Fourth and Long

A series of decisions. At its most banal, that is what we do. Sure, we have established worthwhile, wholesome and rewarding goals for ourselves, but the attainment of them is found along the path, the journey, the road. If I want to run a sub three hour marathon, learn to play Chopin’s third piano concerto in e-minor, or lose ten pounds, the PROCESS is the same for each. 

We establish a commitment rating. On the scale of one-to-ten, one being flimsy and primarily dependent on luck, and ten being quintessentially the most important thing we can envision, literally and figuratively, life and death. 

Next we commit to the obtainment of said goal, and here is one of the keys, we take the first step. Be it a baby step or a giant step for mankind, that all-important numero uno is crucial simply because nothing happens without it. We are stuck. Stagnant. Sometimes frozen in place, paralyzed from the analysis. We over think it. Worse, we often settle for the pain and suffering of the current situation rather than move (one step at a time) into the scary vacuum understood as the unknown, aka, change. 

Are there over-the-counter drugs available to get us over this monumental hill? Can I have them drop shipped by drone if I use Amazon Prime? Will there be any negative side effects? Will my insurance cover the cost? How long will it take before I have everything I want? 

Sad as it sounds, these reasons, excuses, spins, denials, fears and self imposed limitations are all real life, real time and real big realities for hundreds of thousands of people. It is a programmed, conditioned, modern response to the relentless propaganda foisted upon us by those with shiny, sexy, distracting gadgets to help ‘improve’ our lives, the very gadgets and devices we cannot live another day without.  

So we watch football on 70” TVs while shoveling home pepperoni pizza paired with the latest IPA at $13 per sixer. One thing is certain, which ever team wins the game, we lose the battle. 

Back to the  basics. Say, you have decided that lugging around the additional thirty pounds your bad habits have produced is in need of attention and you would like to TAKE CHARGE. (I know you are thinking that you will consider this after the final game of the season), but maybe it is time to create a script, your game-plan for success NOW. Name me a successful offensive coordinator who doesn’t think three plays ahead. 

I will now suggest, that like any head-coach worth his or her weight, you start with the basics and progress through the details. Here are both:

Develop a goal. Commit to the goal. No matter what. Start. Take the first step. Be aware of the importance of each decision you make. This is developing good habits. Make positive choices. One after another. Add enthusiasm. Build momentum. Establish your run game, play solid defense, stay relaxed and focused. Take the first step and keep stepping. 

Our game plan is based upon the most simple and eloquent philosophy of success ever created. There are no smoke and mirrors, no misdirection, no counter-treys and no need for trick plays. 

DEVELOP GOOD HABITS and MAKE GOOD DECISIONS. 

After that everything after will take care of itself as we march harmoniously down the field. 

Sometimes going for it on fourth and long. 

That Magic Feeling

Oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go.

Inspired by, I believe, the dharma tenant, nowhere to go and nothing to do. From Lennon and McCartney to Thich Nhat Hanh's - ‘All the wonderful things that you are looking for–happiness, peace, and joy–can be found inside of you. You do not need to look anywhere else’, is a central point in man’s eternal search for meaning. Or at least in my search today. 

I raise this flag today for a couple of reasons. One, after a series of extraordinary dreams early this morning, I struggle with the anxiety born of confusion. What, exactly were the messengers of the subliminally sublime attempting to relay to me? And, two, why am I responding more with my physical self than the cerebral? Why am I pacing like a caged tiger instead of simply, doing the necessary, sitting and writing about it? 

I got this far into the inquiry by, as is my habit, looking at my day timer for the list of chores on today’s agenda. There was only one, the 1730 meet-up at the PowerBarn for our evening spin. Other than that the day is mine. This validation of freedom caused a minor backfire in my morning as I was now suddenly totally responsible for the quality of my ‘free-time’. Oh that magic feeling. 

Yet, for mysterious reasons, I am still anxious. Not even my newly found wifi speed allowing the morning news cruise helped. Mississippi still sucks, Trump is a turd and tomorrow night the Huskies will enter the ring with the Utah Utes for a four-round unlimited street brawl for the Pac12 Championship. As much as I like our odds, I am nervous about this big game. Since I have nothing to do (and nowhere to go) I am left to manage these powerful negatives. Anxiety and the feeling of pending doom. 

This is helping. By design. Saturday will be December first, leaving but one month, thirty-one days, until the completion of this journey. Starting on January One of this year, I set out on the mission to script a post every day for the entirety of 2018. With he exception of three days in March when I sat at Harborview Hospital with my dying Father, the streak as we call it, is intact. Home stretch. Final act. Denouncement. Crescendo. Fourth Quarter and out of time-outs. Last mile.

