Not Alone

I fessed up to my class this morning. I was in the second act of the now standard three act soliloquy, the juicy middle, when I made an admission. I was, again, pitching the Ten Day Intensive to this new audience, setting the stage, planting the seeds, hoping for a positive, non-verbal response. 

We are ripping through a raucous set, one I call ramping, with all-systems a go. The ramp protocol calls for a plus gear change in resistance every ten seconds over the course of one minute. We do one seated, four minutes in the groove zone and then another standing. We repeated this no-rest sequence for the entire hour. I outline the drill as backstory to more appropriately add the requisite drama to the stunning honesty referenced above, the delivery of which, not surprisingly, happens during the four minutes in GZone because today I could not talk and execute the ramp protocol simultaneously. Not enough oxygenated blood to satisfy both brain and brawn. 

We huff and we puff pushing big wattage numbers up the allegorical hill, sixty seconds worth, then take a blow in the happy place we call the groove zone sweet spot. Then I continue my pitch. 

I am on the Keiser M3 known as the bully pulpit today. It is my show, my speech and my audience. That audience is often known as The Choir. They have heard all this before, they all know the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son and Doubting Thomas as well as their spinning counterparts; Generosity, forgiveness and faith. 

I am rolling with motivational platitudes extolling the virtues of the Ten Day Intensive (TDI) calling diet, exercise and consistency the trinity of change. If you want change, if you want a radical upgrade and if you seek your ultimate self, this is the path, I say with earnest sincerity and zeal. We will do ten days, a double nickel, one thin dime from the wealth of eternity to see what we are truly capable of becoming. Together we can ride that ferry to the top of Rainier. 

I am expecting to see heads aggressively nod, clenched fists raised overhead and a deafening chorus of a cappella approval. I know they ‘see’ what I am selling, but I sense that the time is premature to hand the sign-up pen and point to the dotted line. 

So I double-down. 

Wiping brow with towel I offer my closing argument, the final amen.

I will tell you why this is such a big deal. For the same reasons that makes this very class work, the fact that we, as social animals, find it somehow easier to reach painful emotional and physiological peaks in a group, as a team, than alone. We can share the team commitment while pledging our best efforts and impeccable accountability to one another. This is the strongest force in our universe, a prize won by a very tiny percentage of seekers. It can be ours - if we so desire. Furthermore, I am quite certain that - I could not do it alone. 

Joe Bonamassa ends a blistering guitar solo, the set is done and the music fades along with our complementary work-out. 

I am sure I could not do it alone. Please forgive my weakness. 

The Plateau

Eventually we reach the plateau. That tabletop stretch of terrain containing nary a hill to climb nor a valley to descend. Flat. Boring. Uninspiring. Disheartening. 

In training it represents stagnation. Unless something is changed, nothing will change. It will stay flat forever, a pancake in search of its Columbus. 

I have been tinkering with the idea for some time, and while its idea has been around in varying forms since the days of the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, the practice is profound in both its simplicity and success.

Last night I asked one of our regulars, here at the start of her “official” training for next year's racing season, she is a champion mountain biker with phenomenal power, what three things she might envision as areas necessary for improvement. Please keep in mind that this is an athlete coming off a highly successful season and a berth to her sports national championship. 

Her (immediate) response was, as I anticipated, generally the same as 99.9% of the others that have answered my informal poll with honesty and brutally intrepid self analysis. Here are her three (see if they match yours):

1) Eat better.
2) Train better.
3) Eat & Train better more consistently.

Is this magic? Is it an elixir mixed with the holy waters of the fountain of youth? Is this the goblet of the alchemical saintly grail? Hasn’t everyone who has ever climbed to the plateau, spent time on the road, in the gym, on the battlefield, wanted some variant of these three?

I believe they have and I believe the answer to be a resounding yes.

Skipping to the heart of the matter, cutting to the chase, rendering the fat and leaving the questions as to why this is so, my response, in the form of an option, is simple, the dead reckoning of navigation. How do we get there? 

Ten days. The ten day intensive. 

Over the course of those ten, we will eat clean, eliminate all alcohol, reduce portions, cut the crap, add fruits and veggies, cut processed foods and sugar, reduce meat consumption and discard dessert. 

We will continue to train three days a week on the bike as foundational cardio, and add low intensity sessions designed to augment our ’situational awareness’ and stimulate both metabolisms and gratitude (hikes, treks, trails). We will lift and stretch, increasing core strength and mobility. We will conduct two-a-days inside and out. We will hydrate and fuel efficiently, rest and recover appropriately. Manage stress as a unit. We will commit to the team, ourselves and the goal. We will preform community service (beach clean-up or volunteer at senior center) to honor and care for our community.

A consistent ten days focusing on the mind, body and spirit should (will) provide the empirical motivation necessary for a long-term commitment to naturally follow, in other words, a life changing decision pledging our progression to health, fitness and community presence. 

Time to get off the plateau. 

Digging a Hole

It is four feet long by three feet wide and five feet deep. That is as far as we can go. My almost sixteen year old nephew and I are digging in damp clay and dirt. There seems to be more rocks as we go. In this tight, confined space, waist deep, it is difficult pic-axing the stones and then cleaning up with the shovel, now seemingly weighing a ton. My arms ache, sweat pours down my face and my heart is pounding.

The last time I did this was to bury my Shepard Fiddle (full name Fiddle-Fiddle Five) over at the cabin. I remember being tired then too, but not like this. We take turns going into the hole and Junior's time has been reduced to one or two shovel-fulls as now, not only must you scrape, but lift and then throw the heavy dirt onto the pile. The pile is starting to look like Mt. St. Helens.

There is a striking difference between losing a pet and losing a parent. When Dad passed back in March, the paramedics and then hospital staff took charge. All we had to do was find a way to comfort and support each other while managing our own grief as best we could. Interestingly enough, with dogs its a whole other ballgame. We never had arguments with our pets, held no grudges nor critiqued their choices of food, music or politicians. They never had to be bold disciplinarians, holders of the keys, or be anything other than our best friends. They were always there waiting when we got home, ready for some fetch, and always prepared to defend, protect and console.

