All Three?

“Find a place inside where there's joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.” 

“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.” 

“Where you stumble and fall - there you will find gold.”

Joseph Campbell is the legendary author, thinker, philosopher, sage that I quote in all three of the above. They make a juicy Sicilian blood orange seem dry by comparison. I have read several of his books and studied his ideas on mythology, especially interested on his take of the hero and his quest. But never, until now have I listened to him present his fascinating topics to a live audience. He is a phenomenal orator, obviously witty, a master of his material and gifted with the same uncanny connectivity to his audience as Alan Watts, Kurt Vonnegut, the 14th Dalai Lama or Michelle Wolf ever were. 

Whoa. Hold it right there Bucko. What possible connection to audience do you reference by the inclusion of a comedian on this prestigious list of great thinkers? 

This one: That the mission statement of philosophers, authors, seekers in all sects, leaders and spiritual comedians is to, 1) Tell the truth, 2) Be funny and 3) Make those in power uncomfortable. 

As we progressed through a stupidly hard session this morning (attempting to experience the physiological phenomenon known as fatigue), I used the three above quotes from JC as motivational cues, in the quest for improvement, slow, daily, tiny bits of positive change, micro exponential growth and physical preventative maintenance. The regulars are conditioned to indulge when I head for these lofty realms and most often the newbies follow suit, recognizing after a classic rock tune or two, that I intend no harm in my choice of metaphor. 

It was at the point of no return (48 minutes) as my delicate psyche was engaged in a fire-fight with my runaway heart rate and aching lower back, that I crossed the line. I asked if anyone wanted to conduct YET ANOTHER experiment. I could read the body language suggesting that the current one (the fatigue one) was probably enough for one class, and maybe just some volume on the Bob Seger tune would be sufficient, thank you very much. 

Laughing out loud as I formulated the mission statement into something I could use didactically, the line crossed was total ad-lib. Could I, as Campbell suggests, Vonnegut seconds, the Dalai Lama lovingly allows and Michelle Wolf jokes, do all three?

If I ride into the cave of fear will the treasure of truth be found, after falling, finding gold to pay for therapy, falling again and finding joy - will that pain be burnt by humor, and most importantly will it irritate those in power?

Happiness or Holiness?

David Brooks tells us “We don’t live for happiness, we live for holiness. Day to day we seek out pleasure, but deep down, human beings are endowed with moral imagination. All human beings seek to lead lives not just of pleasure, but of purpose, righteousness, and virtue.” 

It was six years ago as I uncomfortably sat in the economy section of a flight from New York to Madrid that I read, devoured really, his fascinating work, The Social Animal. I retain to this day the notebook that I carried containing my notes from the transcontinental read. 

There is a side to me that likes order, structure and dedication. As well as the flip side craving chaos, spontaneity and improvisation. They sometimes collide. In closer examination this seems to be the way that it is supposed to be, after all doesn’t change begin with a peek at ‘the other side’ of the issue, equation or ideological coin? 

Mr Brooks seems to make the implication that happiness and holiness are mutually exclusive, as in one calls heads or trails and lives with the outcome. I know from experience that there is a warm moral glow that comes from doing what is right as compared to the right thing. We are seeing this play out on cable news every night with the daily recap of the (highly rated) national sitcom reality show where party before country divides and conquers our low information populace. I also know form experience that a questionable or downright immoral act directly affects that happiness glow, obscuring it into a shadowed low-level diffused darkness. We seek the glow of virtue more than instant gratification. Ah the moral dilemma. 

Brooks continues, “…people have a responsibility to become more moral over time. The best life is oriented around the increasing excellence of the soul and is nourished by moral joy, the quiet sense of gratitude and tranquility that comes as a by product of successful moral struggle”.

You’re asking me to be a saint? I understand and agree, but I am weak and subject to the same desires and lusts that have plagued man since the hunters hunted and gatherers gathered. The pleasures of instant gratification, one moment of love, kindness, intimacy, joy and the reciprocality of sexual bonding is a test for even the saintliest among us. We all ‘should’ recognize this and develop strategies to hold the higher standard on demand. Something like the Bro Code when in doubt. It is always uphill. 

Brooks finishes his Humility Code Index One with, “The meaningful life is the same eternal thing, the combination of some set of ideals and some man or woman’s struggle for those ideals. Life is essentially a moral drama, not a hedonistic one.”

How difficult a task to become more moral over time when the ruling class exhibits none and hypocritically puts party ahead of country? The greedy and selfish narcissism that rudely, and perhaps criminally, slams the door on those in simple and pure pursuit of holiness. 

Or happiness. 

Please Forgive

Please Forgive

Respect

Every once in a while somebody says something nice. Every so often someone does something heroic. Every once in a blue moon nobility, integrity, humanity and moral awareness shine brighter than any full moon ever will. 

Yesterday’s back story pushes a sad trend forward. It kicks the proverbial can down the street, over the hump, down the hill and clean out of sight. Goes like this:

Struggling with the frustrating after effects of a week in A-Fib we finish another 2x20 set in the PowerBarn. Intentionally, I severely under-set my wattage as compensation with the immediate reaction being negative, self-doubting, fearful and judgmental thoughts that creep into my focus with a heads-up display of abject failure. I am weak. I am hurt. I am fat, out of shape and pathetic, a worthless cross sampling of global waste. My only salvation is in the fact that after this 45 minute exercise in self flagellation I can enjoy a beer. These two things - riding my bike and drinking beer - are the only things that ease, however temporarily, the nasty effects of my ‘condition’. And therein lies the rub, as cycling intensity AND duration now seem to be the triggers on the AR-15 fully automatic atrial fibrillation weapon with hallow-point, armor-piercing rounds of IPA as ammo. Suddenly if I ride too hard or too long - I consume too much. Riding less and drinking more, as you might surmise is a proven recipe for: EVERYTHING BAD I can imagine - and then some. More at Everythingbad.Hell.

I am riding home on my old, breaking down 1998 Honda Shadow VT600 after our session. I am very much looking forward to a few high-end pilsners, some dinner and a TV recap of the disgusting news relentlessly spewing from the White House. As Friday is a ‘late day’ - no early classes - I might even watch some Husky football highlights. I get a text from wonderful neighbor asking to please come to dinner on the deck, as we are enjoying three consecutive nice days. 