Please remember with me that this has all been an attempt to create release, improvisation, introspection and catharsis. The concept initially came from Julia Cameron’s magnificent work, The Artist’s Way, in which she suggests three pages of writing every day mimicking the dedicated and demanding habitual practice exemplified by athletes and musicians, actors and innovators. I preformed this ritual for many years carrying my three-ring notebooks across the globe, converting many years later to the user friendliness of the digital version that you now read. 

It has been fun. I have enjoyed - most of the time - the process. I think it has made me better storyteller. I have found some space in my heart and some answers from my soul. I have left a biography of all the spiraling debris found on my orbit along the chaotic trajectory of this wink-of-the-eye calendar year. I think it also helped me pay a litter closer attention to the things that I might consider ‘newsworthy’. 

Although having odd dreams, feeling anxious, with nervous energy, is but the backdrop to this morning’s discipline, it helps create a tone that might be useful in my efforts to create additional quality throughout my day. 

Therefore we start now. With nowhere to go and nothing to do. The secret ingredient to towards the success of my day, the ‘added value’ needed to spin this apparent bland and vanilla stone soup will be this:

Maintaining secure footing in the here and now while merging my awareness with reality. 

Out of college, money spent

See no future, pay no rent

All the money's gone, 

Any jobber got the sack

Monday morning, turning back

Yellow lorry slow, nowhere to go

But oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go

Oh, that magic feeling

Nowhere to go, nowhere to go

Nice Work

Being the first night back in my own bed in a week I didn’t sleep well. A difficult late conversation and the pending early wakeup were hanging over me like low hanging fruit. Compounding this tension was the on-off inflammation in my left hip. When ‘on’ it stings like a wounded bumble bee, and when ‘off’, hurts like a son-of-a-gun. In sum, REMs came very late and even THEY were obnoxious. 

As the Sponge Bob Squarepants clock sped ever forward, faster than usual it seemed, I did my breath counts and finally exposed my cold body to the chilly morning. I have a morning routine that makes an attempt at production efficiency. We semi-dance through the brushing of teeth, flossing, mouthwash, shave (I am still using the electric Norelco I bought 15 years ago) en route to the kitchen where a shot of lemon juice in hot water chases two anticoagulant pills down the hatch. It is important that cuppa joe uno is in the micro during this preparatory phase as the bicycle clock tells me that I am running two minutes behind schedule this cold November morning. Grab the coffee and pack the kit for class, I select the brown/gold jersey with black shorts and a gold headband for the morning’s spin class and pack the iPad containing the musical accompaniment. Since I have no idea what the session’s protocol will be I start to consider some possibilities. 

The wifi has been sporadic at best the last week or so leaving me with the Plan C option of going without a morning news fix or asking my phone to deliver the ‘sure to be bad’ updates of all-things Democratic. Fair and balanced it was once known as. I decide, after a cursory check of the two computers at my disposal, that being updated is going to have to wait, and grab my rain jacket, kit and coffee. We open the kitchen door to the outside world when I am immediately greeted with a cold slap in the face by a seemingly irritated wind and rain duo. I mutter something about needing to do better than THAT and trudge towards my truck in total darkness. 

On the drive, peaceful at this hour, to Junior’s for our Wednesday workout, I am still considering the protocol for the spin class. Remembering that I left them with an assignment on Monday (to have their best week ever) I devise a couple of options. Certainly I will ask for an update (how are we doing?). But what after that? The price of gas in 1959?

I am listening to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude as I drive. When it comes to me with artistic precision and romantic flow. I hear the outline as if it was a Spanish dance, soft, subtle and sexy. 

There are really only three things we need to be concerned with today amigos e amigas, three possibilities that, when combined, answer some big questions. Consider them closely and you’ll see. Riding our stationary bicycles we are, besides going nowhere fast and torching calories like the bonfire of our insanities, juggling only three colored balls. Keeping them in motion we ask but three things:

What position,

With what intensity,

and for how long.

Position. Intensity. Duration. 

The sub categorical elements become those of power and speed. 

I ask a question of the class requesting a show of hands. Which would you prefer to have and to hold until death doth part them from you, Strength of Speed? The vote was almost 50/50 when I tell then that it was a trick question. Because the correct answer is, of course, BOTH.

We then proceed to kill a set alternating positions, ascending intensities, adding duration, sprinting for ten seconds of explosive power and quick pedaling, before resting and recovering. 

I ask them for a silent internal update on their assignment and mention that Saturday will be another chance to make this the best week ever. Adding that it is not too late to add some value to the equation between our joyous classroom time together. 