I think the lessons we can, should, learn from our pets are many, but one always stands out in my mind as paramount; compassion. In their eyes it is always OK. The pain will end, the hurt will subside and the blood will dry, so let's enjoy each other's company and have some fun while we're here. Then there is the coulda, shoulda and woulda. We should have tossed the frisbee more, could have taken more walks and would have built that fence so eight hour days of solitary confinement isn't quite so painful - for both of us - but work got in the way.

I miss my dog. I miss my dogs. Dogs years fly by like leaves in the winter wind. If I had half of my dog's traits I would be a better human.

I think about that as I dig.

Go Down Swingin'

They are known as the five tools. Scouting baseball, rating, judging, assessing a player’s talents and projecting them to provide a future return on investment, carries with it the success of an entire franchise. Without a constant stream of fresh talent arriving each year in rookie camp, the chances of any team reaching .500, let alone getting into the post season, is remote. The ability of a scout to see potential is like Michelangelo seeing a beatific sculpture hiding inside a block of marble. It is an incredible gift, it takes years of experience and could even be called a sixth sense. As an example, if you like a good challenge, take an afternoon and go watch a varsity baseball game at your local high school. Once settled atop your uncomfortable aluminum bench seat, take out your scorebook and being the esoteric nomenclature of keeping score, but noting the individual athletic characteristics of each of the 18 players assigned starting duty that day. Your mission is to fined ONE player that has a combination of the five tools, or one in dominating fashion, and recommend him or her, up the chain of command. Please keep in mind that there will be other representation evaluating the same players, others scouts from competing teams all wanting the creme del la creme for their teams. There will be little margin for the E6.

A quick review of the five scouted tools. On the scale of 1-5, with 5 being a sure entry into the Hall of Fame and a 1 being a cup of coffee, how do they:

1) Hit

2) Hit for power

3) Run

4) Throw

5) Catch

My downfall was two-fold. While I could hit, run, and catch, at 5’ 9” and 165, I had little power and limited arm strength. I was a solid shortstop with a Pete Rose attitude but my off-field discipline was lacking, a area that might very well be considered the sixth tool. Intangibles; Character, dependability, honesty, reliability. I was 18 year old kid in 1972, immature, confused and stressed over life’s seemingly relentless and overwhelming challenges. I made mistakes and paid the price. 

Today, having spent the better part of the 46 years since I was scouted as ‘not strong enough to play every day’, I can reflect and critically evaluate the errors I made in that crucial situation. Many of the guys I played with would go on to stellar careers in the Show, one, Georgie Ballgame, making it to the HoF. While always morose that I had performed so miserably in the clutch, a part of me always appreciated the things that I was able to accomplish after the game had passed me by, or passed on me. 

I bring this up today because I feel a comparison is appropriate. Keeping the baseball metaphor, we get three strikes with each at-bat right? If I am here and you are here, the worst it can be is 0 and 2. We have another pitch left. 

If there is one thing that I truly appreciate about the game above all the other Zen nuanced minutia, it is this: 

IT IS NEVER OVER TILL IT’S OVER. (Go down swingin’).

Why not?

I have always been a fast starter. I like fresh, new beginnings. Monday’s, to me, have always represented hope and opportunity rather than the end of something. I rise early, get a jump on the day, and try my best to maintain a high level of output until it is time to officially call it a day, rest, recover, downshift, debrief. 

Somewhere along that path the notion that ‘hitting the ground running’ implied that in order to hit and in order to run one must first put oneself in motion to obtain operating velocity, came to mean that the first part, rule number one, of anything is in showing up. You aren’t going to be hitting the ground at any speed, let along a sprint, if your lazy ass stays between the sheets till noon. There needs to be intent, desire, discipline, stamina, preparedness and meaning. One must know, completely, what the mission is and what is the goal. One must have already made a commitment to the commitment. One must, if one seeks growth, to appreciate the test, the time and the trial. One must, in other words, embrace the suck. 

The same is just as true with one’s work as it is with one’s play. We show up ready for work, be it the 9-5 or 24/7 variety. Whether the job is dull, mid-level and dead-end or an exciting new project for a well-funded start-up. Without the ‘show up ready to go’ attitude you might as well stay home. I work for myself. I work at home. I know my tendencies and I know my preferences. I absolutely must get a certain amount of work done by noon if the day has any chance at all of being called a success. I need the afternoons for free lance. I want to go out and explore without a deadline hanging over my head like a ticking bomb. My afternoons are about flow. That flow takes me like a wave into the evening phase, already pleased and productive, ready for another training session and the inevitable wind-down afterwords. 

All this makes it a challenge to deal with the changes the club has asked of me. I offered to be a team player and give up my morning classes (0530 starts) and move to the way more popular 0845 sessions. Suddenly the discipline of hitting the ground running at 0430 was gone and I could now stay in fantasy REM for another 3 hours IF I SO DESIRED. 

Wow, what freedom. What responsibility. What a sweet stroke of softness. WHAT?

I am sure that I’ll grow into the new ‘clock’. And while not exactly playing into my bio-rhythmic patterns, I will adjust, adapt and find a way to make it work. 

Maybe I short use this sour reshuffle as an opportunity to make some lemonade and see if I could become, I don’t know..a strong finisher? Both?

Why not?

66 Miles

Drank a bottle of electrolytes, fried some eggs, made a pot of coffee. 

Other than a hot shower and a nap, that is about it for today’s post-event recovery. I am trying to keep from quaffing ales until I get a little deeper on the Sunday to-do list. That list runs long. 

The recovery is from our annual birthday ride, with the target today of blowing out 66 candles from the metaphorical cake of life. What was initially scheduled to be a double Chilly Hilly, our February season-opening 33 miler, but it was suggested yesterday that we take it inside to the PowerBarn to better our longevity odds as the air quality was predicted to be less than ideal. It seems that we are surrounded by smoke, southbound winds fanning flames in British Columbia and northerlies nudging it northward from California. 