I go and introduce myself to visitors from San Diego. Wonderful neighbor brings a cold beer as my halibut burger is sizzling on the Weber Genius II. We talk and I ram another Lagunitas. Eventually we move conversationally towards the topic no one can escape, politics. 

I am now buzzed and having already taken a silent vow NOT to go ‘there’ I tell the story of Sunday’s break of day Star Spangled Banner blaring by the Navy Undersea Warfare Facility across the Port Orchard Inlet from us. It was as loud as any football stadium in America. Being both startled and mildly irritated (they interrupted a peaceful civilian morning with musical propaganda) in response, in the privacy of my own driveway, I took the proverbial knee. 

I tell the story and immediately see that everyone is nodding in agreement and or acceptance of the social implication, except the visitors from SD. Alarms go off in my head. I hear myself tell myself to STFU. Visitor announces that he is an Army Vet and finds the whole NFL kneeling thing disgraceful and disrespectful. I say, with volume above others attempting to voice same, that it is not about disrespect, it is about police brutality and overt racism and violence against people of color. The games, the song, and the faux patriotism of the American right is merely a spin on the initial goal designed to misdirect away from the real issue. Police are killing American citizens for the apparently felonious crime of being non-white. 

Well its still disrespectful. 

Stop the cops, right-wing media and this racist regime from blatant discrimination and then we can talk about respect.

WHAT?

I quit """teaching""" indoor cycling last year. I was tired, hurt, burnt-out and personally devastated by the volume of “”””students””” deciding (gasp) to do other things at 0530 on dark and cold Seattle mornings. I still wanted to keep the metabolic buzz flowing and do something to substitute for the six or seven hundred calories that were toasted in these efforts, as well as the c-note note of weekly compensation, so I synergied a couple of my favorites into one activity hoping to find, well, a more balanced curriculum. 

I ended up with a crazy scheme that I thought might be scaleable, ecologically opportunistic and satisfy the physical element. I hatched a lawn mowing biz with the caveat that all work was done by hand, the old fashioned, old school method using a reel mower. In extreme landscaping circumstances I would rely on a battery powered weed-wacker. Under no circumstances would I fire up a fossil fueled engine be it a Briggs and Stratton, John Deere, or Dodge Hemi. 

After a couple of days of research I ended up with the Fiskars as my go-to mow. Summarizing this experiences in a sentence, after ten plus years of getting up early, it took a while to restructure my days, and the chore of pushing, albeit with the Fiskars patented power inducing inertia-drive, proved to be a monumental challenge for the regularity of my heart rate. The atria didn’t especially like the change and protested often, with great effect. I am now down to two regular customers, small jobs that take about an hour each and have returned to the club for reasons that, for administrative accountability principles, should be filed in the ‘things I miss’ cabinet. Just go ahead a cram the file in there with the others. 

Truth be known, always a goal here, I am very sensitive to sound. Stop whatever you are doing right now and listen to what is happening right outside your door. If you hear what I hear, and it is spring not winter, you are likely to hear a cacophony of gas-fired two-cycle engines, mowers, edgers, blowers, trimmers, generators all with the discordant accompaniment of cars, motos, scooters, busses and light aircraft. FUCK, it’s enough to drive a deaf man insane. Is it any wonder the in-flight commands of Canadian squadron leader Honkers are louder, and more imperative, than ever? 

Yesterday, after a rousing morning session at the club, I went into A-Fib during the second set of the evening’s PowerBarn session. This one was different in as much as it was immediate. I felt the typical light head, power reduction and chest pressure, but this time it felt somehow more complete. I reached for carotid and felt something like a country-jazz fusion, 3/4 time with a pause and punch emphasis on the return downbeat. What we used to call a stutter and slam, a technique illustrated nicely in The Other One by the Dead. 

After the session, moto ride home, a grilled cheese sandwich fabricated by my wonderful neighbor and landlady, a Greek salad crafted by another wonderful neighbor, two beers and a perusal of the nightly news  (I am growing into a huge Ari Melber fan), I weakly headed upstairs to work through the fibrillation and its irritating symptoms. Rest, sleep, meditation and as deep a relaxation level as I can muster, a technique that normally works but left me with back-to-back sleepless nights this go-round. 

I woke early, as sister in DC texted a request for a book report on a Tom Robbins novel, so half asleep and sans pajamas I weakly made the return trip downstairs and into the day. Out of A-Fib.

With the morning being my oyster I sit down to write, topics swirling like a Tennessee twister. I decide to reconstruct yesterdays saga, as outlined above, because after all, my atrial fibrillation and indoor cycling were long ago (119 days) nominated to be the focal points of this semi-literary farce (used for therapeutic and a record of progress purposes only), pour a fresh cup of yesterday’s coffee and open the french doors that lead to the deck, with grassy yard and beach beyond. 

Seems landlady has hired two guys with dueling John Deere’s to mow, blow and go. 

Baseball as Metaphor

This will be attempt number four. Having already struck out (looking) once I will intrepidly dig in for another try. Maybe a recap might help, after all if we can’t identify where we have failed in the past, we are doomed to repeat it. Scientifically I have proven this 23,434 career times. 

My insights on karma and mens rea felt hallow, despite my, well, good intentions. 

My analysis on the current regime revealed nothing new, it only demonstrated further their particularly poignant propensity for piss poor planning. 

My treatise on why (the fuck) several hundred misguided souls staged a protest on the Washington State capitol, waving the American flag, armed with AR-15s, voicing their disapproval of bump-stock restrictions and background checks, ended badly. 

Dejected after this literary whiff, I consoled my consciousness by weed-whacking the front lawn and cleaning the tires on truck and moto. After another cup of Trader’s Joe, I checked on the upload status of the latest video to YouTube and now stand vowing atonement at the keyboard.  

Instead of political and or philosophical speculation and the tossing of metaphysical darts, probably speaking on that which I am expert is appropriate today. 

Except that now I am faced with answering one simple question. What am I expert at?