Nice work. 

RG85

I learned how to drive a stick in 1968. Was a ’61 Ford Falcon, three on the tree. Mom coached me through it as she chain-smoked her Viceroys.  I don’t blame her a bit for being nervous as I hacked my way up, the hard part, and down, cake, the hills that surrounded our suburban Southern California home. After a while I got it figured it out, but there was plenty of error to go along with the trials. In retrospect I probably picked Mom for this chore because Dad was always at work and he being a ‘car guy’ would have undoubtedly been disappointed and frustrated that I was such a klutz with the clutch. Surely he would have chained his Camels likewise forced out of the drivers seat and into the passenger’s.

I have fond memories of the cars we had during this time, a golden era for both myself coming of age and the car culture of America that was blossoming like a filed of tulips. Dad would often bring home the car du jour to park in the garage and work on it at night for eventual resale. That garage was were I was introduced to tools, jacks, oil, grease and gasoline. We efficiently ran Fiats, Fords and the occasional Studebaker in and out of the detached space that Dad used to call the 80th Street chop-shop.

One night, I could always get out of doing homework by acting as Dad’s assistant, he was changing out an exhaust system on a Fiat 850. Tiny cars compared to the 1950 Cadillac we had just tuned up and considerably less ornamental than Grandma’s ’57 Chevy I had just washed and waxed. Dad was under the Fiat on a creeper calling for the metric 10mm socket. All I could see were his legs, wrapped in the navy blue jump suit he wore in the shop and his grease-caked work boots. Both of the left-side tires were in the air as Dad had used the big floor jack to lift from the Fiat’s welded jack attachment located on the frame halfway between the wheels. As I was instructed, before handing down the socket-wrench I carefully wiped it clean with the ever present red shop rag. A huge hand covered with grease reached out from under the green 850 to accept the tool. I placed it in the hand much like a nurse placing a scalpel in a surgeon’s palm. Dad grunted approval.

And then it happened.

To this day I cannot recall why, but I will never forget the how.

The four foot steel rod that was the floor jack’s handle stuck out from under the car like a compound fracture of a giant’s femur. As you know these indispensable tools employed a twist feature at the end of the handle, righty tighty, or in this case up, and lefty loosey, or down. The hydraulics made this a snap. And for reasons already admittedly vague, maybe to make sure it was properly tightened, I gave the handle a testing twist to the left.

And that ‘tiny’ olive green Fiat 850 came down on Dad’s chest as he innocently tightened the muffler clamp. The jump suit covered legs along with the grease-caked work boots went rigid, straight out and with violent velocity. My eyes opened as wide as baby moons.

‘Jack the fucker up’ I heard a strange voice wheeze. And I did.

Once the Fiat had enough clearance for Dad to roll out from under it, he slowly got to his feet and shot me a passing glance as he left the shop and headed to the kitchen. I was frozen in place shocked by my own ignorance and clumsiness.

He returned in about five minutes with a Camel dangling from his lip and a half empty Miller Highlife in his hand. I  had no idea what would happen next so I was both surprised and relieved when he calmly asked if I was ready to try it again.

That is but one of the hundreds of car stories I will always share with Dad.

Who would have been 85 today.

Who We Are

After our viewing of the powerful WWII saga, The 12th Man yesterday, and the afterglow of moral indignation, I was weighing possible takeaways. I can always tell if the potential for magic is present because my first move is to mute the trucks radio. I need all the processing power available when mashing with the muse and even my default FM station, Seattle’s Classic King, diverts too much of my limited CPU. I simply cannot follow the string interplay with the a descending chromatic scale of woodwinds, keep ahead of the timpani, and think, all at the same time. Rock n Roll is so much easier. But even it distracts. Perhaps by design.

I am driving slow through the medium to heavy rain as the road crew sentinels stop and start the flow of traffic. We are in month three of a huge road widening project on our Island’s main arterial thoroughfare. I am trying to match the inspiration I gleaned from the movie with whatever protocol I concoct for the hour long spin class about to take place. I like to have a theme that can be used repeatedly, inspirationally and motivationally as the class unfolds. Music in this scenario is of secondary importance. Among the many thematic possibilities at my disposal, one occurred during a tense meeting between two families that have been hiding and caring for the British protagonist as he courageously both stays alive and moves ever nearer the Norway/Sweden border, and safety. The families have been relentlessly hounded by the Germans since the capture of the ship carrying the special forces team on their covert, behind enemy lines, mission. The filmmaker chooses at one point to spare us from the war crime atrocity of killing a child to extract the location of the last soldier by instead cutting to a scene with the patriarchs discussing a final escape strategy. It is bleak. Cold. The families have suffered more than anyone should ever have to. Fanning their gloved and bandaged hands over a fire barrel, one of the kids, maybe seven or eight, looks at her Dad with an amazing combination of outrage for the Nazi’s and compassion for the soldier who is responsible for, and a heartbeat away, from their own murders.