As movie curator for the PB, we do Sunday rides to movies in the fall and winter, I thought it might be fun to watch a movie about firefighters. My selection of Only the Brave, turned out to be long, 2:15, with a tear inducing ending. I don’t need to tell you what that means. 

After the movie, clean up, a birthday cupcake and good-byes, I headed out to the Safeway to return the DVD. Stopping at the Rite-Aid to replenish beer supplies I sat in the truck listening to the final chapter of Stranger in a Strange Land while debating if I should have a cold one as reward for my 66 mile effort. I chose to wait and work the list despite the malaise, disorientation and chest pains that have been frustrating me all week. Last night was another long, uncomfortable toss and turn, try to relax, what is my heart doing this time, affair. 

There are two waking tactics that, to this point, have reduced the anxiety. I refuse to call it pain because there is none - unless you want to call thinking that your next breath might be your last as painful. A better description might be it doesn’t physically hurt, it is just nightmarish. 

Oddly, the two things that calm this anti-stasis are cycling and beer. I can usually find some combination of power, resistance and cadence to find and combine into sweet-spot therapeutic movement. My mind seems calm when in this zone with deep diaphragmatic breaths consoling my heart with rhythm and joy. After a round of 2x20s, a civilized spin set or even today's two-hour movie cruise, a cold beer adds an optimistic layer of celebratory accomplishment. What it does to my metabolism is another story. 

The down side is that I get lazy and want nothing more than the safety of my media room comfort zone. And then sleep. 

It is a routine that has been so long in the making that it is now habitual. And this, I can sense, is not all good. 

Deep inside, I know the answer. The correct one. 

I need to determine, call it trial and error or the scientific method, if alcohol might be the trigger setting off the shotgun blast of my symptoms. My internal lawyer (Mr De Nile) tells me that 36 ounces of fermented hops could not possibly be responsible for symptoms that would make even Jack Bauer sing like a canary. Additionally, he reminds me, you made it to 66 this way, that has gotta be worth something. 

Yes, I answer, it is, but it might be worth noting that things have changed, and alternative strategies might very well be the means to the end of riding 67 this time next year. 

Just One Song

While it IS raining here today, it is nowhere near the volume necessary to extinguish the scorch. The smoke that chokes us is back, a reminder of how fragile our environment truly is. We had a birthday ride planned for tomorrow, celebrating tenure by mileage, meaning that our double Chilly Hilly would total 66 miles, hence paying homage to those of us born in August of ’52 and ’53. You know the good old days of Eisenhower and his chilling accuracy in warning us of the military-industrial complex. We have canceled the ride due to unhealthy air quality, substituting instead an indoor movie ride. We will postpone the 66 miler until next week. 

Another incident occurred this morning that is, perhaps, the antithesis of the sadness incurred by the devastating results of our ignorance and arrogance regarding climate change. As you perhaps know I try to choreograph a symbolic theme into my set lists for musical accompaniment to my spin classes. Somewhere over the course of this week a song popped into my consciousness like my faithful old toaster gleefully announcing that the bagels are ready. That song has always appealed to my sense of dramatic pathos, and while not exactly a rousing anthem of 4/4 hand clapping bravado, it IS a cool tune, one that only a hardened partially deaf cynic would fail to appreciate. The theme was to be happiness and sadness in musical pop culture. 

Are you thinking of a song that fills this advance billing? The Ghetto? Higher Ground? Sky Pilot? Try? Any number of Adel chart toppers? Go back further. Go back to 1964. Go back to the Four Seasons. Go back to Frankie Valli. Listen to Dawn (go away). 

That high lonesome peak at the final chorus still, after all these years, causes the hair to bristle on the back of my neck. If ever there was a tune to illustrate the power of a pop song, I humbly submit this one to be that. 

Back to the main story. I play Dawn this morning in class, a first, setting the stage by predicting the wholesome goodness in the noble act of the song’s protagonist and the impeccable harmonic execution delivered by Mr. Valli. The original rock opera aria if ever there was, I say, also requesting the audience to appreciate the pitch, timbre and reach of those impossible notes some three octaves north of the standard human range absolutely nailed in its dramatic conclusion. 

We are jamming gears in a protocol I call the Ramp, working and grooving with the melody when I hear another voice in the room. Seems one of our gals, a classically trained pianist, jazz player and mother to a opera soprano, is harmonizing with Frankie, note for note, in perfect pitch harmony. I am in awe. Not only does it take a humongous amount of courage and a ton of talent but she is singing as we are hammering out serious wattage almost 45 minutes into a killer set. 

I turn the music down and she takes the lead. THIS IS A BEAUTIFUL MOMENT. The tune ends with a standing ovation. I am blown away. 

The rains may not fully cleanse our burning planet today, the poisonous smoke may throttle plant growth and our corrupt government will ignore Ike’s dire prediction for a pocketful of cash, but today a few very lucky spinners witnessed all the good possible in the human spirit. 

It only took one song. 

Bring It

You will recall that yesterday I took a trip, yes a Bussman’s Holiday, down to Tigard, Oregon. There was some adventure, as anyone departing on a 200 mile drive at 0200 knows, but matched against last week’s 2,500 miles it seemed tame. And doable. Plus the timing of the opportunity was such that it required a ‘do or die’ decision. I choose do. 

I always chose do. I would rather do and fail than to never have done at all. While this sounds dangerously close to my views on love as well, thank you Paul Simon, it is the main criteria I use when formulating a strategy, working a plan or busting a move. Have you ever tried to worm your way out of something? You know, invent a cheap and barely passage excuse for not doing something? In cycling we ask ‘are you hiding or riding?’. You get the idea. 

When an opportunity knocks, I immediately do tho things, 1) Look at the master calendar and 2) Check in with my attitude. I want to do. I want to go, I want to use every verb known to Oxford’s, Webster’s and the Urban Dictionary. For the rather simple and obvious reason THAT I AM RUNNING OUT OF TIME. So are you. 

The days of practicing the pathetic procrastination of a ‘do it tomorrow’ mentality are over, replaced by the urgency and power of RIGHT FUCKING NOW. 

