Super Eights Today

We did it! Eight weeks (actually nine as we added a 'make up' week) in execution of the protocol we affectionately refer to as Super Eights. Here is their demand:

• 10 minute standard warm-up.
• 5 minutes in groove zone.
• 30 seconds at 85% of max.
• 90 seconds in recovery (30 seated, 30 standing, 30 seated)
• Repeat 5 times.
• 3 minutes in groove zone.
• 30 seconds ALL OUT.
• 90 seconds in same as above recovery.
• Repeat 8 times.
• 3 minutes in groove zone.
• Repeat initial seat of 5 at 85%.
• Recover.
• Stretch, relax, floor routine.

If you are serious about your fitness, race preparation or increasing your power, you already know of the demands placed upon the participant as a result of this incredibly difficult set. If you are not, you should be.

They kill.

Last night in the PB, where we do the exact same workout using the CompuTrainer, something we have been aware of manifested dramatically. Sine the beginning of this protocol, and as its legendary degree of difficulty grew, it became somewhat of a linguistic challenge for me to describe the 'goal' of the workout. Specifically, what metric provides the best feedback and what methodology should be attempted to 'perfect' the work? It has always intrigued me that the description has always included the 'full circle' concept, because why back when had no power meters, strain gauges or led displays algorithmicaly estimating output, we used the simple but elegant Borg scale of perceived exertion, or RPR, rate of. Now we use composite data, a combination of HR, watts, and the brutally honest personal assessment of effort. Full circle, back to basics, keep it simple. With the following caveat:

IF YOU CAN ACCEPT YOUR ESTIMATE OF RPE AS 100%, 10 OF 10, ALL ACES, AFTER A BRUTALLY HONEST ASSESSMENT OF YOUR PERFORMANCE…..

I DON'T CARE ABOUT WATTAGE.

And neither should you. Unless of course you ride for a pro team or seek Olympic cycling gold.

For the rest of us, our victory is in the doing, the effort, the attempt and the deep satisfaction we take from 'the try'. To assist with this juxtaposition, our alchemy turns Olympic gold to a snazzy Super Eight jersey I mashed together.

In closing, and as much as I abhor endings with offers of purchase, these coveted jerseys are available free simply by doing Super Eights for eight consecutive Wednesdays.

Or you could have one today for $40.

Motorcycle Maintenance

“Craftsmanship means dwelling on a task for a long time and going deeply into it, because you want to get it right.”  Matthew B. Crawford

The only Zen you can find on the tops of mountains is the Zen you bring up there, said Robert Persig, so it may be this fact, the reality, that I must unwrap my Honda Shadow VT600 from its camouflaged plastic tarpaulin and start the process. For those of you in the (ever growing) Pacific Northwest, you know what that means. Tune up. And then some.

It then comes as a pleasant surprise when the book on tape I randomly selected at the Library last week liberally uses the moto as metaphor. Even better when its author, Matthew B. Crawford, goes as far as to generously quote one of my literary heroes, he of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance fame, Robert Persig. What a terrific audio one-two punch as I navigate from job to job.

Like anything of value, its intrinsic nature must stimulate one's own consideration. Does this match my existing understanding, does it expand my depth of knowledge, does it challenge my beliefs, is it right, true, beautiful, honest and useful? The area of focus for Crawford is the age old dichotomy of collar color, with white taking an overwhelming advantage over blue in the last quarter century. He talks about craftsmanship, integrity and ethics as if they were holy commandments, and how we need to return to product pride and ownership of labor, the mechanic taking joy in success and in his client's satisfaction. This, of course, can be used as a metaphor for our troubling times (I am talking to you NRA).

I was driving back from the PB last night listening to the 6th and final CD, thinking with this type of focused and sincere internal effort suggested by Mr Crawford, I might be able to tune up the Shadow myself, save probably $500, and who knows, with a little self-induced luck, enjoy the process.

A path of which I am sure Mr Persig would approve.

There is Hope

'Tis far better to endure the suffering of fatigue, exhaustion and completion, than the pain of remorse that not-doing brings.

Should of, could of, would of. I should have rode. I could have been more prepared and I would have, had it not been for (pick all that apply), the weather, the rust on my chain, my sore left knee, the elevation gain, no energy gels, out of coffee, old gloves, favorite shorts in laundry, have to wash the truck, worse weather.

You get the idea. We will go to ridiculous lengths to concoct new and exciting excuses for not doing. Is this specific example I am using yesterday's Chilly Hilly bike ride to illustrate the syndrome known as 'excusitis'. I did not ride for several reasons (excuses) but I did go out and shoot some video of the ride.

Upon my return from the shoot, and the usual household routines; E-mail, start heaters, build coffee, download video, feed cats, I detected a vague internal melancholy. I felt 'off', something was festering in my gut and I needed to diagnose and remedy stat. I don't like holding those feelings, I want to explore and move towards reconciliation. But I knew this one was a two-headed monster. One has to do with Dad and his care. We are at the crossroads; to the right is status quo (doing the best we can with limited resources) and two is finding alternative care, up to and including long term. One of those I can 'fix' the other probably not. This condition bubbles in my gut like a smoking cauldron.

Because it is all on me. Sure I needed an off-day yesterday, but at least I captured some decent footage to use in this months 2x20 video. Let it go and work the plan. Move along.

I am reviewing the footage, shot atop one of our island's more notorious hills, an 11% grade known affectionately as Devils Dip. I am doing a one-man, two-camera shoot, holding the GoPro atop a telescoping hand-held pole in my left and pointing the zoomed Canon in my right. I grab about 30 minutes worth and call it a day as my fingers start to blue. The download/review/edit shows that I have magically capture some pretty decent stuff, despite the gray backdrop of the day and the gross number of vehicles on the course.

Including one shot of a young girl with a huge backpack (dry clothes is my guess) ripping up the hill, and hence into camera, while an obscene Toyota with a Thule rack frustratingly follows her way too close. I didn't stage this, it wasn't scripted, it was luck.