‘Father, why are we doing this?’ she innocently asks. There is a moment of silence as the camera pans the small gathering of families, all united in resistance of the brutal German occupation of their homeland. I am watching this unfold on our 65” LCD screen while riding my bike to burn calories as it rains outside. I am thinking about how weak this is compared to the bravery of these folks.

Camera goes close to the ruddy face of Dad who has been asked for his wisdom on the motivation necessary to inspire them to continue their heroics, despite the obvious danger and the rapidly escalating odds that they will be slaughtered by the Germans if they don’t talk.

Dad: BECAUSE IT IS WHO WE ARE AND WHAT WE DO.

My voice is cracking as I re-tell the story today, the scene, it’s timeliness and potential. After challenging myself, I eye the audience, all peacefully turning the pedals on their bikes, and ask if the chance might exist that we take a page from this playbook and juxtapose it to today.

If for nothing else but simple reason that those that do not learn from history - are doomed to repeat it.

Col Hans Landa

If you aren’t aware of the Sunday indoor cycling fun we have at the WFPB, World Famous PowerBarn, I will inform you now. Monday through Friday’s we meet at 1730 for indoor training. These week-night session consist mostly of 2x20 sets, but were are making a move towards more power-based interval work as well as unitizing the amazing graphics and opportunities with Zwift.

Going on five years now we have selected a movie to screen as we ride on Sunday mornings. We average about two hours of steady-state, non-stop Zone 2 work netting around 50 miles. Our genera of choice is the category known as action. Shit has to happen. Most Science Fiction is OK. Overly dialogue dependent dramas fail to provide sufficient adrenaline. Comedies are too slow and even award winning documentaries fail top deliver the counter punch necessary to shift one's focus away from discomfort and low-grade suffering. We like Westerns, war and adventure. We are particularly fond of the Cohen Brothers, with our number one, all-time fave, for the fourth consecutive year, being the phenomenal Inglorious Basterds.

You know the story and I am are sure you have watched it more than once. Meaning, that like us, every viewing is an opportunity to appreciate the nuance and craftsmanship these two talented siblings bring to the big screen. Christopher Waltz is so good in his role as Col Hans Landa, that the annual love-fest known as the Academy Awards should be cancelled for at least ten years as no finer performance is possible, let alone probable. And then you have Brad Pitt doing his half Tennessee half Cherokee stuff with a handful of Nazi chasing bad-ass renegades. The true genius of this film however lies in the screenplay. Tarantino’s gift. If you listen closely, the insanely clever dialogue will amaze even the most discerning students of the craft.

We will be staging our annual tribute to the Basterds on Sunday.

Although I have sat through it a half-dozen times prior, logging the requisite miles in joyful accompaniment, I can’t wait.

Very Classy Cougars

Maybe I am mellowing. The jury is out deliberating. It could also be that my reactions are like a self defensive fail-safe fuse to keep me from doing serious emotional harm to myself.

Yesterday afternoon, while not-so-patiently waiting for the 111th Apple Cup, the annual rivalry college football game between the University of Washington Huskies and the upstart Washington State Cougars (in case you are the reader from the Outer Hebrides), I witnessed an unusual sensation. Something like a cross between laissez-faire supreme confidence and genuine gratitude for simply having the opportunity to watch two bitter rivals in dramatic battle with a championship on the line. The following thought was the one that caused my flowing consciousness into stomp on the brake screech mode. WHAT? Are you seriously saying that even if the underdog Huskies (3pts) actually lost to the Cougars for the first time in five years, you would be OK with it because, well, you like the kids on the roster, have enjoyed the wild ride they have orchestrated over the course of the last four years, and worse, that the Cougar mercenary QB who has lit up the college football world with a quick release, deadly accuracy and a porn-star moustache, is actually pretty good. It is an away game, looks like snow and the world most likely will not come to an end as a direct result of a Husky loss.