Everybody talks about how they wish they would have done this, done that, gone there, visited, seen, experienced, risked. I do not want to be in that group. It gets more and more urgent with the passing of each day. When we were kids (growing up in the sixties) this type of rationale never occurred to us. When we were in school (in the seventies) life seems an endless merry-go-round of self discovery. Even later when the ‘real world’ demanded the responsibilities if a job, mortgage and parenting skills, it never felt like we were officially in the red zone of ‘use it or lose it’. 

That is all history. The sixties are over, and while the efforts we led to bring about social reform seem to be challenging our morality and spiritual evolution once again, those jobs are now (in some cases) paying secure dividends of social security as our kids repeat the patterns they lived through under the roods we provided and maintained. 

To be sure, the ways and means have changed, the parts have worn and our sense of urgency slowed along with our agility and endurance, but the attitude, the sense of adventure and wanderlust, the basic desire for exploration, should never dull. 

Yes, you can find this in a book, reading beside a warn fire with a cup of Earl Grey, or presented in dramatic form in your media cave on the big screen (with Dolby surround 5.0) but those spectator verbs pale in comparison with the active participatory thrill of walking onto the stage of life with a firm declaration of intent. 

BRING IT. 

Bussman's Holiday

I may be the only person in the civilized world crazy enough. 

While sparing you (for now) the deeply strategic and sexy details, what qualities me for the Busman of the Year award, in the barest of terms, is that over the last 12 hours I,

1) Left at 1:55 am (0155) and drove 211 miles from home (an Island burb of Seattle) to the Club Sport Oregon fitness center in Tigard, Oregon. Travel time was 3:38.

2) Took a spin class. Class with warm up lasted 60 min.

3) Left the Club Sport Oregon and drove home. Stopped for coffee and gas in Chehalis, drive time 3:56.

Yes, that means I drove three hours, took a one hour spin class and drove another 3 plus hours. 

Sheer lunacy I can assure you. Traffic was light on the out and bumper to bumper through Portland on the back. I just returned to the land of the living after an hour nap and I now prepare for the nightcap encore performance in our facility, the World Famous PowerBarn, at 1700. The six hours at the wheel did give me time to finish the book on tape I have been following, Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, so I have that going for me. As well as hands-on intel on the Stages bikes and software that I was testing. 

I will have a full review soon, and a more thorough explanation as to how these bikes could be part of an exciting new project that I hope to (softly) launch in the fall. 

Today is August 23rd. College football season starts a week from Saturday as the mighty Dawgs of UW travel down to test the Auburn Tigers the day after my birthday. 

I will tell you this: I need to hustle. 

Said the driver of the bus. 

Godfather IV

It seems that it is not so much where we start today - as it is where we might end. Additionally, it also appears that there is no dearth of topics from which to choose. This seems so much like a scene from the Godfather; the crime family, the operation, the corruption, the dirty deeds, the cops, the muscle, omerta. 

Manafort is still in jail and it appears that he will stay there a spell (unless he decides that life without parole can be avoided by simply taking the Cohen approach and implicating his boss). More accurately, he is looking at 65 years, or with good behavior, maybe 12 -15. He will be 70 in April, meaning that even if he rehabs by the book he won’t be able to got to Disneyland again until he is 82. Not the coolest age to be riding the Matterhorn. My prediction: He will sing. He will tell the truth, further implicate the candidate, cut a deal and buy a one-way to the Magic Kingdom where he will enjoy the ride like a innocent adolescent. Ah, freedom!

Cohen, otoh, has already cut his deal and ratted out the King Rat. He scurried off the sinking ship fully intending to save his soul, those of his family and, oddly enough according to his mouthpiece, Lanny Davis, his country.  Right, since when do Republicans put country over party? Answer: When facing 8 felony counts of tax evasion, fraud, conspiracy and money laundering. What does Cohen know? Answer: Everything. Interestingly enough his attorney suggests that he knows SO much and is SO willing to talk that he will provide the smoking gun BECAUSE IT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO. I ask you again, what smells fishy here? Since when does a seedy scumbag mafia street soldier suddenly decide that he loves his country SO much that he will rat out his former client, friend and, until yesterday, the most powerful capo de capo, crime family don, on the planet? PARDON ME?

We are a long way from the finish line folks, there will be subplots, revelations, back-room deals, more indictments, broken kneecaps, media spins, boat-loads of desperate lies and an obligatory wrapped fish or two. 

                                  Interior. Day. 

Two politicians sit in a dark, wood paneled back room of a Capitol Hill restaurant. From our vantage point it appears to be Mitch Turtleface McConnell and Paul Jellyfish Ryan. Close up of McConnell as his lunch arrives. Close up of Ryan as another waiter hurries a plate to the table. 

McConnell (to waiter)

Why is my lunch wrapped in brown paper?

Ryan

   Mine too, what is this?

McConnell 

I ordered a tuna sandwich.

Ryan 

I ordered salmon. 

Waiter 

Does the name Luca Brasi ring a bell?

With all due respect to Francis Ford Coppola, Don Vito Corleone, Mario Puzo, Nino Rota, DiNero, Pacino, Caan and the great Lenny Montana, you know there is gong to be a PART IV. 

Tools

Things change. Stuff happens. We age. 

How not to do it

Along this path, our personal road to redemption, we have options. Always. It seems to me that one of the most important tools in our kit is the one designed to make good choices. Call it the decision caliper, choice hammer or option wrench, it is only as good, as all tools, as the craftsman in whose hands it rests awaiting assignment. There must be a plan, some schematic or blueprint, a set of assembly instructions to follow for the craftsman, us, to use the tool for the purpose it was designed. Hammer meets nail, caliper shows circumference, wrench torques bolt. The adage attributed to Abe Lincoln, ‘If I had an hour to chop a tree I would spend the first 50 minutes sharpening my axe,’ is particularly appropriate here, as the message of this post is abut what happens, or what should happen, prior to our hero craftsman deciding what tool is best for the job. 

The job today is pretty simple. Sure there are the usual chores, routines, duties to tend to as well as the more esoteric, joyful and creative ones. But is seems to me that more and more I am sidetracked, distracted, floating further away from my goal like a dinghy adrift in an uncaring sea. 