In the video I am calling it 'Everything you need to know about the future of our civilization is included in the following clip'. It sequence ends with:

There is Hope.

Have no regrets folks. Do, do and do again. And if you can't do, write, draw or film. Or coach, mentor or inspire others to do.

(I will isolate the clip and post soon).

A Good One

A Good One

Not Bad

Finishing out the three-part saga, today's report is both retrospective and reflective.

For those of you who have been following the melodrama (at least since Monday) you will recall that our power was out for almost three days. This alone should suffice as our defense in losing the streak of posts. Adding insult to injury was the following snow storm and freezing temps that are just now starting to subside. We are just above freezing but the roads are clear with on again-off again showers, sleet, high winds and snow flurries. But I want to take it back a day and detail some of the myriad physiological and psychological effects garnered from yesterday's adventure.

First my poor body's response. In two words, not good. I could also use not bad. Only some one voluntarily steeping sufficiently outside of their comfort zone (think Ironman) will nod to this nuance. My thinking as I loaded up my favorite backpack and tightened laces on my old hiking boots was that, although icy, hilly and cold, the five-mile jaunt would be a nice return to running. Walk before you can run. And even though my left hip flexor is still causing soreness and pain, if I can't walk five miles I might as well quit competing altogether and take up curling or chess. Additionally, the chance are good that someone will see me walking and offer a ride into town. All that strategic thinking takes place in my kitchen where I toss back one more shot of joe and reaffirm my decision to embrace the adventure.

I get to the top of the hill where the blocking truck is still stuck, marooned like a whale on a beach, and offer the crew encouragement as I pass. I am thinking that I wish I knew a route that would allow keep me off the roads but although safer and more scenic, the odds of a ride are rendered essentially nil. I decide to split the difference and play it by feel. I call RG and tell him I am about an hour out and please don't go anywhere. I get a text reporting that the truck has been towed. I shit in the woods.

Since I am hanging on to the dream of doing another IM sometime soon (see photo) I look at all this as a training day. I finally get to RG's condo and check my watch. Just under two hours. Five miles in two hours is not going to win any medals, but I was pleased to be at the turnaround aid station.

Dad gets meds, breakfast, watch repair, trash emptied and carpets vacuumed. Fox News is having a difficult time distancing Trump from Manafort, Gates and Flynn while simultaneously defending the NRA and the second amendment. I shake my head in disgust, have a half bowl of canned peaches and suit-up for the second leg, my constitutional right.

I am going to return the same route, with a short cut in the Grand Forest. Both my heels are cracked causing a more flat footed strike than usual, a situation that is already affecting my calves and quads. I find a pace that keeps me moving semi-brightly. Allegro non-troppo. Still nobody stops to inquire if I might need a lift. I trudge on. In the forest I drink the last of my water as I am feeling some symptoms of a pending bonk.  I get to the park, find two new trails, pass downed trees, gawk at the frozen pond and finally I am sliding down the hill, side-stepping black ice and downed tree debris. My hip flexors, both, are on fire. I want a beer.

And food.

A five egg spinach omelet and three cups of coffee later, I look at my watch to find I have to be in the Barn in an hour. Fortunately it is now drivable and my fears of having to walk there too are squelched.

At the PowerBarn, although I was ready to ride, I facilitate and lay low, spinning out the soreness in my legs and hips for twenty minutes. Once home afterwards, and after a few ales, the question was, would I be sufficiently recovered for our high-intensity Saturday spin session?

I was. Not bad.

Not real good, but definitely not bad either.

10 n Out

The snow, discussed yesterday, turned to ice. I tried to drive to RG's to deliver his updated meds but there was a 10 ton truck blocking the one-way road. I carefully execute a five point turn and head home, now facing a serious challenge.

I can call for help. Ride my bike, or walk the five miles to Dad's.

I choose the walk and gear up. It is still very cold, black ice everywhere and I am probably not ready for a ten miler. Then there is the route issue.

I just got back. A little under four hours RT but my hips are on fire. For the sake of keeping the streak alive (a blog post every day for 2018), today will be brief (it is almost over). I can now attempt to navigate to the PowerBarn for this evenings time trial. Not sure if I will race but facilitate I must.

Yes and RG got the meds. See you tomorrow. Stay warm.

I Used to Love the Snow

Once I loved the snow.

My first winter in North Central Washington was magical. After spending 22 years in Southern California that first fall and winter was nothing short of magical. Every day was a new adventure, from dressing properly in the day to keeping the fire burning by night. As spectacular as the mountains, rivers and orchards were, I quickly found that a handy accessory known as four wheel drive made life a lot easier. Four wheel drive is to cars what a Fender Twin Reverb is to a Stratocaster. Or maybe what The Godfather was to cinema. Or better yet, what the flashlight is to a single damp match.

My popularity rose significantly the day I bought my 1967 Jeep Wagoner. Suddenly people were calling, by land line or on the CB, asking if I just be in their neck of the woods and willing to taxi an old pal to the, pick one, grocery store, outfitter, gas station, diner, job site, hospital, or tavern. I got pretty good at pulling 'normal' cars out of ditches and pushing stranded or stuck vehicles out of harms way.

The winter of 1979 was particularly fun. It was very cold that year and as we settled in by a toasty fire for a Thanksgiving meal to feature duck, goose, salmon, pheasant and of course turkey, I got the idea that a great after dinner activity might be to go outside and play in the snow. But being adults hopped up with beer, wine, bud and maybe even a little 'pane, building a snowman wasn't exactly anyone's idea of major league fun.

I am looking around the yard for props when I spot them. My trusty Jeep and the stack of tires I had just replaced with some serious snow grabbers. I trot to the shop and grab a length of rope. Good, strong, thick rope with a wire core. My actions are now drawing a crowd as the fed and happy folks start coming out to see what is going on. I lash two 9.50 x 16.5 tubes together and blow 60 psi into each. Then I wrap the rope around the tubes and tie a double bowline to the other end. Everyone is now standing in the driveway, covered by two feet of fresh snow, as I ceremoniously attach the bowline to the 2 inch ball on my Jeeps bumper.

