The Thickening Plot

The answer please.

You will no doubt recall yesterday's two-part quiz.

When we leaked some juicy research that validates our feeling that this IS a story worth exploring, in the least, and chronicling in a factual and detailed celluloid manner, at best.

That is our goal. To give this story justice in the form of movie story-telling. That means, to start, a treatment or, going right to the jugular, the screenplay.

We are now, officially, in research mode. Just this morning, as I continue to refine the 'pitch' version of this sprawling epic tale, I got yet another 'wow, really?' response. The pitch, formal or otherwise, ended with discussion of the associated costs. Why not start a go fund me page? Because I would have to spill the story beans and there are thousands of writers and studios out there who would love to have somebody do all the work for them, up front and free. Meaning I have two options: Self fund or find 'that somebody'. Intriguingly after the "wow, really?" came a, "I know somebody".

In the old days I would say something to the effect that I will wait by the phone. However, if my experience has taught anything it is to keep moving, act, push, and should a call with an unknown caller ID land, I'll inquire. Not holding breaths. But.

A half a point on quadruple break-even is starting point and we can negotiate down from there. Kidding.

Now to the answer.

Too wet on the southern Oregon coast even in early September to start a massive forest fire with just two incendiary bombs (even at 340lbs apiece).

To keep you in the loop, here are two more accounts of Nobuo Fujita and his connection to Brookings, Oregon. Part One and Part Two.

He is Imperial Japanese Pilot with a 400 year family tradition of Samurai as well as the answer to an unbelievable WWII historical (I can't call it trivial) question.

He was the only pilot to drop a bomb (he actually totaled 4) on American soil during WWII. You probably know by now where that occurred.

It will be my first stop in recording historical accounts and B-Roll capture. With any luck at all I might even catch the Azalea Festival.

Fire in the Hoh

I am sure there were many more. Military blunders. Faulty intel, spy activity, somebody too far from the front making the call by radio, weather, troop movement, counter insurgencies. The list runs long as my honey dew list.

But this one one is priceless. It was actually a strategy. It was ordered by the top brass. And while it made some sense on a superficial level, as in 'how about this?', the detail was sadly lacking.

I'll give you the plan today and tell you the result tomorrow. Won't that be fun?

Japan: Drop incendiary bombs on the West Coast of the US to ignite a forest-fire from Canada to Mexico thereby creating a heated distraction from the Pacific battlefield. This, three years after Pearl Harbor.

Great idea, eh?

Granted there were a few severe logistical challenges and one or two minor feasibility others, but, all in all, considering the momentum of the allied forces, what else could you do this side of surrender?

Here is a recap of what happened and where. It is central to our story. Research has begun and today I spoke with a good friend who, as well as being bi-lingual still has relatives in Japan who were alive when all this bloody gamesmanship was going down.

I will give you a solo hint: When would be a good time of year to start a fire in a rain forest?

Stacking Stones

The basis of moral principles is to have a real concern for the well-being of others and an appreciation of the oneness of humanity. Whether science or religion is constructive or destructive depends on our motivation and whether we are guided by moral principles. Dalai Lama.

Applaud us when we run, console us when we fall, cheer us when we recover. Edmund Burke.

This debate rests at the epicenter, the heart of the matter. Somewhere below the left atria, yet above the right ventricle, is where it all comes together. Oxygenated blood in, oxygenated blood out. Like data, the better the flow, the more credible the intel, the more accurate and objective, the better the chances of success. Truth, like blood, flows better when clean, filtered and reliable.

The issue popped up last night like a red flare. The subject was politics, and the mood, timing and audience was anything but ready and willing. Someone asked of my nephew (you already know him to be sharp, smart and cautious) of his opinion of the state-of-the-state, a question obviously as proxy for slam on the guy in charge. Even I was shocked and had to bite my tongue when he replied, tactfully, that he was 'neutral'.

Needles to say I prepared all night for this morning's lift session, where I would enjoy a one-on-one with the party sitting on neutral's fence. The attempt would, in the soul of my mind's eye, be like stacking stones on the beach.

I spoke of passion, both with Junior and in our 0845 indoor cycle session, offering my experience and emotions on the need for us all to summon the courage to choose one side or the other, and then give it all we have. Neutral is nothing. Nowhere. Neutral implies that you don't care OR won't take the time necessary to research, inquire or seek. It implies laziness and lack of commitment. No curiosity.

YOU DON'T CARE THAT WE ARE LOSING OUR DEMOCRACY AND GIVING OUR FREEDOMS TO A FASCIST CABAL OF KLEPTOCRATS?

YOU ARE NEUTRAL ABOUT THAT?

REALLY?

All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. Edmund Burke.

Bread

Stopped by to visit Dad before heading back out to the PB for our Sunday morning movie ride (today a not-so-brief Blade Runner 2049), and was immediately ambushed by my visiting sister and local brother.

RG, as you will recall went to the ER on Friday because his left knee had swollen to the size of a grapefruit, causing severe pain. My assessment being that transport via my truck, and hence saving the expense of a ride in the Red Cadillac, was not possible due to the pain that even a touch produced. At one point I was on hold with his health care provider on TWO phones and after twenty minutes I decided to end one and dial 911. Mo dough out de do.

I spend the next six hours trying my best to negotiate an ER diagnosis, manage his pain and figure a way to simply get through the weekend without further incident or accident.

I arranged communications with the hospital staff, left three numbers and sped off towards the Barn, about 40 miles away. En route I alerted the parties as to their pick-up and return transport responsibilities and opened the Barn for business one minute late.

He was ready for release at 9 with the diagnosis of gouty arthritis. I should have gone down myself instead of relying on the two ladies, but, in self defense, I was bushed and sound asleep when they called with the update.

Saturday and today were exercises in chaos management. My sister was upset that I had let things get this far and my brother was calling me out for gross negligence. As I told then both once emotional order was restored, my default tactic is one of self defense and then to launch a counter offensive. Block and jab. Duck and hammer.

This is, I am sure,  something thousands of capable people struggle with every day. Care for the aged, managing Mom or Dad's medications, nutrition, physical therapy, hospital visits, finances, etc, etc, is a full time job, most times I will wager, done at the expenses of a family member who more likely than not, is already juggling a full plate of their own.

I know I am.

So I run between my cabin, Dad's apartment, my house/dog sitting responsibilities, the Barn, the store and gas station, trying to make sense of it all, or, failing that, make it as efficient and effective as I am able.