The old it doesn’t really matter defense. But there is more here than meets the eye. Consider:

We have been talking a lot recently about flow. Specifically flow in sports. How it can often be the deciding element in the ascension and sustainability of peak performance. In triathlon and cycling, in the marathon or sprinting and up to and including college football, the attitude known as swagger, that level of confidence having the capability to not only raise the performance of the one - but of the many as well. When we are talking about team sports it is simply the one element that separates contenders from pretenders, champs from chumps, winners from those that need more work. One, or a team, will work tirelessly to learn the system of the game and style of the coach. They then practice it inside and out until reaction times are reduced, success ratios increased and that graceful flow of focused energy results in the achievement of individual or team goals. If any one of those three parts are missing, you get less than desired results.

The hardest part, by far, is the flow. One cannot talk the talk without walking the walk. It is a beautiful thing to watch when running full-throttle on all cylinders. The magic component comes into play when we accept that the reason we are so drawn to this is that watching it unfold exposes weakness, tendencies, inadequacies, strengths, character, bravado, immaturity and every other emotional manifestation of the actuality the military calls grace under fire. In other words, shit happens.

Although I was prepared to lose, my sense was that our team had, through the fire and brimstone in the heat of Pac-12 football, grown together and were, finally, at the place of competitiveness where flow could be used much the same as a double-pass.

It all unfolded on script. They played, made mistakes. It rained and then it snowed. We had our usual solid first half and then hung on. I tip my cap to the rival Cougars, they had a sensational season. But the best thing about the game, the entire Apple Cup game-week mystique, something that will get lost in the celebration and licking of wounds, is what took place the day before.

Traveling by bus from Seattle to Pullman on I-90, the Husky Marching Band suddenly found themselves crashed on the side of the icy road. No one was badly hurt but the shock and trauma was enough for the trip to be cancelled and the band sent either home or to the closest hospital for care. Locals, mostly Cougar fans, brought food and volunteered their assistance. But the best part, the part that matches my new mellowness and appreciation of this game, these teams, and the 111 years of tradition is what the Washington State Marching Band did before the start of the big contest.

Having learned the Husky fight song, they formed a giant on-field W and played it in honor of their rival band-mates who couldn’t make it due to the black-ice bus accident.

I will say it here first, very classy Cougars. Thank you.

And good luck the rest of the way.

By Noon Friday

It began innocently enough. We are finishing Thanksgiving dinner as the conversation turns from classical music to rocket science. Junior is very interested in both subjects and normally being reluctantly quiet and introspective, the floor, or table in this case is all his. To say that he is a smart kid is like saying that French vanilla ice cream is tasty on top of home-made pumpkin pie. It is an engaging exchange where I feel my responsibility, my job, is to ask leading questions to allow his depth of knowledge to manifest. Each of us is intentionally slowing the pace of the dialogue to allow for the precise words to fit this requirement. Words like, some, several, about, many, kinda, sorta or maybe are immediately tossed out like yesterday’s non-recyclable trash. It is a good practice for each of us primarily because there is nowhere to hide. The inaccurate, the misunderstood, the obtuse, the gray areas, the myths and even the outright lies perpetuated by media and politics, are unacceptable in this one-sided debate. 

It is a good talk, engaging and honest. He is mature enough to admit wonder and awe when a subject is exposed as incomplete, and then subsequent elements added for greater or more complete understanding of the issue. Conversely he likes to demonstrate his grasp of complex theories in physics, science and mathematics, the fascinating combination now called STEM. Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics. 

As our communication drifts back from deep space, quanta, jet propulsion and elemental vibrations, I confess my ignorance to extol admiration to the NASA nerds who first figured out how to land a rocket on the moon - without a computer. Yeah, he says, they did all the calculations on a blackboard. Amazingly, he pulls his iPhone out of his pocket (we have been listening to Dave Brubeck via a Bluetooth speaker) and proclaims that he is now holding in his right hand more computing power than the first generation of rocket scientists had access to during their research, design and execution of America’s (or Russia’s) exploration of space. 

I ask his Mother if there is, please, more coffee adding a WOW, to complete the story. 

We carry on for another hour discussing the pragmatics of innovation and technology when I feel it appropriate to segue from the pure sciences to the geo-political, always risky territory. 

Why, if we have the skill, knowledge and technology to make civilization run more efficiently, with less environmental damage, with more benefit for the most people, the many, do we choose not to?

I can see the sadness, bordering on anger, fill his eyes and I tell him with non-verbal sincerity that this is, in my opinion, the main issue of our time. He tries to take the easy route, a shrug of shoulders, when I cut him off at the pass with an unintended liberal ambush. 

Capitalism, I say. We have evolved into a greedy tribe. Quickly consider the roles that Big Oil, Big Pharma, Big Military-Industrial, the management-ownership of them, including shareholders, that make the rules. For them there is only one rule: Profit. 