OMG. Light on. The fox is in the henhouse, everyone is scrambling for gear, made easier because we were skiing all day and the living room lookes more like a ski shop than a cabin parlor. They return wearing fleece, gortex, goggles, gloves and smiles of pending mayhem and mischievousness.

You can guess the rest. I drove the Jeep round my 15 acres until well past midnight taking one and sometimes two thrill seeking merry makers over the snow and under an early hint of the Northern Lights.

But today, as a late February snow has blanketed us with white splendor I am sad.

My Jeep is long gone, having been replaced by a two wheel drive Ford Ranger, all but worthless in these conditions.

Talk About It

I talk a lot in spin class. It has been suggested that I talk too much. But as any final decision should be made using quality as the judge, I feel that the messages I deliver, the stories I tell and the instructions I provide are all appropriate and positive. It is simply my character, it is who I am and if I am to be judged guilty, so be it. Nolo contendre.

I think every instructor goes through the process of determining for his or her own self what works, the mixture of music and narration, the choreography, the flow, how it all comes together. Nowhere is it written that one cannot lead, as instructor, more by one's heart and soul than by the book. I am going to tell you what I think, how I think and why I think what I think as we roll through our cycling progressions. The down side is that often that accompanying work-out narrative includes comments on sordid issues du jour. That meaning, as you have most likely noticed, includes politics, religion, philosophy, history, pop culture and anything else I think might raise an eyebrow during our regular 'continual improvement' indoor cycling sessions. Why not?

If, as I believe, it is all connected, there is no reason to separate the mind from the body as we exercise primarily one or the other. Can we not we consider the wisdom of Dan Millman as we hold 300 watts of climbing out-of-saddle power? Can we not we listen to a Noam Chomsky podcast as we walk peacefully in the park? Can we not invite the third party of the holy triad, our very soul and the spirit of our being into the mix, thereby creating the most powerful harmony ever scored? Why not?

There is the argument that one must do one thing at a time and do that thing without distraction. I will counter that this 'one thing' is the whole thing. One cannot separate the mind from the body unless one is a fan of the guillotine. Attempting any chore without the involvement of your soul renders that activity utterly banal.

So sync up up folks. Use your body, stimulate your mind with the process and potential and add as much soul as you are currently capable (music helps a lot here). This, more than the instructor's manual, will promote success deeper and more lasting than a simple sweat session. It is where we find meaning, joy, inspiration and motivation. It keeps us going, moving in the right direction and constantly asking for more. We take the powerful lessons out into the real world in order to initiate the change we understand is necessary as a result of our deep and sincere practice, only possible when the Big Three are in magical and mystical alignment.

If everyone had this incredibly difficult trick 100% nailed, I wouldn't have to talk so much about it.

Or not.

The secret message uncoded

I would seem to me that IF all the politicians NOT currently taking blood money from the NRA lobby were to present the ALTERNATIVE to mass juvenile homicide via automatic military grade weapons, that we might AT LEAST have a discussion. Don't the numbers suggest that we (the good guys, the clean guys and the un-bought) have a significant advantage? Why the wait? Are they waiting for a check in the mail? This is as slimy as it gets folks, these co-conspirators are complicit in the cold-blooded pre-meditated murder of your children. They gladly accept huge cash payments to ensure the will of the NRA (sell more guns and ammo) while using the tired and shady propaganda untruths (not the time, second amendment, freedom, gun culture) to cover their crimes. And they are crimes. This is not unlike mafia contract money. You want a snuff, it'll cost ya.

AND AMERICA BUYS IT. Or, more accurately, enough of America to make it happen.

This sad fact, more than anything, more then the covert ops to further pander to the rich, to divide America, to wage war, to sham health care, capitalize medicine and drugs, to privatize jails and pass laws that fill them, to racially stir the pot, to marginalize women, to illegally detain, interrogate and deport people of color, to pollute, to sell and profit from our national parks and monuments, to discourage research in energy technologies, to stack the judicial deck with conservatives wanting only to further control the white supremest agenda, etc, etc, etc. More than all these felonious atrocities is the pathetic level to which we have sunk as a result of allowing our kids to be sitting ducks in the shooting gallery of the republican carnival.

My fellow Boomers, this shit is going down on our watch. Our constitution, our democracy, our morals, our remaining virtue, the integrity we once took for granted, and our very humanity, is all at risk. We need a 911 call. We need ER triage. If our current course is not corrected FUCKING QUICK, we will run out of time and watch helplessly as Fox News reports on another shooting and again blames Obama and/or the FBI.

Long game: Vote the bastards out. Short game: Make some noise. Tell them you are mad as hell and you're not going to take it any more. Call your congressman. Write a letter to your local editor. Go to a public forum. Very short game (today): Be kind. Be grateful. Forgive. We cannot win this round with the same brand of energy that created it. We cannot hate back, yell louder, build walls or stockpile ammo. If we return fire, we lose. We need to stay frosty Booms. Chill. We are smarter than they are, and I will bank on smarts any day of the sporting week.

We must love our brothers and sisters. When we are (finally) one, there will be no stopping us and we can return this chaos to calm. Maybe we could learn a thing or two from our copious mistakes of the past. They will always have more money and more faux power than we. But they will never, NEVER have more love, or the energy to enact positive change.

And that, my friends is the secret answer uncoded. You cannot hate something that you love.

Inside the scary looking squash, a tasty meal awaits.

Island Life

I live on an island. While separated by a mere 35 minute ferry ride to downtown Seattle, we have our unique challenges. One of them is dealing with our current popularity. From the day that I sold my property in 2014 to this very moment as I write, property values, density, building, clamor, police indents, rage, lines at the market and intolerance have all but doubled. We are no longer the sleepy bedroom island suburb of the Emerald City.