Leaving me constantly with one nagging question/comment. Is there a better way to accomplish all this without owning all the bread in the bakery department? Is, as seems the case, health care and compassionate end of life management something for the elite class only?

And if so, why?

Somewhere Between

One of the main issues we will be exploring over the course of the treatment (screen-play) is the obvious one.

As The Manhattan Project delivered (under extreme stress) to Harry Truman atomic bombing capabilities, would/should the use of such a lethal device and the estimated civilian casualties certain to ensue, carry sufficient weight in the sacrifice of human lives to save (potentially) more lives by ending WWII? Further, if Truman's decision was purely a political one, why was unconditional surrender of Japan so important, especially since they were, allegedly, already in agreement to a 'conditional' surrender when the strike was launched?

Ah, man's inhumanity to man. We have, indeed met the enemy.

While this morality play unfolds as perhaps the second or possibly third plot line, it has always represented an interesting debate in my personal book of morals and ethics. I am honored to have the assignment to reflect and investigate, cognizant of the fact that even a flawless debate will still leave 50% of the audience unconvinced to whichever side of the coin I choose to call. 

The important point here is not (for me) to try to swing viewpoint to my side, rather, to offer an interesting perspective, and (with any luck or skill at all) do it in an entertaining and accurate manner.

I have tested the waters a bit in the last few days trying to garner immediate reactions to the general outline, concept and overall treatment. Almost everyone I have trusted with a truthful comment has raised an eyebrow in response to my broad strokes painting. This is the good news. The bad news is that as this water has been tested and proved (to my satisfaction) to be warm, clean and inviting, the next step is the hardest.

Getting started.

Research has begun. Here are two opinions of the morality theme, one from a Japanese viewpoint and the other the 'standard' US story and slant.

Somewhere between the two lies, I believe, an interesting story.

Warm up

Nice warm-up.

I say that a lot. Mostly to illustrate that what you once (as recently as ten seconds ago) thought was work, suffering and pain, was nothing of the sort. It was, as the opening suggests, merely a warm up. Or, as Cormac McCarthy might phrase it, 'if that isn't a warm-up it will due until the real one arrives.'

We have been back working daily on our writing. Guess I can dispense of the plural and admit that it is all but a singular attempt on my part to add some discipline, consistency and routine to this endeavor, but truth be known (always our my goal) that is just the half of it, creativity in story telling, continually pleading for a bigger part in the drama.

And today, it is my EXTREME pleasure to announce that as a direct result of this exercise, we now have a plot. An outline. An idea. Yes, dear readers it is time to break out the 3x5 index cards and start anew. 

If you, as I, are a fool for back story, I will sketch the way this brainchild was conceived.

My last screenplay was about the USS Indianapolis, The Enola Gay, and the incendiary conclusion to WWII. One would think that with all that as historical backdrop it would be easy to fit in an interweaving sub-plot or two to dial up the conflict. As hard as I tried to do so, every attempt was discarded by my inner editor as either too cheesy, hokey or inappropriate. Despite the fact that at the time of writing I had the US Navy as a willing consultant (being on a US Naval Facility charged with the morale, welfare and recreation of almost 5,000 sailors and contractor personnel), cross cutting a love story as yin to the inhumanity of war's yang, proved a bridge too far. I dropped the project, wrapped the index cards in butcher paper and bound them with a large green rubber band. That parcel has been collecting dust since 1996.

Two days ago my sister hit town to visit Dad. As we were catching up I asked about her daughter, my niece. They had moved three years ago to a 40 acre slice of Heaven in Northern California, very close to the Oregon border. As we exchanged notes, I recalled that Medford is my gateway to Crater Lake and she that the kids often drive into Brookings, OR for tax-free gas, something odd happened. Thoughts swirled, atoms crashed and memories rushed to the subliminal surface.

This perfect storm of inspiration met its target yesterday as I wrestled with the effects of whatever was in that anesthesia cocktail that knocked me so completely to the colonoscopy canvas.

I awake in a panic. I am sweating. I don't remember how I got here, but it appears that I am in my own bed and it is, (craning neck to see the diodes) 0345. I know that I have to get up in an hour to sub a spin class. But something has reached critical mass of my consciousness. It is in the form of a question.

Why the gap between Pear Harbor, December 7, 1941 and the bombing of Hiroshima on August 6, 1945?

Almost four years.

Why?

Nice warm-up.

Hurts like Hell

Totally painless. The worst part was the prep. Glad it is over.
I have been told that I am the rare bird that waits until 65 to first partake in the ritual known as the colonoscopy. But partake we did with the good news that everything looked fairly sanitary, the one exception being a small, and normal I am told, polyp. I was asked to return in three years for a follow up.

Please remember that all this is still part of the initial exploratory plan to determine why I suffer from bouts of dizziness, lethargy, syncope, hypotension and fatigue.

Post insert surgery, and as the unpleasant symptoms increased in frequency, the good medical staff at UW Med started down the list of potential causes for the malaise. We did sleep apnea, depression, internal medicine and now the latest round completed just a few hours ago.

We have no clue, and I don’t know where they might want to go from here. Truth be told I am becoming accustomed to the reality of dealing with weird stuff, so I might re-direct all physical analysis towards my hip (piriformis syndrome) and see if we can non-surgically remedy that ailment so at least I can run again. If I should die of prostrate cancer while running down that path, so be it. I am sure Madame Pele would get a laugh out of that one.

Begging the question, what can I do to aid and abet my own health and fitness, be a little more pro-active and continue the quality control tweaking process?

And I know the answer. Or one of them.

I already workout every day, get enough sleep and eat no meat. Leaving a two-headed culprit laughing in the cross-hairs.

I, admitted with extreme sadness, have been negatively affected by all the vile, disgusting and criminal actions of the current so-called administration. It is no secret that I am not a Trump fan. It is also no secret that I believe him to be everything wrong with America, from his callous bigotry, misogyny, and nepotism, to an alarming constitutional ignorance and ultimately, alleged treason. He is a blatant racist and chronic liar bent on class warfare flying a white supremacist flag of deceit, greed and violence. His lack of integrity is matched by a totally devoid code of honor. Except perhaps among his thieving cronies.