I am good at lot’s of meaningless stuff. I am very good at a few, but expert? 

The brutally honest introspection and analysis reveals, sadly, that I am truly not an expert at anything. Yikes, that hurt!

Unless you include the knowledge that it is not a prerequisite to happiness to be an expert at it. AND, see post, if and when one converts the knowledge of this elusive reality into action; The relentless pursuit of happiness through helping people, forgiveness, gratitude and loving others as ourselves (and being persistence at it) happiness is really all that counts. Deep and complete happiness. Happiness as a utility.

I am an expert at getting off the bench and back in the batter’s box. 

And this makes me very, very happy. 

Author’s note: Does any sport lend better metaphors than baseball?

East Creek and Beyond

For the few of you who follow the plight of our protagonist (as he moves through the mine field of life with grace and purpose - and other times stumbles and scrapes knees), you know from yesterday’s post that I take great inspiration from others that have braved a similar path. I listen closely to music hoping to find commonality in the melody to mood connection, hear the written word and close my eyes to better visualize reality. In a word, I am easily inspired by a ripe sentence, a virtuosic minor scale or a well executed chase scene. To keep from being totally driven by pop culture, I try to spend equal amounts of time among the trees, waterways and forests. For the same reasons. 

Yesterday when I spoke of the phraseology of Chuck Palahniuk alongside the life changing prose of Dan Millman, a follow on thought gave me a few moments of peace as I walked along the rocky shoreline that I share with gulls, ducks, Canadian Honkers, coyotes, seals and eagles. I can hear them right now as I sit in my makeshift office, spring allowing the French doors to remain open. CP in Doomed, uses a tool called geographical alliteration to illustrate the point of his central characters being rich, famous and well traveled. So I started doing the same, with the caveat that at least one of the three cities, towns, states or countries must have visited by your obedient servant. Let’s try.

• Alabama, Argentina, Alps.
• Bristol, Brewster, Birmingham.
• Culver City, Calgary, Cleveland.
• Dover, Denver, Donner Pass.
• El Paso, Edinburgh, East Berlin.
• Fargo, Florence, Finland.
• Ghent, Gutenberg, Gunnison.
• Hilo, Hanoi, Henderson.
• Inglewood, Iceland, Idlewild.
• Jamestown, Johannesburg, Jakarta.
• Kenya, Kansas City, Kohl.
• Latvia, Laos, Liberty Bell.
• Memphis, Mogadishu, Mosul.
• Normandy, Nice, National City.
• Oslo, Organdy, Oman.
• Panama, Puerto Rico, Peru.
• Queensland, Quintana Roo, Queens,
• Rutland, Romania, Rockville,
• Sacramento, San Gimignano, Sorrento,
• Tasmania, Toulouse, Tripoli,
• Uganda, Union Gap, Upper Jay.
• Virgin Islands, Victoria, Vernal.
• Westchester, Winchester, Worcester.
• Xai-Xai, Xi’an, Xalapa*
• Yemen, Yelm, Yankton.
• Zamboanga City, Zaragoza, Zagreb*

And I will leave you with this from Dr. Suess:

Be who you are and say what you feel,
those who mind don’t matter,
and those who matter don’t mind. 

* The X's and Z's are tough ones. 

The Courage to Do

To this day I remain under the influence. Many years ago, most likely during my ‘spiritual maturation’ phase, I read a quote by Dan Millman from his seminal Peaceful Warrior saga, a quote that lives in me to this moment. 

I bring this up because a very dear friend of mine is going through a rough time. He is in the darkness of indecision and despair. He feels helpless, lost, confused and ready to throw in the towel. His wife of 15 years and his son of similar age live under the same roof, but are total strangers, choosing avoidance instead of communication to solve their many issues. In a word their relationships are toxic. My advice has been consistent for the last five years when the writing on the wall became legible, ‘get out’. I have used the quasi-excuse that it is his/their path and any involvement, counsel, judgment or intervention on my part is hypocritical and intrusive. But in our conversation yesterday I noticed another level of his despair and frustration when he told me that his son, being relentlessly reminded by his mother that his father is a loser, no longer even speaks to him. To be blunt, when I was 15 I didn’t think my Dad was so great either, this being a combination of his treatment of Mom and my rebellion towards him as a authoritarian and baseball coach. So I get it. To many adolescent males their biggest fear is maturing into a man of lesser stature than their father. 

We were in the driveway exchanging the usual closing comments when he said that he didn’t know what to do about the nightmare of his existence. 

I said ‘I think you do.’

He looked at me with the double-edged visage of pity and fear and asked what I meant.

You know what to do, you just won’t, for whatever reasons, do it. You are paralyzed by analysis, in fear of change’s firm grip and too weak to be strong in the one moment when strength is exactly what called for. Pull the trigger. Push the button. Cowboy up dude. 

I was entering the place I promised I would not go, the chamber of tough love. But I continued, ‘do you remember the time we went to see Dan Millman talk in Seattle?’

Yeah.

Do you remember what he said about knowledge and wisdom?

Not really.

He said, ‘Knowledge is knowing what to do. Wisdom is doing it.’

Silence.

You know what you must do. Find the courage to do it. 

A Perfect Fit

Went down to the beach this morning to walk the dog. Crisp morning, low tide, peaceful. I take a beach bag whenever I walk to pick up some of the plastic that washes up with regularity matched only by the tides. Every so often I find some discarded flotsam that carries identification of sorts. Today I found a geographical message in a bottle, something I always take as an omen. What, I wondered as rocks slid underfoot, could a tiny glass bottle with a broken neck, stamped with a hecho en Mexico suggest, possibly represent? 

And my early Sunday morning mind immediately goes Ctrl-Alt association to the Chuck Palahniuk novel Doomed that I am listening to on audio tape. The guy who penned Fight Club took this one to an another extreme. To say that CP is ‘out there’ doesn’t do justice to his craft. He strings sentences and ideas together much like a fisherman on a lonely seashore might string his net together. Connecting this to everything. Points A to B. The interconnectivity of my beach combing clean-up to the shores of Tripoli. 