We have our challenges to be sure. The city counsel's recent 6 month new construction moratorium a graphic example of our failure to properly manage growth. At times I want to pull up stakes and find greener pastures. BUT, as I rent a charming 1904 cabin on the water, I mostly endure the not-so-charming dearth of insulation, collapsed fireplace and ever changing floor slopes. It is truly a crib Thereau would appreciate. I adore it and its honest offering of solitude and humility. Most days I feel truly honored to spend time here.

Except of course when the power goes out. As it did about an hour ago. The morning work was already done. Our Saturday spin session was worth the effort despite the pre knowledge that there would be no hot water for the post session shower. Junior begged out of our run, this a result of his self diagnosis of a pending cold or flu, and RG was presented with a custom prepared meal of swordfish steak, button mushrooms and asparagus spears, which he seemed to enjoy.

I am driving home while sirens blare around me. Fire? accident? shooting? I wonder as I navigate the four miles to the cabin. I have already planned out the afternoon's work making a special note of the time allotted before we go over for a birthday dinner with neighbors.

I get home, fish a bone for the stray dog, empty my gym bag and pour a cup of coffee from the pot to my favorite mug. I put it in the micro as I have done a thousand times and dial it just past the two minute indicator. I slam the door and move to my office to get started on the afternoon shift.

No lights. No computers, no radio, no heat and no nothing.

I grab my guitar and sit down to play one of the oldies I used in class. Three cords. D-G-A. I Fought the Law and the Law Won. Bobby Fuller Four. Covered by almost everybody but  Pitbull.

I silently agree with myself that it is OK, just (another) minor inconvenience. Not the end of the world. I can still use battery power for this post, get some paperwork done, make a birthday card and use the broom tool for some much needed sweeping.

I finish the internal debate adding that a walk on the beach would be nice, play one last solo, and stand to get started. I am pleased with my decision and eager to execute, making a mental note to check Craig's List for a used camp stove.

The lights flicker, and power is restored.

Ah, island life.

Most Importantly

Fuck the excuses.
Fuck the hallow rhetoric.
Fuck the gun lobby.
Fuck the slimy politicians on the dole.
Fuck the ignorant bastards who buy the propaganda.
Fuck the alt right media.
Fuck your thoughts and prayers.
Fuck your conquer and divide strategy.
Fuck your racism.
Fuck your bigotry.
Fuck your family values.
Fuck your hypocrisy.
Fuck your tax cuts for the rich.
Fuck the rich.
Fuck your white supremacy policies.
Fuck your lies.
Fuck your cover up.
Fuck all those complicit.
Fuck your VP, Staff and counselors.
Fuck your nepotism.
Fuck the NRA.
But most importantly.
Fuck you.

Unacceptable America

I am really mad today. There was yet another shooting at a High School yesterday. Seventeen innocent kids died needlessly as a 'troubled' teen opened fire with an AR-15.

I am a little numb as well. Calloused by the appalling and cavalier attitudes of politicians buying cars, vacation homes and stocks with what can only be labeled as blood money from the NRA.

I am offended by politicians offering thoughts and prayers. About as useful as sending a wish-list to Santa.

I am troubled by the conquer and divide strategy that wedges Americans even further apart than we already are.  The second amendment in its entirety:

A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.

I am confused today. Somehow the technological differences between the weaponry used in 1776 and those of today vary like the difference in how we generate horsepower then versus now. We have (somewhat) successfully addressed those regulations and laws. Have we heard this before: License, registration and proof of insurance, please? Lastly, for those choosing to try the 'it is not a gun issue, it is a people issue', your attempt is laughable. You are confusing paradox with truth.

 America is #1. Number one in gun ownership and number one in murders committed by home-grown (white) terrorists. But money does more than talk. Way more.

I am all in for debate. I want change. I am tired of feeling depressed, angry, perplexed and helpless. I am weary of pointing fingers at the ignorant, brain-washed and bought. I am aghast at how the gun lobby considers these kids to be collateral damage, relentlessly echoing a 'too soon', gaslight propaganda campaign to shield their puppets in congress and the senate. This lethal charade needs a conclusion. A swift one.

I am sick and tired today.

This is unacceptable America.

Put it ALL Together

Might have been as I drove to the club this morning in the darkness and cold, but it just as easily could have been last night in a dream. It was one of those fragments lit up like a flashing neon sign. All it said was 'put it all together'. And just as quick it was gone. Fleetingly fast.

So I tried to expand it to examine what came before or after. Put exactly what all together? As hard as I tried nothing was shining a brighter light on the shadow of the subject. Until I got to the club.

As a adjusted my bike, set the EQ and volume on the stereo, and addressed the group for the first time - this being both Ash Wednesday, Valentine's Day and our weekly Wednesday Super Eight session - it hit me. Not the usual ton of bricks, but a well aimed rock none-the-less. Duh.

Put it in play. All of it. Awareness, presence, focus, attitude, gratitude, joy, paradox, humor and change. Bring all  the morality, ethical integrity and humanity you have in your hand - or up your sleeve - to the equation, that splendid extravaganza known as the now, whatever that happens to be. Put it all together, mix one part understanding and wisdom, one part celebration of the corpus delecti and one part universal spirit of harmony and light. Because, and now I sing the chorus, SOMETIMES THE CARDS AIN'T WORTH A DIME IF YA DON'T LAY 'EM DOWN.

You can, one can, know everything there is to know about transmission repair, but unless you, one, breaks the Snap-On 9/16 open-end wrench out of the tool kit, you, one, cannot do the job. You, one, might have three aces in your hand, but if you, one, fails to significantly raise the bet, your fortune will remain insignificant (assuming no one else has four Kings). LAY 'EM DOWN.

There is flow in the mix as well. One's ability to stay in the groove, to enjoy the ride, to see all this chaos as a dance. To be kind. To assist others. To encourage laughter. To be a shining beacon of guiding light in the bleakness of despair. To feed the hungry. To help the old woman across the street. To hold the hand of someone struggling to keep their head above the turbulent waters of our stressful times. For we are all in this together.

To put it all together.

As I assembled all this, the music began to play.