Point being, that trying to keep up with Robert Mueller and his investigation has challenged by best efforts to keep a balanced and calm perspective. This shit pisses me off. We are doing the same things that we spent the last 150 years ‘fixing’. Worse, this bozo continually fans the flames of racial violence and the aforementioned class warfare. Since I have taken a ‘vow of resistance’ and will not rest until he, his family, and cabinet are all wearing orange jumpsuits, my stress management is dependent upon two things:

1) Rachael Maddow and MSNBC, and,
2) Fermented hops in accompaniment.

In closing today, please be advised that the ’totally painless’ opening statement applies to having a camera rammed up my ass, and not the same metaphorical procedure being administered to America by this cabal of kleptocrats.

I can deal with the medical procedure, the political one however, hurts like hell.

Lucy

It has been billed (OK mostly by me) as the hardest thing known to man. I use this type of hyperbole for two reasons. One to plant the seed of contextual drama, and two to illustrate that despite its lofty and near impossible goal, we can still offer our best efforts as strategic intent.

The old impossible dream. I try to psyche them out a little in order to replace their inherent fear with the deep satisfaction that comes only from courage in the face of fire.

I am talking about the set we call Super Eights. Here is the exact protocol, as modified and perfected over about six or seven years:

• Ten minute warm up.
• Five minutes in Groove Zone.
• 30 seconds @ 85% of RPE max.
• 90 seconds @ 7/120 recovery (30 seated, 30 standing, 30 seated)
• REPEAT FIVE TIMES.
• Five minutes in Groove Zone.
• 30 seconds ALL OUT.
• 90 seconds @ 7/120 (30-30-30)
• REPEAT EIGHT TIMES.
• Five minutes in Groove Zone.
• 30 seconds @ 85% of RPE Max.
• 90 seconds @ 7/120 recovery (30-30-30)
• Cool down, stretch, floor stretch.

The metrics we use for validity are watts and heart rate. The real quantifier is whether or not you can, with brutal honesty, rate your efforts as either 85 or 100%. This is where I talk about finding the answer in your soul, not your head or heart. Not surprisingly this is also where I start to get questions (in the form of blank stares). What is this should thing you are talking about and where can I find it anatomically? Or, conversely, why does a '48 Chevy Pickup had tons more soul than anything made today?

This morning, as our core group of type AAA gorillas were ripping through the set, I glanced to my left and saw a very interesting sight. Lucy, an overweight High School Junior had an absolutely angelic visage. She was in the zone, generating big watts and absolutely glowing. This was the first time that she, in my assessment, committed to the protocol. The rewards were obvious to all who cared to witness.

After the killer set as I circled the room dispensing the usual accolades and fist bumps, I stopped in front of Lucy's bike, addressed her by name and held her gaze in appreciation of her outstanding performance.

Drenched in sweat, she smiled broadly and all but whispered, thank you.

No Lucy, THANK YOU!

You a Doctor now?

While yesterday was about (more) of my experiences with atrial fibrillation slash bracycardia and its sometimes worrisome side effects, today we make a filial pivot and talk about RG. RG, Roseville George, is my Dad. He is 85 with the same heart arrhythmia as I as well as high blood pressure, high cholesterol and onset of dementia. He has been using tobacco and alcohol consistently for 60 years. My research indicates that dementia will exaggerate dominate emotional characteristics, e.g. a happy camper will really like doing so without having to remember where the canon wadding is stored. RG has always been stubborn, belligerent and lose with facts. By his own admission he is a capitalist and a republican. He insists he is not a bigot or a racist although he loathed Obama and Clinton. My observations over the last six and a half decades indicate his is a misogynistic point of view.

But he is my Dad so I'll give him the benefit of choosing his own poison. When I visit his subsidized apartment every morning at 1000 the first chore is to mute Fox News. After that we have breakfast, usually eggs and toast, administer meds, wash the dishes and do a crossword puzzle. I try to get him to laugh, smile at the very least.

As he doesn't like being told what to do, it is always a challenge to out-smart him into doing what is in his best interests. The medications are a perfect example. Despite the colored flow chart listing type, appearance, dosage, with or without food, and time of day, he still is easily confused, repeating relentlessly that he has already taken his medications, even when I prove reality to be otherwise.

This morning he was sniffling and coughing so I added a vitamin C tab to his intake. This was after washing the kitchen floor, vacuuming and disposing of a gross toxic sanitary violation in the bedroom and bathroom. He seemed to enjoy the fried egg sandwich as I was cleaning.

We finish our chores and I sit across the tiny table and ask if he needs anything. He says the big pill is stuck in his throat. I grab a glass of water and give it to him.

What is this for.
To wash down that pill stuck in your throat.
I tried that, it didn't work.
Take a bigger sip.
I don't what to.
Why.
Because it doesn't work.
You didn't take enough.
Are you a doctor now.
No I am just trying to help.
I don't need any help.
That pill still stuck.
Yes.
Maybe water would help.

Heart News

Seems as how I started this latest round of blogging to share more of my experiences with the  condition known as AFIB, I suppose a very recent example (today) night be appropriate.
Since 2013 I have been diagnosed with the double-hammy of atrial fibrillation and bradycardia. The former designates a heart arrhythmia in the atria and the latter a heart-rate that is too low (<60bpm typically). Together they can cause serious trouble yet they are not considered life threatening. That just make you feel like they are. The real risk is that they put one in the dreaded 'red-zone' for stroke, upping percentages of incident into the catastrophic realms.

The diagnostic phase, mine taking almost a year and financial ruin, saw me fail the two most common treatments, cardioaversion (the paddles) and ablation (the surgical removal of nodes causing electrical malfunction). Once it became apparent that neither of those procedures were going to work, my wonderful electro-physiologist at the University of Washington Medical Center (UW Med) gave me two choices. A pace maker or a pace maker.
Being a good patient I chose the pace maker. The day was set and I bribed Dad to sit in the waiting room until the device was installed to drive me home.

That was three years ago. They gave me no restrictions, said I could do whatever I wanted (swim-bike-run) and at whatever intensity level and duration I desired (Ironman). So off we went.

This magical device inside my chest is capable of storing every heart beat for months at a time. We download every six months and review the data. Yes, I go into Afib occasionally but I am getting so good at its detection that I hardly need a device to shock me back into sinus rhythm. I just lay down and meditate into a blissful state, where if that doesn't work a good nights seep usually will. Sometimes it's scary as my heart feels like it might implode and the flow of oxygenated blood is reduced in brain, but I no longer go rushing to the ER gasping about chest pain and pending comatose.  