It is Earth Day 2018. We have treated our Mother with such disdain and indifference, no longer even attempting to cover up the damage that profit sees collaterally, watching as climate change and pollution foul the sea, sky, deserts and forests. Our questionably elected leaders brazenly want to open National Monuments and protected open spaces to the highest bidders. For oil, minerals or pelts. For dollars. 

Now I am a little upset, how could we have sunk so low? How, after all the horrid examples on file, from cancer to radiation, oil spills to acid rain, floating masses of intertwined plastic to beaches not suitable for swimming, do we allow the current corruption, fraud and utter denial of science to be rule of law? Now I am pissed. FUCK. 

I used to think that instead of posting speed limit signs, States, especially mine that until a few years ago, before Microsoft, Amazon and Starbucks, was considered a model for environmentalism and eco activism, should post signs that read, Littering is a Felony, I would much rather see polluters do the time that is currently being done by black pot heads. 

A Honker proudly announces her landing intentions on the tide pool now reflecting the blue sky and pink morning clouds overhead. Tito brings me a stick for chasing consideration. A gust of fresh air blows my hoodie from top to back. I look down and see the neck of the bottle. 

A perfect fit. 

All of the Above

Indoor Cycling is to get better at…………………………….

Please take a second to consider this rather ambiguous query before jotting down your answer. Because this must consume your focus if you wish to improve. Your answer must be of sufficient honesty and contain enough value to sustain your motivation. Serious. 

There are three main, broad and expansive, categories from which to choose. Per esempio: One may see one’s effort as THE BURNING OF CALORIES RITUAL. This is fine, as we know that the delicate balance of calories in (and this includes ale and soda) has a direct relation to the need to commit to a regular and successful 'calories out' regimen. This endeavor has been, for better or worse, colloquially described as ‘cardio’, usually consisting of low to mid intensity, mindlessly repeated for an hour a day, three days a week. This is still OK, for the simple reason that a little bit of something is WAY better than a lot of nothing. Think IPA here. 

The second general category is, THE BUILDING OF SPEED, POWER, STRENGTH OR STAMINA ideology. This is good too, very good in fact, for those that put the slightest bit of attention into their work quickly see improvement as the body adapts to specific requirements. And there is NOTHING like the empirical cognizance of results to keep one motivated. This is my personal favorite, owing mostly to the ‘foundational structure’ of what might come next if this phase is successful, meaning, in other words, that once the practitioner seeds the requisite time in saddle building both speed, power and endurance, the mental components suddenly appear as the ready student. 

Leading to the magical synergy manifested when we add THE INNER, MENTAL GAME, to the package. This one, although rare as a specific training point, is by far and away the most demanding and powerful. In the decades that I have been involved in sports, martial arts and music, no one has EVER said, audibly anyway, that their reason for training was to improve their focus, attitude or ability to thrive under duress. And I have worked with Navy Seals. 

The combination of a strong body, a focused and experienced presence and a willing and motivated spirit, is unbeatable. Putting these three together in one package creates an archetype so powerful that most foes will run for cover, quit and go home or unconditionally surrender with the slightest hint of direct confrontation. 

Lastly, is the raison d’etat, and please do not think this as a token gesture to counter balance the above, is FUN, FROLIC AND THE CAMARADERIE WITH OUR FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS, you know, STRESS MANAGEMENT. I keep saying that this one is my personal favorite, and pleading nolo contendere, it is. Any honest, enjoyable and social team-building exercise that brings people together in the hopes of continual improvement is very OK in my blog. Very OK.

Writers note: The correct answer is, of course, ALL OF THE ABOVE. 

More Magic

Against my better judgment I agreed to sub a class this morning. There are three of us, guys, who facilitate the pre-dawn indoor cycling madness at our local club. Classes begin, mine anyway, at 0530 sharp. I am very used to getting up at oh-dark-thirty in preparation for this, but today, as I continue to measure and manage the symptoms of the latest round of misery brought about by atrial fibrillation, I would have liked to ease into my day like a normal person. 

But it was not to be, as I consider one of my responsibilities subbing when necessary, especially since I spent way too much time yesterday booking the ToC trip that will necessitate asking for one of those other two gentlemen to sub for me next month, making the choice almost predestined. Do your best with what you have where you are. Roger that, and away we go.

I did manage a repertory 2x20 set last night in the (key word) PowerBarn, carefully spinning out at around 80% of FTP. Nice and easy, controlled and fluid. It was OK and last nights sleep, back house sitting so in a different bed once again, was light but restorative. Better, was that I had the inkling for a set this morning that might split the difference between too easy and lung bursting. I would call it Magic. 

Mostly owing to an interesting piece of data I stumbled across surrounding a phenomena called The Reminiscence Bump. We have long known (felt or sensed?) that there was something taking place in our heads (or hearts)  when we hear a song that immediately transports us back to the place and time where we associate the memories of good (or bad) events. Juxtaposing this to indoor cycling isn’t really that difficult, but selling it to the group might be, hence the magic hook. Here is how it went:

10 w/u

2 minutes standing, amending from 16-20 (standard disclaimer in effect)

1 minute seated 7/120 with 10 random seconds making the cadence number disappear (magic)

5 minutes in groove zone sweet spot with the assignment to tap into the RemBump and add the word that best describes the who/what/when and where memory association. Additionally take that word or words and add them after ‘I am”. More magic.

Repeat for one hour. 

Well, well, well, what have we done? Personally, and I shared my experience with the group (as always), my initial thoughts almost always were of people and places. I thought of Feaster at the Forum during a Stones concert, of Gordie at Sinbad’s, Bernie in The Murphys, of Jim in Carlton and of Shirley, in, well, bed. All in all, the time passed, calories were sizzled and we shared some interesting (and personal) memories. And now I feel great. More Magic. 

I should call Shirley today. 

The Magic Works

The beautiful thing about starting from scratch, staring at a blank page, is the exhilarating adventure of exploration. Today, despite having created a short list of topics, I am heading out on the scary path of improvisation. I have no idea where this road will lead me. But I like the freedom and challenge of taking the first step. And trusting that the direction will be true and the destination rewarding. 