Truckin - like the doodah man
once told me you got to play your hand
sometime - the cards ain't worth a dime
if you don't lay em down

Born Romantics

Someone, most likely someone related to me, sent me this Richard Stine card as a, again, most likely, birthday card. Back in the days before e-mail. I had it magnetically attached to many a refrigerator, stuck by thumb tacks to several walls and even, as I recall, Scotch-taped to a long lost photo album. All because that someone thought it captured some mysterious character trait that connected the author to me. It did, it does, and it continues to.

I guess for two reasons. One, the easiest, is that I admire the art. It is a cool rendition of a common sociological condition. (Almost) everyone immediately gets it. One either relates and smiles or doesn't and doesn't. I stand firmly in the corner of the relaters. I am a born romantic. My glass has always been half full. My motto, "safety third", irritates the heck out of my brother, a commercial aviation and defense contracting lifer, but satisfies my mission of intrepid exploration and fearless non-compliance. Damn the torpedoes.

In this spirit, I offer today, a concept that too often goes unexamined. Or too unexamined closely enough. This would be reason number two.

The saying about the poor helpless romantic about to step off the chasm and towards the hungry mouths of the crocodiles below?

All good. Life.

Except that we should detail it out. Ask some questions and seek some answers.

Why do we not consider the plight of this pilgrim and look at the run-up to his or her facing, perhaps the most important decision of his or her existence? We talk about taking the step, making the leap of faith, taking the plunge, walking in another moccasins, but…..

…..what about the hundreds, thousands or hundreds of thousands of steps that proceeded this celebrated one?

How did we get here and what precipitated this dramatic moment of truth?

Every step is the most important. In practice, in patience and in performance (I could add the P of politics here, but will temporarily refrain).

Make each step count. Every pedal rotation, as proxy for footstrikes, every stroke in the pool and, yikes, every breath.

Because this is your superlative. This is the 'most important'.

Enter the world of now all ye romantics. We have work to do

Go Get 'em

Go Get 'em. Trying it in reverse today. Inside out and upside down.

A Better Rainbow

Love doesn't need to be perfect - it just needs to be true. An ancient and wise saying, no doubt, yet how do we 'get there'?

A three part formula, I recommend and prescribe. As with everything we say or promote here, and as your actual results WILL vary, the true test is in the testing, or a touch less pithy, go and try for yourself, note the process and record the results. This is one of the reasons why we have emblazoned on our PowerBarn license play holders: Ride, race, test, train. Because training is testing - and vice versa.

Stop striving for perfection. Seek, instead to improve continuously each day. If you follow any type of discipline, from Akido to Zen, you know that it is further broken down, for advanced students, to each activity on a daily basis. Hourly for masters. This includes such seemingly mundane activities as breathing, eating, walking and talking. The goal being conscious flow with life. Here are the three ingredients for our perfect love practice:

• 1) Awareness and acceptance.
• 2) A relaxed focus.
• 3) Finding the joy.

Number one calls for your commitment to the now. Accept where you presently find yourself on the physical fitness (or other) timeline. Start from here with an open heart and open mind. The goal is to somehow or some way improve upon your previous self. Do it better this time.

Number two asks for something big. To find that powerful and blissful state of satori, where we become one with the activity. I find the bicycle to be a perfect vehicle for this art of seeking a relaxed state of hyper-awareness. It is the magic and mythic marriage of cosmic flow.

Number three, as soon as numbers one and two have been achieved, is easy. Find the inner peace and harmony that is the natural by-product of the effort. It can be a war, it can be struggle, it can utterly beat the crap out of you, until you get there - and then everything changes. You smile with respect of the power you have tapped into and see (at last) that it was there patiently waiting for you all this time. Or, again falling into the pity trap - You can have eternity today.

I wish I could end this without turning the next page, but I can't. Therefore please be advised that once this apex of magic and miracle is reached, you now have a deeper responsibility, what Dan Millman calls House Rules. You have to keep it going, pay it forward and assist others struggling on their path. In other words, it doesn't need to be perfect, one simply needs to strive for perfect effort along the way.

Kinda like love.

The Spinning Strat

It is 0624. Me and Spike have just returned from our morning walk. It is a brisk but clear 37 degrees. The moon is a vivid crescent with Cancer prominent in the Southern sky. I ask Spike if he can identify that brightest star in the constellation. With his nose he points to a glowing, flashing light source as if to say, what is that one? I chuckle with the response, running lights from Boeing 737.

Our weekly 'ode to hoy' spin class is in an hour. Yesterday I crafted the set list, featuring new tunes from Steven Stills, Foo Fighters and Joe Bonamassa. I like the sound of a twangy Strat. We will execute the following set, itself a small slice of the rock n roll ethos.

• 10 minute warm up
• 15 seconds of twice body weight in watts (we call them double shots) seated
• 45 seconds recovery at 7/120 (gear/cadence) seated
• 1 minute seated @ 17
• 2 minutes standing - no touch (17)
• 1 minute seated GZSS (groove zone - sweet spot) seated

These five minute reps are reversed, seated - standing, as the gears (slope) is increased each rep, starting at 17 and finishing at 20.

If if feels appropriate, we might take an additional minute break at 7/120 midway.

The accompanying theme will be that of fatigue, with our new and improved definition being; That place in time where our desired, required or requested power cannot be maintained. Because it is truly at that very point where the biggest decision of the day is made. What do I do with this? Do I endure? Will I succumb? Do I dig deep? Do I relax and flow? Do I grind? Do I achieve? Might I fail? Or do I do my best, measure and manage, engage in the awareness of quality effort and allow the adaption process to unfold?

Can't wait to get started. Ciao.

Four-for-Four

In case you missed Huckabee Sanders saying that thanks to dear leader Trump the US now has the global lead in military might, please consider this graph.

You know that sensation when you throw-up a little bit in your throat? This administration makes we want to puke all over the oval office carpet. And btw, we have yet another streak in progress, as I have yet, all these long, treasonous, conspiratorial, constitutionally challenging days since America elected this abortion of leadership, this cabal of kleptocrats and this menagerie of megalomaniacs into office, to use President before, or after, the pathetic pronoun known as Trump.