There is sometimes a connection with alcohol. Or the over consumption of it more accurately. But this morning as we were half way through a rather intense hour spin session (my second of the day) I watched my heart rate monitor start to ping-pong between 140 and 217 bpm, data I hardly needed as validation that something was on the fritz.

And I knew what it was. BUT, as I have a colonoscopy scheduled for Thursday, where the procedure calls for cessation of the anti coagulant medication I take daily to keep out of the aforementioned stroke red-zone, I am feeling weird.

So I watch the display telling me that we have arrhythmia, and that I am venerable because of the med situation, and I am the class leader, and blah, and blah.

I get home, have a delicious bowl of tomato-bisque soup and take a nap.

Just another day.

The Clock

 Back in my days in Radio, my assignment, in broad strokes, was to convince PDs, program directors, that they, and hence their audience, couldn't survive another 24 hours without some, and preferably all, of our programming. I would spend my hours talking about formats, on-air personalities, markets, demographics, alternatives and local (for them, sports).

One of the tools that became a standard was the clock. Not like in, what times is it, but in looking at a graph of programming that the station currently was airing. So KJR in Seattle might have once slice from 0100 - 0440 of nothing but ESPN taped highlights of Seahawks games. Since saying that live national commentary from Las Vegas is better that recorded games seemed too easy, I took to hedging bets by guaranteeing a dramatic increase in audience in less than 90 days with the us vs them pitch. Once we got a contract in hand I, as marketing director, would put the machinery available to me in support of this ploy, into play. I always loved to wag the dog and have a dozen callers from The Emerald City light it up the first night. No one needed to know that we called them first.

The clock got a little dicier come morning commute, coffee, lunch, afternoon commute and, of course, prime time.

Since we were a sports programming network that was my genera focus, but we did manage to land a few trophies simply by the fact that we were free. Talk is, as has always been - regardless of medium - cheap.

I bring up the clock today because I have been working with my nephew on the concept of time management. He is 15 and like every other 15 year old, likes his iPhone. He likes it so much that it has skewed his understanding of prioritization. What was once balance as dictated by parents, coaches and teachers, it is now rippling outwards from his device.

The conversation is of balance, that wonderful, enticing, delicate and fearsome concept allowing one to maximize productivity and manage one's affairs. Especially important when one is 15.

It is, perhaps, too easy to break it into thirds, but not by much. I have been using this technique for many years, some of them very successfully and others dramatically so. And yes, it might be appropriate to mention here that I am a big fan of losing. There is that seed planted.

THE THIRDS

Mind, Body, Spirit. We must work (Body), we must learn (Mind) and we must access (SPIRIT). Break them down however they work for you but make DAMN sure you chop wood, read the instruction manual and count breaths. You can add as many as you like to your clock, just make sure their balance (run, write, sing, serve, wander, play, thank, help others, build, eat, sleep, hug the dog, wash the dishes, look at the stars, develop skills, honor your Mother, learn to grow things, call your friend, mow the lawn, study French, ride your bike, sit silently, test, train, race) equals all you want, or need, to do with this magical opportunity we call life.

The real test is fitting all of those into the 24 hours your clock holds for you every day.

If your clock is a four-slice pie: School, sleep, homework and video games, you are out of balance. Dude.

Groovatude

This morning's session in the good ol' House of Mirth was my first solid set in over a week. You've heard about my dance with the dervish H3N2. She knocked me to the ground on day one and continued to pile insult upon injury for an entire week. The last few nights have been restful and today, as the volume of phlegm is on the wane, I actually felt as if I could ride like someone who actually knows how.

That is part one. Part two is adding what is known as groovatude (groove-a tude). Groovatude is a portmanteau of legendary diacritical proportions. It is comprised of a focused awareness of your ability to align the physical, the mental and the spiritual into one dynamic, flowing and joyous movement. It combines power, speed, presence, cadence, geometry and thankfulness into a vibrant dance in the celebration of the moment in time and space. It is satori, kamiwazza and trance down-mixed to the time signature of your soul. That is the groove part. The 'tude part is attitude. Because you have got to sell it. And in order to sell something this esoteric and precious, it has to be real. You can't talk about it. You have to  live it, be it, breathe it. Do it.

Putting those together is the goal. It is the present we gift to others by finding it inside ourselves first and then sharing by doing. It is not easy (and not for everyone) but after a little practice, gradually, one drill at a time, it starts to grow. And we feed it. Finding rhythm, sometimes syncopated, sometimes led by cow bell, sometimes as the beat of heart. And the groove happens. The river flows and otters dance. We let go. Magic happens.

Sometimes we get lost. Sometimes the magic doesn't work. Sometimes we get distracted.

But as long as we keep trying, keep coming back to practice, stay in the game, we stand a chance.

And that chance I will gladly take any day of the week.

For the benefit of those wanting the guide here is the drill we executed this morning (with full-on groovatude):

.30 seated
.30 standing
.30 seated push
.30 Standing GZSS*
.30 7/120 seated recovery.

Ascending from gears 11-20
* Groove Zone Sweet Spot

Two sets with a 9 min warm up is an hour.

Go ahead, try this at home.

H3N2

It was day five of the second round. The nasty virus that had kicked countless healthy individuals to their knees, was back. Fucker even has a name. H3N2. The war between science and alternative facts painfully crawls along.

I was in the hurt locker big time. My lungs felt like the insides of a cement mixer. The globs of toxic mucus smegma I was trying to expectorate were thick, brownish-yellow and utterly grotesque. Think Alien. My throat and esophagi were irritated raw, rasping with excruciating pain. I was ramming cough syrup, thera-flu and Ny-Quill as if they were IPAs in front of the big screen on game day. As much as I tried to sleep, it was simply too painful - meaning the best I could hope for was a break - a small slice of blissful rest. A minute or two of peace. Precious unobstructed breaths.

Perhaps foolishly, I made all my appointments. My spin classes were staged as scheduled with only a knowing few seeing the chasm between my ordered level of intensity and my personal output. In the evenings, our PowerBarn sessions we all conducted on time, as scheduled. I tried my best to avoid direct contact and limit our congratulatory and tribe bonding fist bumping rituals in both volume and duration. I sneezed and coughed into my arm, taking it outside as much as possible.

I was trying my best to be both a courageous leader and conscientious and considerate team-mate.

Waltzing through five days of this is demanding. By day five I was mostly in a haze of doubt and dread constantly reminded of my fragile condition by the relentless ringing between my ears and weakness of knee.