I do this early today because my wifi is out. I am not connected to the web, the wide world outside my red door. I have no current information on what level of corruption the trump administration has sunk in the last 12 hours (although I suspect that it is deep), I don’t know what the latest odds are for the Huskies to win the Pac12, and although I patiently wait for that day when a personal message will appear in my inbox authored by one of my former lovers, subject matter: Availability for lunch, my breath is not being held. But today could be that day. One never knows.

Without the usual round of information gathering, I start with e-mails, then two culture magazines, International, national and local mainstream left leaning media sites, and then FB. That usually consumes an hour of my mornings, a gluttonous routine even without desert. Today, I sat out on the deck in 39 degree crispness and had enough bandwidth to connect to CNN for about 40 seconds. I found that the world continues to spin and its inhabitants are mostly unruly and ready to riot. Same old same old.

The heart issues that kicked my butt yesterday, seem to have dissipated with the overnight respite, although I have central chest discomfort again. Feels like acute acid reflux mixed with pleurisy and pericarditis. The scary part comes with the short stinging jolts of dagger-like pain in my chest along with the pressure build up and throbbing in my neck and temples. Most of the power in my arms and legs is vacationing somewhere and my quick recall of specific fact is fading like a Maui sunset. 

On today’s menu is video editing. I take the same stream of consciousness route with video that I take with writing, trusting that the cosmos will take me to wherever art lays hiding. Lifting a quote from Little Big Man, ‘Sometimes the magic works and sometimes it doesn't.’ Considering that there is no financial attachment or responsibilities with either endeavor, I have tried, both are rendered squarely into the realm of the therapeutic and soul satisfying. I like doing them and that is enough. Kinda like the way that running used to be. 

As I was surfing video yesterday in search of motivational tubes of inspiration, I did manage to lift a rather juicy quote in the process, 

“IF YOUR GOAL IS TO GET TO THE ISLAND - YOU MUST SINK YOUR SHIP.” 

Here we are back on the island of the future that we never left. What we do, what I do, is nothing more that the sum of everything that has gone before. Everything has led to this day. EVERYTHING. 

And THAT, my dear friends is an awesome responsibility. Can I love more today? Can I up my happiness game and pay forward the same in others? Can I tap into the creative imperative of eternity? Can I self diagnose this horrible physical challenge currently limiting my search for joy? Can I find a way to turn my passion into an honest buck? 

Will my inbox contain a surprise? 

Authors note: The wifi was back on when I ended this delightful exercise. And there was no surprise. 

Why 212?

Didn’t sleep well. Tossing’ and turning’ with heart thumpin’ and burnin’. Literally watched the clock’s LEDs flip from 2-4 and then the alarm hit like a tomahawk on an empty warehouse at 0430. Paradoxically the run-up to my 0530 class was very decent. I actually felt good and ready to go, ‘must have been the day off yesterday’, I thought as I cued the set list and chatted with the regulars. 

Today was week 3 of our ramp to 8, meaning that the protocol forecast looked like pain:

10 minute warm up

5 minutes in groove zone sweet spot

30 seconds at 85% alternating sitting and standing

90 seconds recovery, 30/30/30 seated/standing /seated

Repeat 5 times

5 minutes GZSS

30 seconds ALL OUT 

90 seconds recovery as above

Repeat 3 times

5 minutes GZSS

30/90 at 85% as above

Repeat a final 5 times

Warm down, stretch, floor routine

I was OK until completion of first set of 85’s and then then the darkness began to invade the lightness of my being. I can only imagine how a pilot feels when power is compromised and the plane begins a slow and frightening descent into doom. With internal alarms sounding my poor body was shouting Mayday, Mayday. An idea card asks why? For the second time I can remember I asked the co-pilot to take the con as I excused myself and bailed to the head. None of this, especially in light of it’s trending regularity, is good. Am I going down in flames?

Prompting the question du jour: ARE MY DAYS AS AN ENDURANCE ATHLETE OVER?

Sure I rebounded and feel much better now, but OMG what an(other) scalding session. Ironically I used a Nike commercial from the early 90’s as rhetorical motivation, citing the water boiling at 212 degrees Fahrenheit and NOT at 211 as the difference between 85% (hot - very hot) and 100% (boiling). 

Little did I know that I was about to get boiled by my own home cooking. So I ask once more, perhaps testing the emotional unconsciousness of my self understanding, reason for being and metaphysical awareness as fate: AM I DONE, IS IT OVER?

Water boils at 212 degrees, that is fact. Doesn’t mean that I have to jump in it. 

YET

A Small Price To Pay

I am working the new video. This time of year I don’t have a lot of new media, that being the main reason I am assembling the Tour of California trip. To date the media I am using for Season 4 Episode 52, is from the mountain bike event I filmed two weeks ago and Sunday’s guest visit from Trek-Segafreddo Pro rider Kiel Reijnen. Both yielded some very decent material, but not quite enough to simply drop into the template, render and rip. That approach being the editing equivalent of the landscape maintenance professional’s ‘mow, blow and go’. 

As unassuming as my training videos play they must have an artistic component as well as lively, local accounts of our riders and the outward expanding landscapers in which they ride. Additionally this year will be another attempt to compile video from every state, the continuing attempt I should say as I have been doing this for almost 20 years, the last 10 of which have addressed this specific geographic goal. In 2018 the check-off states identified are:

Montana

Wyoming

North Dakota

South Dakota

Yellowstone

Yes, I know that the last one fails the statehood test, but after completion of the states our National Parks and Recreation Areas are next, so if I am close, why not?

The ToC trip will bet my fifth attempt to capture the awesome combination of Pro cycling drama, spectacular natural surroundings and the many routes the race traverses. People, places and things. Looks like the trip will catch the later stages in Northern California, specifically South Lake Tahoe, and the tour’s finish in Sacramento. I have scheduled five days from Wednesday, May 16 - Sunday, May 20 for this cinematic adventure. Despite needing to give up two spin classes and designate PB chores to the assistant facilitator, it is something I both want and need to do. It has both desire and necessity. Happily the normally stoic and staid chief financial officer has generously advanced a $1K budget for the trip. 

A small price to pay. 