Additionally, as I normally refrain from using the word never, I will make a rare exception in this case, as in, never have and never will.

If their fascist agenda continues goose-stepping towards dictatorship and my posts are intercepted by the USASS and deemed a crime against the state, I will take a cigarette and blindfold, knowing that my last words were with the intent to save our country and constitution. The words might be, simply,

Fuck you.

For our workout this morning (I like to combine a theme with our yoga, stretching and weight lifting sessions) I put together four character traits that could be used to determine the "quality rating" of an individual (cabal or cartel) seeking power, prestige or profit from us. See if you agree that the above mentioned administration fails miserably, taking what I score as an oh-for-four.

Morals.
Integrity.
Ethics.
Humanity.

As a positive take-away on this glorious Friday, I will leave you with another zinger from my favorite most quotable person, who happens to go four-for-four on the QR test. Have a compassionate weekend.

Instead of trying to resolve our differences by force, we must talk and enter into dialogue. This is not a sign of weakness, but of wisdom—a realistic approach. This is why we have to discuss how to impress on those who are young today the importance of cultivating a compassionate mind in conjunction with a more realistic view. Dalai Lama.

It is 0904

Going to take a stab at it. This will be a first. Hopefully it will not be the last.

Updates in real time. First person, active voice. Go.

My eyes open. It is dark and I am in a strange bed. Oddly, I feel safe, secure and relaxed. My first chore is to take a reading on my heart activity, am I still in atrial fibrillation, or has my 'advanced' technique succeeded?

Affirming sinus rhythm success, I access the current situation and immediately recall that I am house sitting. Having nothing on the agenda until 1000 today, I deeply relax and enjoy the recovery opportunity. I count breaths. My thoughts, like a ping-pong ball, bounce between Husky players numbers and concerns over Dad's behavior, not exactly the 'goal' of breath counting. After several re-starts, replacing Deonate Cooper with Sonny Sixkiller and a peaceful and pleasant book reader with the current raging and frustrated father slipping ever further into dementia, I reach the numerical apex and rise.

I feel good. Yesterday's three sessions seem to have strengthened this bag of bones instead of creating stiffness and soreness. Niezsche was right I chuckle. Heading downstairs to walk the dog, Spike, I decide to make a pot of coffee so that it will be ready when we return from our morning surveillance stroll of the neighborhood. There are three new houses going up. They are going up as fast as the builders can stack wood, bend rebar, staple roofing material, hang tyvek, mold aluminum and cut plastic. I ask Spike if he is as glad as I am that we are not longer in the construction biz. He looks at me with an expression that starts with a yes, and ends with a let's go have breakfast look.

I am enjoying the fresh coffee which I intentionally over built. Spike seems to be doing likewise with his over-filled bowl of turkey and rice granulated pellets. He is a good dog.

Upstairs I check in with the world via internet. All is well except for the fact that the slime-ball America has elected as its leader is now wanting a military parade in his honor. Dad asked me yesterday what I thought was wrong with that. Dad watches Fox News.

Maybe my answer is what causes him to drink. I think that perhaps - no probably - me engaging an 85 year Republican in a debate on the current state of the party of Lincoln, is like me asking Spike if he wants something to eat.

It may be wrong, immoral and unethical but if there is a meal in it, let's eat.

Politicians, like dogs, get lazy when fat.

I breathe deeply and calm my ragged and outraged ego. I know somewhere a Dreamer is getting harassed by ICE, a musician is getting busted for pot, a gay is being bullied, a black athlete is taking a knee in protest, innocent civilians die as a direct result of our foreign interests, another waterway is polluted by sweet crude, Native Americans cower, another rape goes unreported, Nazi's gather, two old friends die together from opiod overdoses, another twenty-two vets commit suicide, sixteen seniors on fixed incomes are rendered homeless, ten people are denied medical attention because of lack of insurance, a Fox News host lies, the press secretary conveniently blames the former President for it, the president lies again and the Senate attempts another round of distraction and misdirection to cover.

I need to take a walk with the dog. It is 0904.

Ask Your Dad

Larry Creswell is a doctor, an athlete and has atrial fibrillation. We share two of the three (I dropped out of medical school at noon on the second day). He has been writing on the subject of cardiovascular health care, especially as it applies to older athletes with heart arrhythmias, for a long time. I have been following his articles, posts and advice as closely as I follow that of my Cardiology team at UW Med. He has a casual but precise writing style leaving most adjectives and adverbs to the fiction writers. He is no-nonsense and down to earth. He reminds me of what I could be if I chose to become an expert in one field, instead of insisting that a Jack-of-all-Trades will always find employment. The reason he is the focus of today's post is two fold:

1) His latest article contains a call to action that many men in my demographic (age group) need to hear, and,
2) It is a useful segue into today's recap of my experience with the aforementioned cardio arrhythmia.

We'll start with the latter, where I will attempt to summarize all the frothing water that has passed under my bridge since diagnosis WAY back in 2014.

Being undiagnosed with atrial fibrillation is scary. On at least two of my trips to the ER I had the feeling that I was not going to walk away. Once diagnosed, I unceremoniously failed all the procedures considered by modern medicine to be the sequence for correction. First the cardioversion. Three, two, one, BLAM, 260 joules pass from paddles to heart in the hope of jump starting it back into sinus rhythm. I will tell you about the nifty drug administered before this procedure at a later date. I failed cardio-aversion five times. Next comes ablation, a process where catheter is snaked up an artery and into your heart. Once there the skilled electro-physiologist snips, freezes or burns whatever nodes are hiding like a thief from the cops. Without the rouge nodes electrical interference, the heart usually resumes its regularity. The key word here is usually. I am not in the usual category. Oh for two. It was at this juncture that I was given a choice. I could take handfuls of drugs, some with severe side-effects, or…… have a pacemaker installed.