It is late and I must go to feed the hungry dogs whose care is under my stewardship. I look across the table at my nephew. 'I am so sorry that we screwed things up so badly and left your generation to clean up the mess. We really tried in the 60’s to create positive change and set a clear direction to sail the ship towards sustainability, and although many of our most precious precepts are now accepted and standard practices, I am afraid that we failed miserably where we needed help the most.'

He looks at me with complete forgiveness and understanding, nodding his head in approval and agreement, seemingly ready to carry the torch, accept the awesome task. 

And I need you to have it done by noon Friday. 

True North

While certainly not be best, this morning’s annual Thanksgiving spin session appeared by all casual observations to accomplish the primary directive. There was sweat on the floor upon completion of the hour of power. Having the room half full with first timers is always challenging. I ask a lot from my veterans. The lingo, the acronyms, the etiquette, and dare I say the rules, can all combine to intimidate the newbie, as if the work isn’t enough. The real challenge for any instructor is to find some way to connect. Working as a contractor for the US Navy left little doubt as to the motivation and goals of the servicemen and women, but in this civilian environment, the class loaded for bear with very successful professionals, it can be a chore to find the proper combination of cues, inspirational prodding and attitude. We all know that one man’s ceiling can be another’s floor. Or that my true North can be your due South. 

One of my regulars in M&W class dragged her entire family in today. This is a gal so tough that yesterday she had to twice leave the room to change the dressings on her nose triage. She went so hard her nose bled. As if that wasn’t enough respect, she is married to the captain of one of the nuclear subs moored across the water from where I now sit. Captain of an Ohio-class Trident Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine. One does not fall into that role as a result of Daddy having deep pockets. Their two kids, a soccer-playing high-school sophomore and a somewhat distracted freshman girl, flanked Mom and Dad to my left. They went hard, followed the instructions and finished with bravado. They might have even liked some of my classic rock dominated music. 

However I made the mistake of trying to be all things to all people, the kids, the captain, the regulars, those fresh from years of neglect and caloric abuse, and in so doing felt the magic coming in spurts vice the usual start to finish flow. But I did have the dopamine fueled presence to finish with something simple yet, in my most humble opinion, patently profound. 

If you take all the collective wisdom our civilization has orchestrated, including the horrendous (no examples required) and the horrific, the incredible and the altruistic, the organic and the superficial, and centrifugally spin them to render two elements that have the power to encourage human goodness and growth, these are the two:

Gratitude and forgiveness.  

I glanced at the young girl as I delivered the epiphany and she nodded her head in silent approval.

There is hope for us yet. 

Happy Thanksgiving. 

1,001 Things to be Thankful For

Well, this is weird. Not sure of when I entered, but I am currently back in A-Fib. First symptom to surface was the always delightful light headedness. Followed, per normal, by dizziness and finally the tell-tale heart palpitations and arrhythmia. By the time we got going with our Wednesday morning spin class, heart-rate monitoring looked more like a pair of juiced monkeys playing naked beer pong, or as I sometimes joke, today’s heart rate forecast will be alternating highs and lows of between 240 and 60, so be sure to advance scout a soft landing spot.

At one point in our set I had the rather somber thought pop onto the scene as how utterly embarrassing it would be, for a studio cycling instructor attempting to lead a group through a high-intensity hour ride, all the while peppering them with motivational cues, such as today's emphasis on courage, to suddenly fall face forward (still clipped in) and die from cardiac arrest. I guess it would only be humiliating until the paramedics run out of battery power on their AED, but time long enough for red until turning blue. Fuck I hate this.

After feeding and working the dogs, a bowl of lentil soup and a nap, my shoulders are still shaking with the irregular, syncopated, beats. It’s like missing two, stockpiling blood and then shuddering an explosive release. It shakes my whole body. In response I try to relax down to the 70 BPM when my pacer is set to activate. When I hit 70, the bloody thing releases a jolt of electricity designed to regulate the frequency and re-establish sinus rhythm. It is not working today. Or maybe the jolts are what I am feeling and not the heart itself. I. Don’t. Know.

Oddly I got an e-mail message that there is a new letter in my in-box at the UW Medical Center. I wonder what that could be about?

I would go and check right now but my borrowed wifi signal is so slow today that I can barely read the latest imbecilic lies and shockingly evil ramblings from everybody’s favorite buffoon before losing the signal. I will try again.

And probably take another nap before working the dogs again, heading out to the PB and then flowing into Thanksgiving's spin set and Friday’s 111th Apple Cup. There is a lot going on, tons to do and a thousand things to be thankful for.

Make that a thousand and one.