Editors note: Per yesterday’s post, my overnight meditation and rest tactic for the treatment of the latest round of A-Fib was successful. I am taking today off altogether as we have an overflow house tonight in the PowerBarn and we’ll see what happens during tomorrow morning’s HIT Super 3 session. Hoorah.

Oh Black Water

Oh Black Water

A Day in the Life

Ah yes, a list. Another one. In a long line of lists. Variations on a theme by list, with apologies to Franz. 

OK, I’ll admit I am a list junkie. Addicted to the ritual, and perhaps, as many from any generation will attest, regardless of the medium of use, that they are an effective way to arrange priorities in order to more efficiently manage the load, e.g. get shit done. 

Perhaps the thing I like most about my list love, is in checking them off after completion. Whether one chooses the check in left margin, as an editor might do, or the strike thru as OCD demands, the process of Identification, execution and completion is thoroughly satisfying. For a brief example of this process we need travel no further than A Day in the Life, the prototypical classic Beatles tune from 1967. 

Got up,

Got out of bed,

dragged a comb across my head. 

(and looking up I noticed I was late).

Identification: Time to get your lazy ass out of the rack and face the music.

Execution: Move feet from mattress to floor, stand. 

Completion: Try to make yourself presentable prior to facing the aforementioned music.

Result: Still too slow, but way to go none-the-less. 

Adding to the musical genus is the next six beats in the tune as, I believe John’s clunky and dirty guitar, angrily chunks da-da-da-da-da-da. Please take particular note of this musical accompaniment as it it a perfect metaphor for the physical act of checking the sequence and action off the list. Da-da. 

Today I am not tasked with authoring, recording and marketing a hit pop tune. (Although it is always on my back-burner unwritten subliminal list). All I have to do today (in list form, and having completed Paul’s lyrical instructions) is the following:

1) Write (almost done)

2) Do my taxes.

3) Create a jersey design for our Pro visit today.

4) Print jersey.

5) Deliver mower and lamp (repaired yesterday).

6) Create two set lists and protocols for tomorrow’s back-to-back classes.

7) Call my sister Kathy in DC (and compare notes).

8) Host the Pro workout at 2.

9) Clean and prep house I am sitting for owners return.

10) Hook up wireless keyboard to new iMac.

11) Test new FM antenna on old stereo.

12) Push current video project. 

13) Smell the roses, eat, rest, recover, give thanks.

Maybe with a little more focus, energy, gratitude and cosmic inspiration I could assemble all of that into a few rhyming couplets, add a five chord progression, shake down a melody with a major key chorus, set up some microphones and lay down a killer tune on the first take. 

Identify, execute, complete. A day in the life. Number One. 

I'm Telling You Now

The thought DID enter my mind. Without knocking in a darkly subconscious, potentially dangerous and covertly ill intentioned way. I did have the premonition that it could happen, but shook it off as phobia or weakness. I do need to refine my translation abilities and listen to this voice with greater respect. 

Yesterday as I went about my chores, I entered the preparatory phase of building today’s set list and workout structure. Usually the set list is the easy part, and I was pleased to add a couple of classics from the Beatles 1965 release of HELP, Ticket to Ride and Things We Said Today as well as Character Zero from Phish’s 1998 Billy Breathes LP. Serious vinyl here folks!

The challenging part, both from the choreography structure and eventual execution, is in making it work. It must demand things of my class, and remember these are advances riders, as well as offer something fresh, interesting and of high value. In a phrase -  It’s Gotta Rock. 

This is what I eventually came up with, and to make things interesting and quasi scientific, to mention nothing of irony, I chose the metric du jour to be the time it takes to recover from the interval’s hard efforts. It looked like this:

10 minute warm up

1 minute standing at 16

1 minute recovery @ 7/120

Repeat ascending 16-20

.30 seconds seated sprint

.90 seconds in recovery

.30 seconds standing sprint

.90 seconds in recovery

Repeat four times.

That irony? We has just finished the third set when I felt so good that I had to share with the group my take on ‘second wind’. It was during the particularly juicy instrumental portion of the greatly underrated Simple Sister by Procol Harem. I mean I was killing it - no whooping cough here! And then?

And then as I reached over to adjust the EQ for the mono version of the Kink’s classic All Day and All Night, my heart nearly jumps out of my chest, my left arm twitches and I lose both power and ability to focus. I almost stopped and got off my bike before I fell off. I look at my heart rate data, something we have been talking about the entire class, frighteningly watching it jumping from 0-225. I have leaped into A-Fib like a toad into a lilly pond. With a splash. 

We are at minute 45 of the 60 minute session and my first thought is how I am going to explain my departure from class and into the massage room, where I can lay down and try to recover. But I know I cannot. I make a concentrated effort to keep a steady output, hydrate and re-establish sinus rhythm as well as to not let the class in on my personal (and pathetic) issue. 

I am successful. We finish. There was a touch of disappointment as I skipped the last two sprints, but we made it. One of my most loyal regulars commented on her way out that It wasn’t like me to skip the closing hard part. 

Somewhat cryptically I told her yes, it wasn’t like me at all - and one day I will tell you why. 

I’m telling you now. 

PowerBarn 2018 ToC Adventure

PowerBarn 2018 ToC Adventure

Humble & Happy

On my way home from the county hazmat recycling center, I listened to the final chapter of Philip K. Dick’s Man in the High Castle. With a ‘less than satisfying’ ending, I felt……..

WAIT.

HOLD IT RIGHT THERE.

ALT.

How in the world can I even begin to critique any author, let alone one of PKD’s status? That would be like my calling out Jerry Garcia for a missed, muted or mangled note. Like dissing a Dean Chance no hitter because he walked two guys or slamming Robert Mueller because 45 is still in office. 

For me the real challenge is in the appreciation of the effort that goes into the work, the process and the incredible satisfaction that must surely come as a result of bringing what started as a nudge from the cosmos to fruition. Consider (if you will) the PKD body of work. Blade Runner, Minority Report, Total Recall, A Scanner Darkly. On and on. Classic science fiction. I could not hold his typewriter ribbon, so I am now, officially apologizing for finding even one of his sentences, let alone paragraphs, chapters, or volume less than spectacular. The nerve. 