I am logging the class attendance at the club, incredibly happy that the hour spin session (one of the most demanding we do) is over, when I hear a voice: Hi Kevin.

It is the guy I sold my cabin to. The guy whom I allowed to rob me blind in a fire sale. The guy that cut all my 200 year old cedar trees and demolished my art project. The guy that tried to swindle my former neighbors into a septic deal holding them hostage with a long-undone agreement I had signed 30 years prior. The guy that lied to me more than once. The guy who, if he had paid fair market value, would have allowed me to stay home while sick because I would have some financial security, instead of being forced into working while on the doorstep of death because I need the pathetic $35 pay check. THAT GUY.

I turn my back to him, sneeze into my palm and turn to shake hands.

Oh, hi Bill.

Mug Shot

It is one of my pet peeves. When I house sit I never take a client's coffee cup out of their house. No matter how easy, convenient or necessary it may be. The reason behind this rests somewhere between respect for the property of others, which in their absence they have assigned to me as proxy, and yet another way to practice-up my Zen game.

But on Monday (the plot always changes with the use of that article), I was so oppressed with fatigue, hammered by virus, and distracted by the tintinnabulation in my ears, that I grabbed a beautiful ivory mug, filled it to the brim with delicious smelling - so assessed by checking twice because of what I hoped would be temporary olfactory deficiencies - and headed out the door with my favorite hound to head for beach walk.

As the house and canine I am tending are neighbors, the jaunt is less than a mile but as soon, that very instant, we get to my cabin, Tito goes berserk running, barking, running in circles on the scent of something. Did I mention she is part Bloodhound?

I walk through the cabin and out the beck door and am standing on the deck watching her. In my hand is the coffee. It is still early, a dark, drizzly dawn.

As I try to call Tito because she is now creating a rippling cascade of disturbance in the otherwise calm morning, I see movement from the area she was circling. Was circling because she is now in full sprint down the trail to the beach. I recognize the profile. Now I see movement to the right and understand immediately what is happening.

TITO NO!

I am down the stairs sprinting to the beach as hell seems to have been unleashed.

It's a fucking coyote ambush and the dog I am tasked with care of, is the target. Time to earn my pay.

The tide is high with less than a five foot clearance. I hit the beach and spin right following the sounds. That she is still barking is the good news. I get to the lagoon bridge and see her, I call to her. She sees me but continues to track. I see two more coyotes running ahead. I call again in command voice. She stops.

COME.

She trots up to me expecting, I think, a reward for her efforts to save the community.

I grab her collar and we walk back up towards the cabin. The threat has passed, all is safe, and the morning shore birds are singing again, disaster narrowly averted.

When we get to the deck I see the remains of the mug.

A Big Joke

Democrats are not the enemy. Liberals are not. Nor are blacks, browns, yellows or reds. Gays aren't. Seniors either. The infirm or the Muslim, the sick or the Protestant? The Irish or the poor? No, no and no. The enemy are those who try to convince you that they are. 

In classic divide and conquer sequence, this disgusting administration has maintained a campaign of propaganda that would make Joseph Goebbels blush. The relentless barrage of lies, falsehoods, untruths and manipulative metaphors has reached an audience that applauds and supports this pathetic cult of ignorance. There are actually people out there (in America) that buy this crap because it fits their world view.

As an example, I have the painful duty of listening to Fox News every morning as I manage Dad's medication intake, nutrition and sanitation. He is a ruined capitalist, a bitter conservative and a failed Republican. He loves to hate. He hates Hillary as much as he hated Obama. I am quite confident that he hates me for not hating them.

I try each morning to dismiss, or ignore,  the vile diatribes of the hosts wildly spinning a story to fit their agendas, making occasional remarks to the veracity or ridiculousness of their stance, only to get a 'that's your opinion' in response. It's like calling a winter's full moon a sunset in summer.

But yesterday when it was so over the top clear that blaming someone, assigning blame, redirecting focus of failure to the enemy was more important than accepting responsibility for current events, and honestly reporting the news, I brought it to Dad's attention, pointing out the strategy and subversive tactics. I also challenged his observational skills suggesting that whatever the next topic would be, that the same strategy would be used.

He snorted in disgust as the anchor introduced the new topic by reminding the audience that, according to a tweet from the POTUS himself, approval ratings among blacks had doubled since the 45s took over. This was delivered with a straight face.

I look at Dad. He looked at me. I held his stare. Finally be broke and laughed.

It is that big of a joke.

Closure

This has affected me deeply. I am not finished with the suffering and anguish. My head tells me to man-up and get over it while my heart and soul say take your time and pay homage. This was an attempt to satisfy both in a note I sent to the family as requested in the service program. I hope one or the other will be satisfied. 

I met Robert Michael Picciolo in 1957. Seemingly on cue we started playing catch in the street on Collegio Dr. in Westchester, CA. By the time we were old enough to participate in Little League, 1960, we had both established the goal of playing Major League Baseball as our life's ambition.

After LL we went to different High Schools as well as different advanced leagues, he to Westchester and Babe Ruth to my St. Bernards and Pony/Colt. Although we didn't play against each other much it was always a source of pride for me to recall our roots. Similarly after HS Rob went to Santa Monica CC and I to inter-league rival LA Pierce, where we met on the field twice each year in 1971 and 72. He beat us one year with an extra-innings grand slam when it was so dark I couldn't see from short to home.

We would have crossed paths again had I not foolishly shunned a scholarship to Loyola as Rob entered Pepperdine.

Ten years passed and we met up again in 1982 when Rob was part of the American League Champion Milwaukee Brewers. I was living in Seattle and went to the first game of a four-game series waiting afterwards outside the Kingdome visiting team's exit.

I spotted him in jovial conversation with Paul Molitor and waited until I had an opening and walked up and said hi. You would have thought I was the President I was greeted so warmly.  We had dinner and I went to all the remaining games each one ending with a spirited get together and tales of the old days.

The same scenario unfolded when he was with the Angles and Pardres.

From those first days on the streets of LA to his retirement I have always wanted to do 'something' to reciprocate our friendship. I felt it was that important and that urgent. My respect and admiration for this wonderful person who inspired and shared with so many deserved whatever small gesture I could afford.

When my brother ran into him at a MLB sponsored clinic they exchanged phone numbers. I called on Sept. 1, with our conversation curtailed due to the demands that the marriage of your son will produce

Then I got the news.