Grateful for 54

As we ramp into Thanksgiving, I will again have the opportunity to make the attempt at inspiration through studio cycling. I take this seriously. Sure, there is the choice to succumb to the chic, contemporary, mindless aerobic sweat-fests favored by a younger demographic fond of whiny female vocalists and monochromatic synthesized pulsating beats, but I have always preferred a more organic, focused and demanding session with the singular goal of continual improvement (in 4/4 time). Forgive me if I fail to embrace the modern distraction. 

I might be wrong. Maybe the need for distraction is exactly the escape desired in these trying times. I would, after all, do just about anything to avoid the latest media take on the wanna be dictator in chief's deceit and corruption, so sitting, spinning, allowing the music and lights to foster distance between here and now, might actually be a good thing. Better to sweat than swear, eh? 

But that is not my shtick as an instructor. I get it. But no. No thank you. No thank you very much. The big box clubs can have it. Good luck. It is like I am cruising in my ’54 Chevy listening to the Dead, actively engaged in magical present moment bliss, when I get passed on the right by a Escalade full of hot young chicks screaming Pink tunes. 

Perhaps too defensively, I don’t consider this to be resistance. I have done it. Been there. I still go to the occasional club to sample new equipment, software, displays, and techniques, even pinching a tune from my last mega-club visit. (Granted it was Peace Frog by the Doors, released in 1970, but you get the idea). 

This historical opening statement I use as backdrop to the current challenge of Thanksgiving week. We will have a full house, including many families with kids home from college, for our traditional early morning session. This always provides a rare opportunity to both entertain, motivate and inspire. It is marketing 101 as I face the test of converting the folks, some of them still not able to legally vote or drink, who are still sitting on the indoor cycling fence. Or even the general exercise wall adjacent to that fence. 

Secondly is the general theme. I am also big on gratitude. I personally consider it, along side its brother, forgiveness, to be the siblings most important to a healthy and productive family. Somewhere at the start of our session I will ask for all participants to call to mind ONE THING they are truly thankful for. I also tell them that I will not ask for a verbal response, this is theirs, solemn and private. Upon completion of our set I will ask for a review of that ONE THING and in sixty seconds of group reflection the rise of positive and affirming energy in the room rises so dramatically you can almost see the vibrations of gratitude shimmer skyward.

It is a powerful experience. I am honored to be able to facilitate its altruistic alchemy. We do this once a year, making my role as instructor critical if we are to emerge both turbo-charged, awake and ready to tackle the challenges of the days and weeks to come. To me this is the physical and spiritual equivalent of washing and waxing your truck. It is not work - it is devotion. 

This is why I do this. Not just for the lights and music and calories spent in response. There is so much more to always be thankful for. 

And for this I am deeply grateful. 

Nods in Appreciation

In my weak and abbreviated post yesterday, what we call around here a ‘streak-keeper’, a posting designed, mostly out of necessity, to keep the current consecutive days of posting alive (and we are getting close to completion), I mentioned our trip to the symphony. Please recall that since we live on an island that any excursion into the expansive cultural metropolis of Seattle, includes a ferry ride to and from. Most of us who have been here a while, me since 1974, take this for granted. You build in the time for preparation, drive, park and walk aboard. If you have a decent job, as most of the new millennials in town seem to, driving aboard isn’t a concern, but I, rebelliously, choose to walk or ride my bike to avoid what works out to be a $30 RT fare via auto, or light truck. 

I am going to pick one of the many interesting things we noticed during our trek to watch and listen to Beethoven’s sublime Symphony #5. This is a difficult task owing to the fact that it seemed, at least to me, that interesting things were happening at a rapid rate. I mean, it was like interesting things were falling from the sky and we had to dodge them similar to dodging other matter when walking under a flock of pigeons or the waterfront gulls. 

WOW look at that! Listen to this. Consider the paradox. Describe the color. What angular tonality. Vibrations everywhere. Man this is good. 

The one isolated moment I am choosing to recap happened during the final movement of the headliner. Junior is sitting to my right and next to him a young boy, maybe five, has fallen asleep in his seat using the unpadded armrest as a pillow. Thankfully he wasn’t snoring. The gentleman sitting to my immediate left decided to not return after the intermission leaving an empty set between me and a young father whose toddler was sitting on his lap. Peripherally I had been watching the child as she was offered a rag doll by Dad to keep her occupied and still. But she kept dropping, I suspect even tossing, if down to the hard word floor. It was’t distracting as much as slightly annoying. I focused on the music and life, in its myriad forms, was good. 

Until the final movement, when, as you know, Beethoven tosses some serious fat into the symphonic shan. Dad had decided at this point to let the kid do her thing sans play-toy. 