Garcia may have played over more mistakes than anyone in the long and sordid history of Rock. Yet he was a pure artist always trying, searching, seeking the impossible. Magic was always in the cross hairs of his musical consciousness. For every sour misunderstood or ill timed passage there were a thousand others that crashed that nail to a pine wood floor. I have said many times, but, sadly, none very recently, that many of my ‘most happy’ moments on this planet were inside the mad gathering of freaks, clowns, saints and vagabonds known as Deadheads, dancing, singing, alive and caught in the net of Jerry’s powerful presence. 

I was a California Angels fan since their inception in 1961 when they shared Dodger Stadium with the other LA team, O’Malleys escapees from Flatbush. Dean Chance tossed a no-hitter when he was with the Minnesota Twins in 1967. I watched it on our black and white TV, I was in 8th grade at the time and felt I had a connection with him since I Dad had taken us to many games when he was the Angels ace. Fast forward to 1989 and the magazine publisher where I enjoyed the title of Distribution Director had just launched a new title called The Show. It was the official publication of the Major League Baseball Players Alumni Association. It was in Houston, Texas that I met Dean on the golf course during a fund raiser. After an energetic introduction I blurted that I was there when he pitched his no-no. He said, really, where was it? 

His look at my response (Anaheim) is a humbling moment I will most likely never forget. 

If you are going to compliment someone - make sure you have the details straight.

If you get confused - listen to the music play.

And don’t for a minute think that you have the chops to call out someone the stature of PKD. 

New and really important

What better place and at what better time?

Since I cannot think of a suitable tactic to game the questions, you know, procrastinate, I will tackle the issue head on. 

I started the new video yesterday, Season 4, Episode 52. It is tentatively titled, Sometimes the Hero. The conceit being that since I have new media of goats clearing a patch of blackberries, a Hero-Goat scenario might provide an interesting, or at the least entertaining, alternating story line. Probably not exactly what Seth Godin had in mind with his ‘new, real and important’ criteria, but you never know. 

Until you try. And until you do. And until you start. 

Three or four episodes ago, I scripted a story line and subbed out the cartoon animation, using the FIVRR platform, to an artist who did an admirable job in 24 hours and for a mere $40. The results were, alright here is the checkoff, fun (new), semi-surreal and while not quite as important as trumps lawyer getting raided by the FBI, somewhat important to those who regularly view my videos while cycle training indoors in the world famous PowerBarn. 

It is with this back-story that we now endeavor to add more of Mr Godin’s advice to the new episode. Yes, it will certainly be new, the ‘real’ part is a little subjective, perhaps ordering on obscure, but keeping in mind that these are training videos, snipets of live racing action, routes, courses, slow motion of individual athletes riding indoors to access form, as well as time-lapses of our spectacular home in the GPNW (Great Pacific Northwest), PLUS whatever else I want to toss into the mix, I guess they are as real as it gets. It is the important element that bogs us down. 

I should be in DC shooting the circus. THAT is important. I should be scripting coping strategies and working on the screenplay. THESE (my videos) ARE NOT IMPORTANT.  Nobody is going to watch the current episode and change their lives as a result. No one will comment on FaceBook (assuming there still is one after Zuck is dismissed from his current testimony) that episode 52 of season 4 was a better episode than any from Game of Thrones or Breaking Bad. Most of the folks who train in our facility, The PowerBarn, do so with their heads lowered (dripping with sweat) and eyes facing the floor, not on the $800 65” TV I bought as an upgrade last month. No one ever comments on the hours I spend on editing, the time to capture or the narrative flow. Ever. Heck the first comment on this blog - the every day streak - was yesterday from a Russian bot. 

But the production still provides me with a mission. A project that is 100% original and 99% new. I feel the same inspiration, creative zest and energy flow that I did almost 20 years ago when I produced (and directed) my first film. I think that alone qualifies as ‘real’. Real people doing unreal things. And while it may not be of universal importance.

It is to me. 

Tactical

I fessed up to my class yesterday. The Monday 2045 class demographic is a complete opposite of my usual 0530 class. I suppose this is to be expected. My ‘get it done before dawn’ sessions contain a testosterone element that cannot be ignored. The Navy Seals of the local work force cramming their only available free time into fitness training. They have real jobs, real families and real responsibilities. I owe them the same respect they entrust to me, as they come for work, and they work hard. The later in the day, relaxed and casual crew, conducted at an hour when many are already well into their work day, celebrates with estrogen more than the male hormone. There was a time when I didn’t much appreciate the difference, but no more. 

When I opened up to them, I forget the narrative flow, that as I will never be a parent and experience  those joys, sorrows, concerns and appreciations, I got as close as, perhaps, I ever will get to feeling pride in an child’s success. That got their attention. 

I shared the immense emotional connection I had the prior day with three of the athletes that I coach as they stood, medals dangling around necks, on the finishers podium. Yes, it was a small local event, between 6 and 18 miles of mountain bike racing in the mud, but the experience, all the time and effort put into training and race preparation, paying off with the dividend of success and the rousing adoration of fellow competitors, was very moving. I did feel like a proud father watching his son trot around the bases after a two-run dinger. 

But is was more than that, and I could tell from the initial response of the class that a deeper, more important lesson, was available if the digging went deep enough. So I dug.

Here me on this gang, it is not the winning, the few steps to the podium and the applause from the field. It is not points, awards, T-shirts, qualifications or winning your age group or category.

IT IS THE FOCUSED EFFORT, YOUR ZEAL AND THE JOURNEY THAT MAKES IT REAL.

I could see that the ladies were pondering this heresy as we began another set, while the men, both of them retired, gave quick consideration and nodded in approval. Editors note: Every man, having qualified for retirement status, appreciates the part attitude plays when the path turns steep. 

The cross-application between kids, competition, success, experience, winning and losing and the overall quality of life enhancements that naturally and organically follow, is the point. That is the goal. To experience and to grow. To get better. At everything, making everything we do, knowing this, tactical. How do we accomplish the thing we have set as goal? While we may not be SEALS, we can train with their zeal and use their code to improve our own. 

