had been Charles Manson or Adolf Hitler. I might have become a recluse or severely mentally scarred by the implied and actual rejection of most people in the non-murdering class. To my relief, I was co-named (not named after, since he wasn't famous when I was born) for a guy with good looks: think Matthew McConaughey if you've never seen a young Paul Newman picture.

As soon as you introduce yourself, people have an automatic reaction to your name. In my case it was also someone else's name; a famous name. They spout the first thing that comes to mind; something they usually think is unique and witty. (It never is, trust me). I've been able to track the public's perception of Paul Newman, the actor, through these comments.

Many years ago it was "Hey! Cool Hand Luke! (chuckle, chuckle). Can you really eat all those hard boiled eggs? (chuckle)."

Or, "Hey Butch Cassidy! How's Robert Redford? (guffaw, snort!)"

Then it was "How's The Color of Money? (chuckle, chuckle). "What's it like working with Tom Cruise? (snicker)"

The really special ones asked me how Joanne was (his wife is actress Joanne Woodward).

In the early years, when I was too young to have seen his movies, people would say, "Hey, are you a Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? (chortle!)" I would just smile that childish, befuddled smile that tells a grownup that he/she just made a total fool of him/herself in front of a child who doesn't get it.

Many years later there were the comments about auto racing, then came the popcorn, salad dressing and all that other do-gooder charity stuff that still made me feel positive about my pseudo self, even though I mourned the decline in public awareness about the actor's acting. His audience was aging, slowly drooling on themselves from elder care facilities, in diapers, unable to eat his cookies because of Type II Diabetes.

But when I was old enough to realize that my name could attract more than two-seconds' interest from the girls around me I decided I was blessed and thanked the actor that he was handsome and a hearthrob.

His good looks, however, could work against me too. Nobody looked as handsome as he and so I was always a curiosity but no match for the "real" Paul Newman. When I was an adult and traveling, I could get great response booking hotels over the phone... until I showed up in person. They say that the gap between expectation and reality is disappointment. Well, I disappointed a lot of expectant hotel clerks (male and female) who were salivating or otherwise lubricating for the "real" Paul Newman. Once, to my relief, there was already another Paul Newman at the hotel, so I was a mere duplication at that point.

Once, the Andy Williams golf tournament was doing its annual thing at the Torrey Pines golf course in La Jolla and I got a call asking if I'd go on the radio and act as if Paul Newman was inviting people to the golf tournament. Apparently they'd scared up a few others with famous names in an attempt fool the public into thinking the "real" celebrities would be there. I declined. No sense in adding real deception to the facade I lived on a daily basis.

Living with a famous name also alters one's life goals. I enjoy acting but could never have been a professional actor with a name like Paul Newman. I wanted to write books but couldn't decide on a nomme de plume, because writing as Paul Newman was tantamount to fraud! No name I tried had the excitement of my real, yet borrowed, name. So I did things "he" didn't do. I became a surfer (long before Matthew McConaughey was even born, dude), a San Diego beach lifeguard, a military officer, then retired. He lived in Connecticut, I lived in California. He stayed married to the same woman for most of his life... well, so did I.

I don't think of him when I say my name. I truly own it as my own. But having the same name has made my social interactions, every single day for more than half a century, inexorably liked to who he is. People don't know me as my father's son, they know me as Paul Newman. They remember my name far better than I remember theirs - which sucks at parties when I try to call someone by their name and have forgotten it!

As "he" is in his 80s now and there are rumors about ill health, I find myself thinking that his death might have more impact on me than my own father's did more than a decade ago. After all, I've lived with Paul Newman's legacy , reputation and public opinion since I was old enough to know who he was. The journey of my life, from timid child to self-assured adult, from introverted to socially comfortable, has been with him as a silent partner - an alter ego. Every single day I am reminded not that I am related to my father or mother, but that in a bizarre way I am related to Paul Newman, the actor.