I need the right tool for this job. I know from experience (and You Tube) that alcohol, tobacco, drugs, sex, money and power are not the right tools. I have seen the damage that is done when these cheap knock-off, plastic imposters are used in the attempt to ‘fix’ underlying ‘problems.’ 

If stress is the problem, what is the proper tool to use for repair or replacement? 

I am going to suggest that while we must all make that decision for ourselves, and admit (under oath) that I am guilty of the evening beer ritual as a relaxation tool, there are better alternatives to numbing-down our senses as stress-busting tactics. 

We all know about exercise. I am a junkie. We all know about hobbies. I have been a wanna be artist for four decades. We all know about art, literature and music as soothing, relaxing and inspiring. Some chose church, dogma and the search for spirituality. I practice Zen.

And therein lies the message of the tool. My tool of choice to combat the seemingly endless onslaught of bad news, hatred, bigotry, racism and overt governmental corruption, is the tool of meditation. 

There was a time in my life when this practice was formal, a time when it was consistent and a time when it was abandoned. Now, I practice a morning ritual that, at the very least, allows me to start each day on a calm, present and peaceful level. Shit will happen, tempers will flare, dogs will bark, crimes will be committed, sure, but I have that tool at my disposal. It is the one that I choose to ‘fix’ the myriad ‘problems’ that face me, and us, today. 

I need to start with fixing myself. I need to be calm. I need to relax. I need clarity, gratitude and forgiveness in myself if I am going to lend them, like tools, as coping mechanisms to others.

Start here. Start now. The technique is called counting breaths. I do this every morning before rising, before my feet hit the ground. Rest as deeply relaxed as you can. Take it to an altogether deeper level, let go. Then take a deep diaphragmatic breath using only your nose. Move the air as far down towards your belly as you can. Hold it there for a extra beat and then exhale through your mouth. That is one. The practice is to get to ten. WARNING: Your mind will wander, you will lose track of what breath number you are on and find yourself lost in a fantasy daydream. Do not despair, simply start anew and continue your practice. I do not allow myself to get out of bed until I have done ten. Sometimes this is easy, sometimes not. Just breathe and count your breaths. No judgments about anything. 

Consider yourself a master craftsman. They use the right tool. Build the best you possible. One day at a time. 

Good luck.

Two Fingers to Ten

If you, like me, refuse to purchase every new training gadget that pops onto the radar, this is the old school methodology that works to this very advanced, high-tech day and age in which we test and train. You need two fingers and be able to count to ten. I use this method in the PowerBarn and a Polar HR monitor in the gym. The simplified method is to use a watch, or in our case, the countdown timer in our videos, and take your pulse (I use the carotid) for ten seconds and then multiply by six to get your heart rate. I have created the following schematic to make it easy. 

There are two advantages in knowing your heart rate, one, the most obvious, is to keep within the workout parameters for your workout. We often go too hard on our easy sessions and too easy on the hard days, landing in the mid-range zones where not much is accomplished and value is diminished. Secondly, and in my specific case, I want to know how my heart is responding to the load and intensity of the session as that relates to my chronic atrial fibrillation. This is doubly important because of late it seems that I am suffering from intensity induced AFib. Monitoring this can help by creating good data so that proper zones can be established as required. I could toss a grand at it and have even more detailed analysis, but for now, the ‘two finger to ten’ method is fine. 

I wish the solution to the initial issue was as easy. 

Beats per 10 seconds to BPM

15 = 90

16 = 96

17 = 102

18 = 108

19 = 114

20 = 120

21 = 126*

22 = 132*

23 = 138

24 = 144

25 = 150

26 = 156

27 = 162

28 = 168

29 = 174

30 = 180

Percent of Max to RPE

Zone 1, 50-60% or very light

Zone 2, 60-70% or light

Zone 3, 70-80% or moderate

Zone 4, 80-90% or hard

Zone 5, 90-100% maximum

* = my target zone (85% of max) 

U-Turn

Beartooth Pass, MT

It all comes down to one simple directive. Rendered to its most banal and basic bombast. The time is now and the place is here. You have a responsibility to participate in your democracy. Should you fail not only will it be gone, but you will have relinquished your voice as a result. This means that you cannot moan, groan, bitch or complain when your money is gone along with your clothes. 

If we want to be better we must do better. You must, we must, we must all make that U-Turn.

VOTE

Broken Records

Beartooth Pass, MT

I will skip the reasons why the streak was snapped, and get to the present directive on where we go from here. After all, who wants to talk about a record that was? Be like baseball fans wanting to talk about Babe Ruth instead of Bad Henry Aaron. Unless, of course there was chancery along the way, then it is imperative that we do talk about the Bambino over Bonds or McGuire and their juiced numbers. Records are made to be broken, that is why we admire them so much. A streak is only as good as its memory. 

We had a good run at it, missing only a few days due to RG’s passing, and now the WSVT, Western States Video Tour, all 2,500 miles and five sleep-deprived days of it. Just time enough at the completion of each segment to download video, charge batteries, grab some protein and try to relax. Even with an hour or two of ‘free time’ I opted for rest and planning the next days route over blogging. So sorry.

I saw some weird shit out there to be sure. 

And not just the weird shit that any true blue All-American bleeding heart liberal retired hippie philosopher might consider odd, but some real, honest to goodness, down to earth, red-neck Nascar PBR blue-collar cowboy dipshit weird. Folks, it is an all together different planet out there once one travels outside the insular confines of Seattle’s liberal bubble. Yo. In a monumental test of patience and tolerance I forced myself to listen to right-wing radio along several hundred of the aforementioned miles. Guess what I learned?

WE ARE FUCKED UP. 

To the level I never thought imaginable. I mean, serious FUBAR. 

But you knew that, right? The one takeaway I will share today in the first of my make-up posts is that there seems to be one glaring difference between red radio and blue radio. Conservative hosts will provide you with your point of view as if you don’t have the intelligence to develop one on your own, while the lefty leads give you the opportunity to make up your own mind after the facts are presented. Big difference. Huge. 