I opted for the pacer. That was almost four years ago. Things have been '''''OK''''' since that infamous procedure. I mean, I am still walking and taking and writing about it, so how bad can it be, right?

Here is the update part. I have been feeling 'crappy' for about a year. Fatigue, brain-fog, chest pain, arthritis, hypotension, loss of balance. The list goes on. The last few weeks I have been going into and out of A-Fib with alarming frequency. WORSE, it seems that every time we do a high intensity indoor spin session, as we did this morning, and can watch my heart rate monitor bounce between 120 and 242 as regular as a stoned metronome. I am in A-Fib as we talk. That is the bad news, good news I have also become fairly adept at getting back out. A quiet, warm, peaceful place where I lay flat on my back, totally relax and breathe deep, counting breaths until either I fall asleep or feel better, calmer and balanced. At most this takes a day. I remain unconvinced that stroking-out could be any worse than dealing with the symptoms trying to push 350 watts for 30 seconds. Like I said above, kinda scary.

Later today, after chores, I will upload pacer data to UW for analysis and recommendation.

There is my story, updated. I would not wish this on even my worse enemy (and praise the Lord I don't have any - well wait, Trump can have it), so please friends, read Dr. Creswell's article and heed his advice.

Take it from me, the best thing you can do, up front, is ask your Dad. Do we have any history of heart arrhythmia in our family?

Gotta run, have a great day, and thanks Larry. And thanks Dad (shown above after Boston 1997)

Black Beans

Black beans from scratch. After the wash, rinse and soak, I put a medium pot filled with them on the stove and set the temp for simmer, cover and walk away taking mental note of my use of the fire tool. We are old friends.

It WAS my theme for the ride (not beans). We were about to embark on another joyous romp through the virtual world of indoor cycling. I am the tour guide/squadron leader/drill instructor/head yell leader. While it has long been my self imposed mission to add a balance component to every session, sometimes I go to extremes to illustrate a point du jour.

My theme for this ride, yesterday, was the concept of awareness. Alluding to the tangential ideas of focus, non-distraction and allegiance to the primary directive, we go about the protocol of the day which of course is designed to add challenge, build confidence and connect mind to body and body to spirit. Spirit being proxy for soul. And soul being the target. Find the bull's eye of your soul. The body will respond as long as the mind allows participation. Once those two are aligned in a harmonious and flowing dance of relaxed focus, guess who knocks on the ballroom door wanting to join the celebration?

You got it Mr. Soul.

We can practice this in everything we do, not just when we are pushing 250 watts in a classic rock trance. I use the technique every day. My days are incredibly demanding (comparatively). I need to lock doors, feed dogs, administer medication, shop, work on video, screen-plays and scripts, assemble set lists, create class profiles, capture new media, manage schedules in real time, do the laundry, feed the cats (clean up the resulting barf from one), and prepare meals. The more astute among you will quickly discern that nowhere in this list of chores is found any labor resulting in financial compensation. This is all done by noon despite there being no bonus for speed. The daily practice is that of awareness.

I am aware that the dogs are fed and as I leave for next assignment, the doors are locked. I take notes like Beethoven wrote them. I am a firm believer in hyper-living in the moment. Right now. What am I doing, why, and can I do it any better, more efficient, or more joyous. Can I hum Ode to Joy right now?

After a full and satisfying day, including what I assessed to be a rather inspired ride, I get home, spent, weary and ready for a refreshment beverage. Phone rings, results from Dad's blood test. He needs to increase his anti-coagulant medication tonight. I have his meds. Back into truck, drive to Dad's and oversee the dose. Drive home.

Fuck. The beans.

Go 99ers!

I am at an editorial impasse today. Two, no three, items are circling my brain much like fruit flies around rancid durian on a hot Singaporean afternoon.

For those of you in the know, THAT would look almost as bad as it would smell.

Here are my options:

• 1) Super Bowl (whatever Roman Numeral we are at these days). Or a story of one.
• 2) My luncheon with a truly gifted and insightful friend. Whose opinion I highly value.
• 3) The stock market is melting down. Go 99%ers!

At the risk of mentioning them all, and hence losing any important details that each carry, here we go.

It was 38 years ago. Me and my buddy (who as serendipitously as can be is now a department head-honcho at The Disney Network)  and I had just spent the morning and afternoon watching Super Bowl XIV between the bad-ass Pittsburgh Steelers and our hometown underdogs, the LA Rams. More than a few beers were consumed in the process. By half-time we were in the local bar rounding up the remaining members of our crew for what would surely be an exciting conclusion.

At the time I was living in LA, a place I did not want to be, working in the auto parts business, as a part owner of a parts store along with my wife's two brothers and Dad. It was a business I didn't want to be in. I suppose the trifecta was that fact that I wanted out of the marriage partnership as well. Oh for three to mix a sports metaphor. Maybe third and long would be better. As a counter guy (and machine shop grease monkey) I started to take bets on the big game, everything from the obligatory pools to which team would score first, last and most often. I had a semi-small amount riding on the outcome. The Rams were holding their own until the fourth quarter when Terry Bradshaw hit John Stallworth for a TD inches over the outstretched arms of Ram safety Nolan Cromwell. Game.

None the less we partied on into the night and as the sun rose on a new day I called home to explain. Wife was none to happy, partners pissed and crew missing. So I did what any complete loser would do and took a cab to the airport and bought a one-way ticket to Seattle.

The pay phone that I later used to call (beg) for money to buy a return ticket is no longer there. It was replaced by a shopping center about 15 years ago. As I drove by its former site on my way to lunch with my dear friend today, this a pitch meeting for the screen-play, I heard the radio report that the stock market, the dow and the general commodity known as Wall Street was melting.

I know how ya feel boys. Sometimes it takes a big-time loss to understand the true meaning of winning. Go 99ers!