I have nothing but positive memories of Robert Michael Picciolo. The stories are legion, everybody tells of his character, compassion and dignity. Every one is true. He was a fine man, an outstanding ballplayer and from what I witnessed at the service, a terrific husband and father as well.

How could he not be?

RIP RMP.

The Debate

One of the things that drew me towards endurance sports was their demand. Not saying that 100 meters all-out is a walk in the park, but taking it 26.2 pretty much implies that somewhere along the way you are going to have to manage pain.

Learn to manage it. Deal with it and get better every time out at a winning the internal dialogue that makes the case for slowing down or quitting altogether.

If you have run a marathon, or finished an IM with one, you know of what I speak.

Additionally I like using these practices in other, non related facets of life. I'll give you an example that played out last night, this morning and is still far from over.

After Saturday's whirl-wind quick turn to San Diego I was dealt a second go around of that nasty flu virus that appears by all reports to be epidemic. It kicked my butt. So last night, as I am house/dog sitting for three folks, I decided to try the sleep strategy. I took my book to bed with lights out at 1900.

And I agonized all night, looking at the red LEDs, trying to relax and heal. I got up at 0500, fed one hound and drove to feed another. It was apparent that I was far from a miracle cure. Had no idea how I would fare with my 0845 spin class, but we made it through in perhaps my easiest session on record.

It was in the shower that 'the voice' started in. Call RG, tell him you are sick and you'll see him tomorrow, same with weight lifting with Junior.

I tried to make a positive assessment and rally, but I was losing the debate miserably.

Finally I played the 'be a role model' card and that seemed to work. Made breakfast for Dad, administered meds and washed dishes. Drove to Juniors and tried my best to Zen it out for 45 long minutes.

Drove back to dog two, let him out, back to dog one, same and back to the cabin/office.

I am tired. It has been a long day.

But I won the debate.

I should get my hip fixed and start to train again.

Make Good Art

A sampling of the artists I am currently listening to.

When Seth Godin suggests that we need courage to stand up and present our art to the world, the nail is crashed to a pine wood floor. Gaiman says that our mission in life should always have making good art at the very apex of said list. Guillebeau is the Art of Non-Conformity ring leader, cracking an aggressive and adventurous whip to those with bravado and brains. And of course Jerry binds them all together with cosmic firepower and meaning.

My day yesterday in San Diego, for the funeral service of my best friend, lifted a hundred lost and buried emotions to the surface. I was a wreck, operating on little sleep and a return of this nasty virus. I had the opportunity to meet his wife and oldest son, as well as brother Bruce, whom I hadn't seen since 1965. The reception was littered with ex-ballplayers, coaches, scouts and front office guys. Almost, no, every, person who spoke of Robbie did so with the kind of praise usually reserved for saints. And rightfully so. He was one of a kind.

Through the tears and chocked-back emotions, on the flight home I tried to categorize and dig for deeper meaning, the things that I remembered being said of my friend. And I think the one that I liked most was when his son, sobbing at the rostrum in front of five hundred equally effected friends, said that his most cherished memory was the pride he took, and takes to this day, of this wonderful man being his father, how proud he was to be his son.

Flood gates open.

Make good art.

Love your brother.

Row Jimmy Row.

We Can Do This

The very purpose of our life is happiness, which is sustained by hope. We have no guarantee about the future, but we exist in the hope of something better. Hope means keeping going, thinking, ‘I can do this.’ It brings inner strength, self-confidence, the ability to do what you do honestly, truthfully and transparently.

The "I can do this" part is key. One simply cannot over-state the importance of self confidence. We develop a strong sense of self empowerment by doing. We put the verbs into play, face our fears of failure or humiliation, and experience the energy flow and cosmic exchange that only happens when we open our hearts to the activity.  Additionally that means occasionally doing the things we must do even when or even if we aren't at 100%.

I got a text from Junior this morning at 0644.  Our Friday workouts are scheduled for 0700. We have 35 precious minutes together before he showers, has a quick bite and rushes to catch the bus for school. The text said that because he was up late studying, and as a result he didn't sleep well, that we should cancel today's session. Fine, I replied, have a GREAT day and we'll get back at it Monday.

The kid is 15. He is creating habits that will forge his character in adulthood. If you have been following this rambling stream of consciousness narrative, you will see his character development in a protagonist role. He has the chance to succeed, to achieve and to leave a mark. I see it as my job to assist and support his effort.

I, in turn, receive tremendous amounts of happiness as a result of this reciprocal partnership. It is sustained by hope. He is dealing with, and sorting out, a plate full of insecurities, doubts and fear. His home life is a mess. Above all he needs structure and support. That, as isolated by the Dalai Lama above, is where hope plays its pivotal part. It allows us to practice inner strength, self confidence and awareness. There will be a better tomorrow if we have a solid today.

Stepping up once, perhaps when the easier route would be to spin a cheap excuse, sets us up for a lifetime of solid and strong decisions. The opposite gives us permission to deny life again, the long-term effect leading to habitual not-doing. The non verb. Nothing.

We can do this.

Talk about Shitholes

This happened today.

I got a late start and a late finish. It has been a heck of a day. To come home and try to relax and debrief is now taking extraordinary effort. The guy pictured above is an embarrassment to the United Sates as well as to every properly functioning adult currently walking the planet.

We must remain resilient. We must continue to voice our discontent. We must do it non-violently. And above all, folks, and this means what I am now calling the Boomer Imperative, we must VOTE.

As in VOTE THEM OUT.

Talk about shitholes.

Good Choices

It was a mild shock. Something not unexpected, but still having enough of an emotional charge to sound the alarm.

My 15 year-old nephew, with whom I have been lifting weights, running, riding and basically coaching him towards a better understanding of the value of fitness, announced the other day that he was considering not playing baseball this season, his freshman year in HS.

Of course I asked why. As sympathetic and honestly as I could.

He relied that it was simply too much of a time commitment, and coupled with his four hours of homework, he felt that one or the other had to go. I let it be and we moved into our progression.

That was Monday, this morning as we began 50 bicep curls with a 30lb dumbbell, I coaxed the elephant out of the room and asked if he wanted to talk about his decision some more.

He gave me the same response, the too much time gambit.

I looked at him askew.

Sensing the meaning, he said, what?

I said, flatly, that's bullshit.

He shrugged perhaps indicating that my opinion smelled equally as rank as my comment.