I am glad to be back. It was fun, I have many stories and tons of video. It was smokey but from the samples that I have seen it looks like I’ll be able to pull some decent footage. The color correction needs to go from red to blue. 

This is a story that needs to be told and I am honored to have this small part to play in the telling. This is not about hate it is about hope. 

Stay tuned, this might will happen fast. 

Here Comes Sunshine

TGIM. Thank God It’s Monday. 

I always like fresh starts. First day of school, a fresh assignment, initial work on a project, the first tingling sensation when eyes meet. Today is one of those starts. Not only is it Monday but later this afternoon, once the obligation to lead a spin class has been successfully accomplished, I head out for five days on the back roads of what is left of America. I await this adventure with high anticipation. 

The goal of the trip has two primary objectives, one is to shoot video of states in which I currently have none, this trip another year’s inclusion to the video library whose goal it is to compile footage from all 50*, and two, to enjoy some time off, visit some new places, away from and out of my current cozy and controlled comfort zone. Almost like an adventure. 

While this trip, all 2,500 miles and 5 days of it will be taxing and short of down time, I am eager to get started and see what each of the days brings. So far the weather looks perfect and there are no major fires between point A of Spokane and tonight’s rest stop, Point B, an Airbnb in Whitefish, Montana. Gear is packed, batteries are charged and ready, clothes are rolled, 3TB external storage awaits my daily download of new media. The last three things on my check-off list are my cigarette lighter phone charger, dop kit and bike camera mount. It is 0530, my class is 0845, ride to ferry at 1145, light rail to Sea-Tac and flight at 1515. I will shoot video from the turn-off of I-90 in Idaho and take 2 through Bonners Ferry and Sandpoint into Whitefish. The host of the Airbnb told me to watch for deer after dark. Roger that. 

Depending on the signal strength of my overnights in Whitefish, Dickinson, ND, Billings and Bozeman, the streak ** will from today through Friday be on an ‘we’ll see’ basis. If my cheap motel (advertising free wifi) and guest accommodations via Airbnb allow, I will post some pics from the days travels, if no or slow service, I promise to do the best I can. 

I had one thought yesterday that was quickly squelched like a flash insurrection, that I should dictate dialogue of the screenplay as I drive, ala Jubal Hershaw, to speed the laborious process of writing it and thereby stacking creative protocols. 

For the same reasons that I outlined my trip and its budget yesterday to my brother as we made a run to the job-site dumpster, I don’t want to let a measly thousand dollars (the trip budget) stand between an adventure and whatever logical and pragmatic reason I might take that same amount and save it for whatever pending emergency is currently making its way towards my young ass. Fuck that. Same with the multi-tasking dilemma, sure you CAN get more done, but I would rather be totally present in my adventure, wherever I happen to be, than to close my eyes to the now by looking to the future of the then. This will happen organically, on its own, as suggested by my ability to free-flow through space and time. My job will be to take notes of the suggestions when they arise, not force them to appear like a white rabbit from a black hat. 

So off we go. Here Comes Sunshine. 

* Remaining states (tentative 2019): Delaware, Rhode Island, Vermont, Illinois, Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, South Carolina, West Virginia. 

** The Streak is one blog post per day for 2018. We are on schedule, 225 down and 140 to go!

Single Track of the Soul

Not preparing to win is preparing to lose, or as we used to say, proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance. Whichever road your pithy alliterative adage style preference takes, there is, as always, something to be said about either path. 

There is a high road as well as its lower counterpart. Fundamentally the reference in each is to the dichotomy between values. In the former it must be assumed that winning is better than losing and in the latter that piss poor performance is to be avoided at all cost. Especially if the performance assessment is to be compared to coyote urine. 

Why in the word would then would I, on the Sunday morning before a monumental road trip of epic proportions, working from my trusty check list of equipment and tools of the trade to pack, take the opposing viewpoint to the above solid sound bits of advice? 

While it may have roots in the work of Richard Restak, whose Mozart’s Brain and the Fighter Pilot, brain building handbook I am plodding my way through, it has long been my feeling that there is beauty to the art of chance, of chaos and or getting lost in order to find something of value. Like ourselves. 

Long time readers may recall the heresy I have often suggested as a philosophical probability that the one true winning is losing. And while no-one should prepare to lose, when it does happen, even at even odds, the TAKE AWAY from our losing, the lessons of the loss, are what builds character, wisdom and experience that may, as the other side of the coin, come up heads and provide us with a bigger victory than the initial one could ever have provided. There is some faith required here because one must be patient enough to get through the pain and possible humiliation of the first defeat. One must by experience keep moving, stay alive and see that the war can be won despite the painful loss of the most recent battle. So yes, prepare to win, but should you lose, take the lesson and toss the exhaust. LEARN THAT LESSON. 

We practice to improve. We repeat drills to enhance our skills. With practice comes confidence. With confidence comes a rare opportunity. When one has reached a high level of competence, one stands at the crossroads. One can now take the next step and trust her skills to thoroughly, so completely that the thinking bout the doing vanishes leaving the muse of satori, she of pure creation, ready and willing to take a solo. And we blindly lose ourselves in the process, ego and fear asked politely to take a seat. This willingness to search for the sound takes incredible courage and can crush individuals not up to the task. So, yes, proper planning in the form of hours of (perfect) practice improves significantly the odds of success, but sometimes the intentional non-prep practice of leaving your map and compass behind to explore the magic of wanderlust provides rewards far greater that that safe path of the road more traveled. 

I will prepare and I will plan as best I can today. To be ready for tomorrow. It is a ritual I am familiar with and appreciate. There is discipline and habit, method and ease of mind in this somewhat anal process. I have done it enough to know that one of the main reason why I use the check list is so that I can relax and not lay awake all night wondering what I might have missed or forgot. I have a backup plan for that as well, fully cognizant that of the 2,500 miles I will log over the next 5 days, there will be 100 Home Depots, 75 Wal-Marts, 50 Denny’s and enough gas stations, cheap motels and coffee shops to get me out of almost any temporary jamb. As another example, I really miss hitchhikers. Oh for 500 miles with Sissy Hankshaw. 