Engage

Have you ever wondered how creativity works? Consider why we feel so alive and connected when struck by the imperative to do. What I like to call playing the verb card. Laying down an action. Doing. Running, riding an indoor bicycle (the alleged theme of this blog), counting laps in the pool, hiking to the highest point in your county, drawing with crayons, authoring a few lines of iambic pentameter, taking a photo trek, editing video, walking the dogs on the beach, in other words, tapping into your creative imperative. Getting into the magical flow of creating something out of nothing.

It is very God-like. That miraculous condition labeled kamiwazza by the Japanese.

The wonderful thing about this kamiwazza concept is that anyone can do it. We are not talking solely about the masters, the Michaelangelos, Mozarts or Miltons, we are talking about you. The collective you. ALL of you. Us.

As so often occurs amid this current chaos and confusion, all cleverly orchestrated by a cabal of predatory capitalists, we are pointed in exactly the opposite direction. The direction of the big-box stores where our immediate gratifications and time-filling, brain-numbing entertainments are found. It is so easy to drop a grand on the latest iPhone and spend the day watching other people do things. Much easier it seems than doing those things ourselves. I could cite today as the quintessential example of this mass-market money scheme, being it Super Bowl whatever Sunday, but I will resist taking the easy way out. You get it.

Life is meant to be a participatory adventure, not a spectator sport. I support the idea that it is about doing, not watching. About creating something, including the synergy of our minds, bodies and spirits towards the creation of something that might inspire others to take up the same holy cause. THAT is a masterpiece. One person's capolavoro.

Go inside, stay still and count your breaths. Listen to the muted message of the muse. Something will emerge. You will see, hear, feel, taste, intuit, wonder, or sense that a code needs breaking, that a song needs to be sung or a story recounted. You can practice this like any other skill.

Once you begin, nothing will ever be the same for you will have tapped into the essence of life. It is about doing. About creating and about change. Once you are here, there is but a single choice, you must:

Engage.

Photo credit. From the author's scrapbook, Italy, 1993, Me & Dave.

A Lasting and Hororable Peace

On September 9, 1942, two 340lb incendiary bombs were dropped on the contiguous The United States by The Japanese Imperial Navy. It was 9 months after Pearl Harbor but 3 years before the US would retaliate with the first use of nuclear weapons in Hiroshima and then Nagasaki.

Our story investigates how a 'Glen' class E14Y float plane, launched from an I-25 submarine, managed to sneak past an alert and hyper-prepared American military. Countering this drama is a US Forest Service volunteer secondarily tasked with coastal surveillance near Brookings, Oregon.

The final backdrop is the 'under-the-gun-eleventh-hour' frantic efforts of the Manhattan Project to ready the atomic bombs that would eventually end WW II.

How the bombs were dropped as the American military tirelessly patrolled its West Coast and the events that took place in the run-up to the world's first use of weaponized nuclear energy, is only half the story.

The other half is what happened after. The human component, an American/Japanese renewal of respect, catharsis and healing, which would take place nearly 40 years after the world-changing bombings, and would, while the history books fail to detail, sow a lasting and honorable peace.

And we just might have a working title. 

Showers, Breakfasts, Busses

Plan in Decades,
Think in Years,
Work in Months,
Live in Days,
Focus on Now.

It is still dark outside. We can see the black start to lighten into gray through the windows above the garage doors. We meet in this cold space three times per week to stretch and lift. We do this early, first, because my workout partner is 15 and will catch the bus to school immediately afterwords. He will hustle through a shower and breakfast to do so.

I try to include a tangential theme as part of our sessions, now nearing the four year mark. Today, although I wanted to re-introduce running to our regimen, thinking that tomorrow after our Saturday spin class would be opportune, he said something that I immediately caught and returned his verbal toss, forgetting the run option.

I was spotting him on the bench. We are are at 125lbs. Looking at my watch I suggested 'anytime you're ready' as a motivational cue. I laughed when he responded with, 'how about tomorrow?'

Floodgates open.

Tomorrow we will be doing something else, equally important, but until that time ALL our focus is here and now.

You get three breaths and then hoist, bucko. Out of the blue I commented that as I was present when you (he) took his first breath, almost 16 years ago, despite the thousands of breaths that have happened since, the next one is the most important.

To further illustrate, because I was now on an endorphin/philosophical roll, I said, 'let's consider how this applies; those 15 years since that first one have gone by pretty fast, have they not?'

'They have'.

'By the same measurement stick then, the next 15 will go by equally as quick?'

'I guess, yeah.'

'Then what should our response to that fact be?

Silence as 125lbs go up and down 6 times.

'How about in the attempt to cram as much experience into those years as possible, doing things, going places, meeting people, reading books, singing songs, running races….'

'Taking showers, eating breakfasts and catching buses?'

'Yes, go. Nice work today.'

A Bigger Plate

I got some very good advice yesterday. While I cannot reveal the source, please consider and match it against your experience. I think the sources will then be revealed as the same.

To assess my situation of late as 'busy' might be an understatement of monumental proportions. Kinda the opposite of Trump's usual overestimation of, well, anything.

I was playing the workload out in my mind while driving from hospital to hardware store and then to The Barn, where am I going to fit all this in, and will the quality of each be affected to the negative as a result of the seeming overloaded plate? For me this internal cross-check usually ends with some type of a compromise based upon the relative value and priority rankings of the various entrees filling the aforementioned plate, along with the time-tested tactic of doing one thing at a time as best as possible before moving gleefully along to the next. This has always worked for me. Until RG (Dad) took another U-Turn, resulting in the need for 24/7 care.

Suddenly I find what every Mother of teen-agers already knows, that, while we can't call it multi-tasking because that isn't Zen-like, it is the only tactic that satisfies the requirements of getting all this shit done (since were being un-Zenish). Judge that as you will, but when that plate is full and another surprise asks you to step up, you do. You find room. You make it happen. People are depending on your power and ability. Often those people cannot fend for themselves. The young do but don't know and the aged know but can't do.

Leaving someone in the middle who can do both. Someone who cares enough to make it happen, no matter what. So accept it and get good at it.

The voice whispers to me softly and sweetly.

Get a bigger plate.