Here, now, we have one mission, climb this hill. 

SEAL Code:

• Loyalty to Country, Team and Teammate

• Serve with Honor and Integrity On and Off the Battlefield

• Ready to Lead, Ready to Follow, Never Quit

• Take responsibility for your actions and the actions of your teammates

• Excel as Warriors through Discipline and Innovation

• Train for War, Fight to Win, Defeat our Nation’s Enemies

• Earn your Trident everyday

Proper Octane Mix

Lack of air.

Lack of water.

Fatigue.

This morning in class I mentioned these three as essential to success, completion or achievement. It was fresh on my mind because I ran out of one of them yesterday and it led directly to another. Doom dots connected devastatingly. 

I made a few critical errors in pre-race preparation being focused mainly on putting together my camera kit, more than the actual execution of the mission. The detailed version means that as I charged batteries for three Go-Pros, two Canon Vixias, double checked memory card capacity, loaded mounts, filters and lens cleaners into the back pack I would tote for 6 miles of rugged off-road terrain, I forgot proper footwear, emergency nutrition and the killer, water. 

So I failed on number two which directly, and negatively, caused number three. A chain reaction that at one point on the course caused mental confusion enough for me to lose a camera I had set up on a tree as I moved ahead on the course to shoot video from another angle, with zoom and some elevation. I was dehydrated to the point of needing to stop, collect thoughts and data then develop a strategy for completion. Worse, I had no idea of where I was on the course. 

Perhaps most frustrating of all is the realization that this situation had compromised my ability to execute the mission. Concerned for consciousness I inadvertently spend way too much energy just trying to keep moving instead of positioning myself in the best and most advantageous location for video capture. It is demoralizing to remember that I used to do one camera shoots for Ironman (140 miles) and adventure racing (sometimes 24 hours) and now bonk during a little 6 mile loop. Place expletive here italized and bolded. 

This aging thing truly sucks. 

Bringing us full circle and back to the three elements necessary for success. Next time you bravely head out for a ride or a race, training or testing, work or play, remember to:

Breathe.

Drink.

Fuel up (as fatigue is your motor running low on the proper octane mixture).

Knock

In order to find out what is inside, one must knock, ask permission to enter, and take the chance that it might not be exactly what they were hoping to find. 

Say Yes

Words. The power in them. The way we use them, string them together into sentences. Always in the attempt to manufacture some type of consent. 

As a musician I am more interested in melody, rhythm and style than lyrical content. But as a poet I see the story first and the accompaniment as embellishment. As a teacher I want them to be efficient and important, and as student I want them all. Everything and all the time. Hit me with your best metaphor. 

We all know how wonderful a successful conversation can be, as well its opposite, the jarring, unsettling and frustrating stammering of misunderstood abstracts. Or the blatant lie. All words, inanimate and unemotional. Like a rock formation at the top of the grade waiting and wanting to be understood. 

I am continually amazed at how one word can change the entire dialogue. Consider how one misplaced adjective, a coarse half-truth, an unwittingly passed along cliche, an out of place vulgarity, a slur, a gossipy suggestion, slander, can have the power to incite. Or to confuse, distract or condemn. Conversely, consider the crackle of consciousness when the perfect word for the occasion is used at the perfect moment to convey the perfect emotion. Ahhh, music not only to the ears but to the soul as well. Telling the truth is like that. And yes, sometimes the truth does hurt, but only when we have denied ourselves the reality of it. It may very well be a shocking moment when a flatlander learns that the world is round. Or that your hero has flaws. Or when your leader is found corrupt. 

I have an incredible opportunity every time we saddle up to ride. I am the squadron leader, the guy with the headset having access to the equalizer and volume controls. It is my protocol and my music. It is also my narrative. Along with the workout instructions and various cues, I get to talk about whatever I feel appropriate to fill the hour long sessions with commentary. Certainly motivational, inspirational and supportive comments are standard, but, for better or for worse, I choose to take another step in the direction of the experimental. And so I get ‘out there’ a bit. There are stories, anecdotes and analysis. I have dissected everything from the harmony structure of The Beatles ’Things We Said Today’, to what a hyperbolic paraboloid looks like. From the sagacity of DD Eisenhower to the modern day military industrial complexity and our current and corrupt misuse of it. From religious fanaticism to zen. From GMOs to USBs. Nothing is sacred once we begin to spin. 

And I take great pleasure in the theme, its flow and ebb, and of course in its connection to the task at hand: PUSHING OUR TOTAL BEINGS IN THE DIRECTION OF GROWTH. 

You simply cannot do one of the three and expect success. A strong body without a serene mind and a calm heart, is a machine. A weak body as vehicle without an alert driver and compassionate navigator will crash. The soul is always searching for connection to the body and mind, as a way to unite them as a powerful and utilitarian trio. 

Mindless work and disconnected or apathetic exercise is missing the opportunity for this practice. If your head is not in it, or your body unwilling, your spirit will patiently wait around until your are ready. Until you decide that the true reason for this critical practice is to grow into the state of on-demand readiness known as Enlightenment. Only available, of course, when all three components, the mind (in focus), the body (in dynamic flow) and the spirit (in harmony) are working seamlessly together, as one. 

There are many paths that lead to this state. Just as there are many words that describe it. Some insist that not only can you NOT talk about it, but no map points to it. No one will whisper in your ear its secret and no Garmin device will provide coordinates. 

Yet we all know it exists. And we all want to find it. It is it. Where its at. 

There is magic in the process folks, magic along the path. Every day, every session and every exchange. We use the formality of a classroom to stimulate the body in the hopes that a chemical chain reaction will carry oxygenated blood to the brain and open the neuro passageways that lead to the soul. Mountain climbers, river rafters, sky divers, wind surfers and triathletes all know the power of words. The 'wow' moments we all seek out and celebrate. The search for the feeling of being alive, awake and appreciative. Epicness in action. 

There is power in words yes, but even more power in the silence that surrounds them. 

You can say yes a thousand times but it is not until you put the positive into motion that your power turns from knowledge to wisdom, from knowing to doing. 

Say yes and do yes.