It is what I find when GPS fails that I seek. 

Hence, I prepare to fail, ready to make lemonade out of any piss poor performance that might arise from the ashes of nomadic chaos while searching for the magic well beyond the regular and routine, so far of the beaten path that there is little trace. The single-track of the soul. 

Because whose fault is a flat tire anyway? 

Extreme Power

Someone once said that we are always one choice away from happiness. 

As you may know, or may have surmised, happiness is big on my list. While perhaps not challenging Hall and Oates for inclusion on the list of the best things in life, there are not many things finer than a gift-wrapped box of happiness. Now, if that box contains your kiss, we got a story here! 

Yesterday, in another chat in a series of discussions about the meaning of all this (life), I entered the space known as ‘out there’. ‘Out there’ is a colloquialism for ‘topics more metaphysical, philosophical and abstract than utilitarian and/or practical. It has been suggested that I spend most of my time either there, getting there or returning from there. I like it there. There is where its at. 

In the summary stage of yesterday’s debate, I opened with an intro I normally save for special occasions. The ‘I will give you a rendition of the sum of my experience’ intro. Please be advised that this is a gamble and should be used only in time of dire need and/or emergency. Think about what you might say to talk your brother off the ledge type of emergency and you’ll get the gist. 

Try it for yourself; Open another tab, use the text edit app and script what you might say to a depressed individual you know well and WHO needs ONE SENTENCE of your best motivational inspiration. In other words, or using another example, write THE MOST IMPORTANT THING YOU HAVE LEARNED ABOUT LIFE IN YOUR TIME HERE. Then deliver it as an actor in a TV drama might. 

Here was my take: Dude (not a good start) this is what I have discovered in the 66 fucking (not a helpful adjective at this juncture) years I have been stumbling along in the darkness. Of all the mistakes, errors, missed opportunities and outright fuck-ups I am guilty of, I maintain that I am just one decision away from having the secrets of the universe given to me. Just one. I have the power at any time along this rough and rocky road to choose what I will do and how I will feel about it. Based upon the commitment I have made to myself and whatever higher power might be amused by it, to seek happiness, contentedness, and truth above all other possible rewards. I trust this process so completely that it allows me to conduct daily, hourly, experiments with my power to enact change. To actually bring about radical paradigm shifts in human consciousness that address the truth and power of two primary concepts, those of gratitude and forgiveness. If (I know that is a big if) I can truly be grateful for whatever challenge the cosmos has sent to me as a tool for my growth, and forgive those that may have had a part in the creation of some form of  suffering, I set the stage for, well, getting a clear image of the meaning of life. The road to nirvana runs through hell. If you are in it and want to get out (not everyone wants to) YOU ARE ONE CHOICE AWAY. Make the choice, take one step towards the light and KEEP GOING. With that single courageous decision and proof of sincerity (that first step) you will have enlisted the most powerful energy known to our universe as your ally. Everything changes when everything changes. Choose your path, decide on happiness as your goal. Pick yourself up and take that first step. You cannot fail. But you must act. 

I know that is more than a single sentence. One of there reasons why I spend so much time ‘out there’ is that it is so difficult to summarize. It is like capsulizing man’s entire body of knowledge in one subtle phrase. You end up with a run-on sentence light-years away from the black hole of eternity. 

Still, we persevere. We search and fight the good fight. We try to find OUR meaning. I feel an obligation to help. To assist others along their search and, if nothing else, to help with reducing their unnecessary suffering. 

I think about 90% of it is unnecessary. 

You are one choice away from Extreme Power. 

Take a Hike

Update, Aug. 10, 8:50 a.m.: In a game played later on Thursday, three members of the Seattle Seahawks—defensive linemen Branden Jackson and Quinton Jefferson and offensive lineman Duane Brown—ran off the field before the anthem started playing.

It was 1967. I was 15, a freshmen in High School. During summer two-a-days I broke my left arm for the second time. Waking up from surgery in post-op I saw Mom looking down on me with flowing tears. Suddenly another face entered the scene, it was Charlie E, my baseball coach. I smiled at both thinking that this must be heaven as two of my favorite people were here with me. That day was effectively the end of my football career - for when Charlie spoke he had one question - and one suggestion for me.

Charlie E: Kevin, do you want to play baseball? 

Me: Yes.

Charlie E: (EMPHATIC) Then stop playing football. 

From that day forward I was a fan, playing baseball and following football. 

Across town in the LA Coliseum the LA Rams where changing the game. Their defense, and in particular their defensive line, aka The Fearsome Foursome, were kicking ass and taking names. It was my first introduction to the game at its Hollywood best. It was emotional, violent, dramatic and special. It had everything, speed, grace, power, strategy, a ticking clock, humanity, a mix of ethnicity and culture and, of course, those ultra-cool helmets. We watched on black and white TVs as the weekly ritual unfolded on the static filled screen. I was vaguely aware of college football at the time, surrounded by USC and UCLA, but the Rams were my team, my guys and my passion. 

Fast forward to 1987 Seattle. The NFL players go on-strike and boycott management in the hopes of improving their (rather antebellum) position as modern day athletic slaves. I get a glimpse of the old boy network and their far reaching racist tentacles. I am not happy. This is about as far as one can get from my (at the time perhaps naive perception) of wholesomeness and solidarity of those Rams. I have also begun what was to be a complete migration away from the Pro game towards the College game, establishing the UW Huskies as ‘my’ team. I begin a boycott of the NFL. There is too much hypocrisy for me to stomach. I will detail what was taking place on the UW campus in the 60's later. 

Fast forward to today, 2018 America under the dubious and corrupt ‘leadership’ of the Republican party and one donald j trump. I am still boycotting the NFL. I am still a Huskies fan. We have some serious issues to discuss that, rightly or wrongly, includes football as both stage and scene. It is another metaphor that I find excruciatingly painful. 