I continued, using the 24 hour clock to graph the hours available to us each every day, with the conclusion that even with 4 hours of homework, 2 hours of baseball, that still leaves plenty of time for leisure (video gaming), eating and household chores.

While he didn't buy it 100%, my goal was to get him to honor, respect and develop the good habit of decision making. The most important rule being to make sure that your decision is for the right reasons, not some lazy excuse to do, or not do, something. Sometimes simply restating the decision without a view to pleasing anyone else can help you discover what’s true for you. *

Because, I rambled, life is for living. To do stuff. To play, to dance, to sing, to visit, to explore, to try new activities, all in the hopes of one day, the sooner the better, finding your gift, the true calling of your soul. And you don't find any of that in your bedroom playing GTA.

After our bench set. I told him that whatever his decision, I am squarely in his corner, on his side and willing at the drop of any cap to go to bat for him, because that is what friends, pals and teammates do. But, trying to wrap it up on a positive note, in order to be a teammate and give and take that power, one must first be on a team.

We hugged to seal the deal.

I have no idea what he will decide. However, learning the process and developing good decision making habits is a skill that gets precious little attention.

I know, I have made some horrendous ones.

Pictured, l-r: Junior, RG (Dad) and Brother Michael.

* From Dharma Wisdom.

The chain of stress solution

I heard this little gem the other day and have been thinking of its implications ever since.

"Dealing with stress is like exercise, the more you practice the better you get."

Despite the anonymity of the author, I should claim it, the message, advice, counsel, sagacity, merit, altruism and utter wisdom of it should be enough to cause deep consideration. In you as it did in me.

Be it physical stress, resistance, mental, spiritual or the relentless emotional type so favored by the current administration and their fascist toadies (to get you to buy their lies, falsehoods or agendas), a price is paid with every repetition. And as we know repetition is key.

We can hide. We can take cover. We can try to tune out. We can march. We can confront. We can look the other way. We can turn to isolation and the safety of our living rooms, taverns or opium dens.

They, in turn, produce additional stress. The only chain you are shackled to is the one housed in your mind.

Meaning, bottom line, that we have but a few plays left to run. And if we are to be successful, we need everyone on the team to be fit, strong, committed, focused and ready. In other words we need to practice.

And practice. And then practice.
We can deal with this stress folks. Please stay strong and don't give up or in.

Thematically, next time you saddle up, send a dossier of positive vibrations in the direction of that bright and powerful light we call love.

Practice that. Often.

Our lives are dependent upon it.

WHAT?

I told my nephew this morning as we progressed through our floor, core and bench routine, that the question almost always is WHAT. Not why.

I asked about the baseball conditioning program when he, somewhat sheepishly, replied that he was thinking about not playing this year because of the time demands. Yes, he is a good student, but when he tried to play the too much time card, I had to react immediately, and effectively.

So I said, in as sincere a tone as I could muster while hoisting a 30lb dumbbell overhead, that asking why, why is this so hard, why are my parents fighting, why are we working out in the cold garage when I could be sleeping, is missing the mark. We, he, us, should be asking what instead.

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ABOUT IT. WHAT IS MY RESPONSE. WHAT REWARD WILL COME AS A RESULT???

An hour later I use the same technique with my spin class. Why are we/you doing this? Why do some people look at this as painful drudgery while others spin with a positive attitude and a song in their hearts? Why are we born to face only suffering and eventual death?* 

What will your response be? What will you do in the face of danger, challenge, opposition, violence?

So it goes.

* Thanks to Kurt Vonnegut for that one.

Lucky Us

H.I.P.P.O. There are many threats to biodiversity today. The biggest ones can be remembered by using the acronym H.I.P.P.O.: Habitat Loss, Invasive Species, Pollution, Human Population, and Overharvesting.

I remain steadfast in my distaste for the current Administration and their propensity to downplay and discount science and its far reaching effects.

It was most likely 1967 or so, my freshman year in High School, that the topics of ecology, sustainability, recycling, overpopulation and the potential disasters that any one of them, let alone two or three in horrific harmony, could foil upon our tribe and our tiny blue planet.

I have been following this story ever since.

We have made tremendous technological advancements, but our ecology and, worse, political hegemony and deceit, has created a civilization on the verge of collapse. We are literally about to destroy our very home.

And you know why as much as I know why.

As we rode indoors for two hours this morning watching a cute heist caper, I kept thinking that because the plot, and its eventual resolution, was so stereotypical in its location, characters, culture and associated cliches, that the ending would have to solve, or at least settle a few of the, shall we say, loose ends. And it did. Logan Lucky is a high-speed chase-scene of redemption, with the much aligned and woeful, turning the tables on the establishment.

Listening to the The Meaning of Existence by Edward O. Wilson on tape driving home, I thought that maybe, with a little likewise Logan luck, we too, the 99% of humanity not greedily profiting from and abusing our fragile and wounded environment, might wins this one too.

I'll see if I can find the list Jimmy had taped to his fridge, the ten steps to rob a bank. This to see if we might ape some of his success in solving our own current dilemma.

Stay tuned.

Inconvience

Of course it is inconvenient. So what. One does what one must do. Sure I have prior commitments, but I will get them all taken care of.

I lost my best friend. The guy I literally grew up with. The guy I learned how to throw a baseball, fly a kite, catch a fish, ride a bike, capture a flag and hang out with. How could I not attend his celebration of life gathering next Saturday.

It's only a couple thousand air miles away. I can arrange a sub, catch the first boat out, ride the light rail, have an Uber driver waiting and get there a touch late, but at least I'll be able to live with the decision. I owe him AT LEAST that.

I have never met his wife or kids. The last time we saw each other was around 1984. As I mentioned earlier, we were in contact back in August as my brother, also a baseball lifer, being the President of the same Babe Ruth League that produced several kids, polished and ready to the minors and then a few to The Show, ran into him at a clinic for inner city kids, sponsored by MLB, that provided some structure and more importantly a glimmer of hope.

The two of them talked and Robbie asked Chris, my brother as to my whereabouts. He is still outside of Seattle. Phone numbers were exchanged and I got a call later that evening with the info. 

So I gotta go any pay final respects, because that is what it truly will be. Never have I respected anyone as much as Rob. From the day we met as neighbors in 1955 to a few days ago when I got the sad news, I have wanted to do something, anything, to show my respect and admiration for this incredible man.

So the hell with the inconvenience.

Picture is Rob from the 1982 Milwaukee Brewers, American League Champions.

1965

It was a pivotal year. We were 12 playing Little League baseball in southern California. Several of the kids we played with would go on to become major leagues with one, Georgie Ballgame, even making in into the Hall of Fame, I believe unanimously. It was decent ball with seemingly an endless  pool of talent taking BP and awaiting their turn.

As you know from yesterdays post, we lost one of them yesterday. My buddy from age 5 died from a heart aneurysm earlier this week. I found out about it on FaceBook and spent the remainder of the day dealing with the tidal wave of emotions the news had washed over me.

I did OK, until last last night, when sitting on the couch of the folks for whom I house and dog sit, watching MSNBC discuss once more how pathetic we all are to allow a treasonous administration to do the bidding of an elite few, and it started.

I was fighting back tears. It is something I am not good at.

Before George F. Will could explain (again) how our Democracy, our very Constitution, is under siege by these brazen bastards, the flood gates had opened and I was sobbing out of control.

My best friend since 1956, was gone. Robbie touched so many people, myself among them, with his kindness, spirit, focus, joy, talent and skill, that I was having trouble getting past my own comparative feelings of loss and loneliness.

So I sat and sobbed.

As I did so, Kona, the black lab currently under my care (or is it the opposite) came up, tail a waggin', and sensing my anguish, put her head in my lap and looked at me with her huge brownish-red eyes, saying wordlessly, It'll be OK.

And it will.

Another pivotal moment. Thank you Kona and God Bless you Robbie. I am stronger now.

Bless you Robbie

Not many worse ways to start your day than to learn via FB that an old friend has died. That happened to me today. Regardless of the medium, the message remains full of anguish.

Robbie and I grew up together in the Southern California burp of Westchester, two or three miles from the beach. Rather than spend all our free time surfing, we chose to play baseball. In the streets on Collegio, at the park, at school, anywhere we could find. We broke more windows with errant flies than all LA BB guns combined.

We started Little League together in 1961 and it quickly became apparent that Robbie had a natural gift for the game. Shown here is our All-Star team from 1965. Down in front, far right is Robbie. I am next to him. We lost that day 6-3 in 9 innings says Mom's writing on the back of the glossy.

We attended different High Schools, he to Westchester while I played at St. Bernards. I played Pony and a year of Colt League and he across town at Loyola in Babe Ruth League. He continued to impress fans, scouts, and especially opposing players. He was a gentleman, a quiet competitor and genuinely an outstanding person. I was always proud to be his friend.

After HS, where he starred in basketball as well, we both ended up in the same JC League, playing again for different schools, he at Santa Monica and me out in the Valley at Los Angeles Pierce. One particular dramatic game, he ended it with a grand slam.

It was 1972 when he continued on to Pepperdine and I opted out of baseball to travel.

He played well enough at Pepperdine to be offered by the Oakland A's and as I settled into a live of adventure he began a pro career that would span almost a decade as a player and another as a coach. In 1983 he played in the World Series with Milwaukee. He was with the Angel's in the mid 80's when we would get together every time they would visit Seattle. I have a fond story of him introducing me to Reggie Jackson.

We last spoke on my birthday while he was busy orchestrating the wedding of his youngest son, He promised to get back with me to get caught up as soon as things returned to normal.

They never did and today I learned of his fatal heart attack as mentioned above.

He was 64. My oldest friend, confidant, teammate, pal. I have a few other pictures that maybe I will post when this melancholy passes.

I remember watching Brian's Song on TV one year and sobbing when James Caan delivers the line, "I love Brian Piccolo.' The emotions, the memories, the sadness I feel today, wrapped in the poetic of surname similarity, allow me honestly say today, "I love Rob Picciolo.'

God bless you my friend.

Just Be

We the people of the Unites States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this constitution for the US of A.

In Zen Heart, author Ezra Bayda  talks about the three phases of breathing meditation, one breath says, simply breathe, two asks for awareness of environment, and the third reminds us that we are here.

In our Super Eight session this morning, 30 seconds all-out followed by 90 seconds recovery done eight times, I reminded the faithful that there are three ways to measure and manage this demanding practice. One, using the power metrics, two with heart rate data, and three using the most provocative of all, one's rate of perceived exertion.

There is, of course, a fourth (to all of the above random examples):

Their combination. All. The total. Mind, body and spirit in perfect harmony. A flower for every Bee.

When, then?

Today was a disaster.

Started slow and shifted down from there. Throttled back to less-than-zero RPM.

The appointment with RG's physical therapist, after carving two hours mid day, and driving 40 miles to make, was, without my knowledge, cancelled. Something about staffing over the Holidays.

Tried again to deal with Comcast regarding RG's cable, and got the third different price from the third representative. A innovate way to conduct customer service.

Dogs are pissed at me for reasons that I don't fully understand.

My workout tonight was way too hard, HR too high, mind wandering. 

As I drove home, the thought popped into consciousness that I used to say, to combat this same circumstance in others, that we can be happy despite almost any situation. It is all distraction.

I'll be happy when.........

I would be happy if only......

Take three deep breaths. Relax. This, as everything, no matter how seemingly horrific, will pass.

Do you see?

Magic

Well, well, well. We're back. It is January the First. It is 2018.
We have been places and seen things.
We have tried and failed.
We have won a few, and lost many.
There has been joy and happiness and calm.
Mixed with frustration, pain, loss and suffering.
Among all that, the theme has (again) been change.

And with that as a thin back-story, we embark on another new journey. Why not?

My favorite resolve has long been to start any new endeavor using the 'plan with audacity and execute with vigor' method. So here we go. I have no idea where this road will transport us. But I like the idea of taking that first step in the general direction of the mysterious, the challenging, the sacred and the ambitious. We will fill our backpacks with three tools.

The tool to fine tune our bodies. We will eventually give it a name.
The tool to enhance of minds. We will over time develop the wisdom to understand.
And the tool to search our soul. The most important toll in our kit.

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT THIS BLOG WILL CONTAIN MASSIVE AND COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF COMMENTARY ON HOW SEEMINGLY RANDOM OCCURRENCES RELATE TO INDOOR STUDIO CYCLING, YOUR GOOD HEALTH, ENHANCED FITNESS AND OVERALL QUALITY OF LIFE. 

You have been warned. It is 1.1.18 friends.

Time for a new adventure.

I'll be here every day for the entire year.

You are officially invited to walk some with us on this path, to ride with us, and to see if what they say is true, that there is still some magic left in the world.

Hi ho.