Let me clarify, again, my position. The President is a racist pig. Clear enough? He is using the NFL as both a distraction, to keep his ‘base’ incensed with hatred and fear, as well as to further divide the population into camps of ‘patriots and winners’, against ‘disrespectful and ungrateful losers’. His lies, tone and strategy works only with an audience that shares his low-brow, cruel, supremest values. He knows he cannot win in a fair fight, America is too smart, so his tactic is to incite his racist, bigoted, fearful, weak and pathetic base into doing the dirty work for him. FIND SOMEBODY TO BLAME and unload on them. 

I stand with the players this go-around. The ruse of protesting minority discrimination, police brutality disproportionate to people of color spun into being about disrespect for the flag and our service men and women is right outta the Nazi Germany playbook. His base sees red when this flag is hoisted and violence naturally ensues, spilling the blood of innocent Americans guilty of simply wanting a better place to raise their kids. This is criminal. And must end immediately. 

The heroes of Thursday night’s game between the Seahawks and Colts were not the stars who lined up and did battle. The true heroes, those willing to put their careers and livelihoods on the line for something supposedly guaranteed with their citizenship, were three guys named Jackson, Jefferson and Brown. 

Sounds pretty patriotic to me. 

I will leave you with this pun, seemingly appropriate today, when so much honor, integrity and moral turpitude is missing from the national dialogue; Dear mr trump, take a hike. 

Whose Counting?

Five days and counting. 

On Monday, after spin class of course, I depart for the 2018 Western States Video Tour. This trip, by car, will, barring fire detours, cover the states of Washington, Idaho, Montana, North and South Dakota and Wyoming. It will cover almost 2,500 miles and be done in five days. The math says this a clean 500 miles per day. My back already hurts. 

In self defense, this is part of the larger picture, the goal, of having video of all 50 states. For the uninitiated, my professional video career is highlighted by the work we did at CompuTrainer and the Real Course Video (RCV) line of indoor cycle training products. Over the ten years on this project, I was fortunate to enjoy all-expense paid trips to many of our planet's coolest cycling locations, including France, Spain, UK, Germany, Hawaii (several times), Switzerland, Australia, Virgin Islands and Norway. In between the sexy International sites were the the domestic locations that created the demand for our videos. After a few years of doing this it became a goal of mine to compile the aforementioned collection, video of every state. Kinda like collecting baseball cards, once you have a few, finding, trading, collecting becomes a driving factor towards the goal of ‘the complete set’. 

My set, somewhat ironically, is missing four of the states mentioned above, MT, ND, SD, WY. Wyoming and Montana include Yellowstone. Without the funding from the now defunct corporate sponsor I am on my own and as I frequently break the number one rule of independent filmmaking, do not produce expensive films for a small audience, the quest persists. I should be doing life without parole. But as I am free and capable, the dubious quest continues. 

Again defending my fool of a client, I like doing this. Nolo contendere. I am guilty with explanation and throw myself at the mercy of the court. My pithy little videos are used in our training facility as accompaniment for our indoor training sessions, held nightly in the World Famous PowerBarn. I enjoy creating them using archive footage gone to public domain, stock footage and whatever animations, time lapse and other local media I can capture. The WSVT (Western States Video Tour) should provide me with enough media for the entire Season 5, so the $1,000 budget is rather amazingly small for so much new media. My biggest concern at this point is fire. I could be re-routed by any flare ups and miss the target epic routes such as Beartooth Pass, Yellowstone and The Hiawatha Trail. But we will deal with that in real time, live on location. 

Last night as we set up for a brick session, and indoor ride followed by an outside run, one of the participants asked for the Bend video. It was with special pride that I put it up on the big screen as we began our set. 

Five days and counting. A thousand dollar budget. 2,500 miles. Ten videos. A hundred views. One request. 

But whose counting?

One Encouraging Word

One encouraging word.

Was all it took. 

Sitting with a few close friends on a hot summer evening one of them asked what I was doing besides the usual. The usual, of course, being training and racing, video creation, dog sitting and painstakingly intricate detailed analysis of the University of Washington’s football program. I said (and I keep a running tally of guests on MSNBC who begin their responses to a questions from Rachael, Ari, Lawrence, Brian or Nicole, with a …well), well, I am making some progress on the screenplay. 

What screenplay?

The story of the bomb that was dropped on Brookings, Oregon in World War II. 

What?

I look around the table to gauge interest by facial recognition, noting that there seems to be a consensus that additional detail is warranted. 

Yeah, it’s a great story, do you know it?

Three negatives and a head shake later I am trying once again to make the brand strokes storyline clean, crisp , concise and colorful. In Hollywood terms this is known as the pitch, where the writer crafts her longline in one sentence. 

It is the story of honor in the time of a world at war, an American Navy Captain, a Japanese pilot, Harry Truman, the Manhattan Project, the USS Indianapolis, Japanese internment, 400 years of Samurai, and a love story set on Mt. Emily, Oregon. 

Realizing that my pitch was falling well outside the intended strike zone, I paused to allow consideration and hopefully a response. 

What about the bomb?

Yes, it was dropped from aircraft launched from a submarine on Mt. Emily, the goal was to ignite a forest fire on the West Coast to divert attention and resources away from the primary target. The incendiary bomb exploded but due to the damp conditions failed it’s primary objective. The pilot……

Wait, when did this happen?

Between Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima/Nagasaki. 

So while Japanese-Americans were interned, Oppenheimer is burning midnight oil to build an atomic bomb and being pushed hard by Truman’s administration to do so, Einstein rides his bike*…

Washington has a place in all this, as we built several batteries to guard Puget Sound from submarine attacks, as hundreds of Japanese-Americans were separated from their families, arrested and sent to Manzanar as spies, and Hanford was the site for enriched plutonium production…..

Wow, all that. A local angle.

Sure, so my two main protagonists are from here, the future Navy Captain and his sweetheart whose parents have been arrested and sent to camp.

Amazing.

Yeah, I think it is a good story. 

Heads nod, chins are scratched, goblets rise. 

How far along with the treatment are you, I would love to see it. 

Of the 40 scenes, or 120 pages of script, I have 19 completed. 

Get to work, we want this to be done. I wanna see it. 

*This picture is a fraud.