As the animated conductor led the troupe through the final roaring grand crescendo, I turned my head towards the tiny girl and watched with amazement as she mimicked the maestro with flowing arms and exaggerated musical directions, her eyes closed tight in concentration and appreciation. 

I am starring at her with as large a smile as I can muster when she opens her eyes and sees me grinning like Lewis’  Cheshire Cat. It is a beautiful moment alive with music, magic, movement, peace and joy. 

We are sharing this unabashed mirth as the glorious piece ends and we all spring to our feet for the ovation. The Maestro bows, the concert master bows, the entire symphony bows in a most respectful bow of honest gratitude. And. 

I nod at her and she at me. 

Short, short, short, long.

Tons of stimuli today. We went to see the Seattle Symphony preform works of Berlioz, Prokofiev and Beethoven. Also rode early watching the Clint Eastwood’s ‘almost’ classic 15:17 to Paris. In between Junior and I discussed the visual concepts of juxtaposition. There was a medical emergency on the ferry ride home. Introduced him to two of my all-time favorite people. We talked about the history of music. 

Is there a literal and linear connection between Ludwig van Beethoven and James Marshall Hendrix? 

It is late and I am tired. 

It has been a good day. 

Short, short, short, long. Scuse me while I kiss the sky. 

See & Do

The render-down continues. By stripping away the unnecessary cosmetics and frivolities we reveal the core - the critical and crucial elements of truth. Our truth. Individually and collectively. In every category, under any circumstance and whatever the weirdness of scenario. 

We have been looking at threesomes lately, trilogies and trios, that combine the elements we have decided matter most. They run from the sacred; Father, Son and Holy Ghost, to the recreational; Hits, runs and errors. As well as everything between dogma and defeat, between Adel and ZZ Top. 

With all these possibilities swirling around our consciousness like coconuts in a hurricane, there is lots to consider. What if we could put all these altruistic values into play? How about two of three? Is there a combination that, without question, is the creme de la creme, hands down, absolute top of the line, unequivocally and absolute best?

If so what?

In the process of spinning out our hour set this morning, at approximately the time my renegade endorphins caught up with the six cups of pre-workout caffeine, the improv motivational sermon was in full swing. As a review I asked for consideration on some of the threes.

Mind, body, spirit.

Confidence, resilience, hope.

Paradox, humor, change.

Vision, passion, perseverance.

Show up, compete, recover.

Start, continue, finish.

Veni, vedi, vici.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner. 

They got the idea. And then I got one. 

The improv from the bully pulpit was on like a Southern revival. When I ran out of threes, I decided to  take a chance and go for it on fourth and ten. ‘As a result of all this philosophical and metaphysical musing it appears to me that two elements, seemingly unconnected, could possibly offer a secret recipe for success. A portmanteau of colossal proportions, an elixir with magical power and potential’. These two, I crackled, could be it. 

‘Consider, it you will, their synergy, hope and value. The two:'

AWARENESS AND ENGAGEMENT. 

See and do. 

Hang in There

Hang in there. 

Probably, most likely, almost assuredly in the all-time top ten idioms.

A quick search using the google tool informs me that I am correct, as ‘hang in there’ is used over twenty-file million times each day, around the globe, in one hundred and eleven languages. Interestingly, it has almost as many meanings and variations as usages, regardless of dialect, slang or regional colloquialism. Even the urban dictionary gives it linguistic respect. 

I bring it up here, today, for a simple reason. I used it this morning in a way, with connotation and conviction unlike the thousands of previous times it mechanically rolled off my tongue. 

Junior and I were about to begin our Friday morning lift session when he responded with more detail than usual over the seemingly innocuous question that routinely starts our work. A innocent, ‘how are ya feeling?’ 

He is sixteen and working through the usual challenges afflicting every adolescent male, a challenge augmented by the toxic home environment he currently toils under. Mom and Dad do not get along. Details of which is another story altogether, but full of the usual suspects; Addiction, guilt, immaturity, fear, vindictiveness, verbal abuse and money problems to call but a few to the lineup. 

He and his Dad had an argument last night and he wanted to talk about it. Not his typical MO so I gave him the floor encouraging a ‘get it off your chest’ exchange. 

He shared with me the run-up and the details of their ‘angry and emotional’ debate. When finished it was my turn and I wanted to make sure that two objectives would be met. One that I complimented him on his courage to speak, reinforcing again that all this is not any fault of his, and that two, I found some way to shine a positive light on the struggle of his father, my brother. 

We had a good talk, almost forty minutes. I complimented him on his intelligence, talent, character, bravery and honesty. Sensing that this was a tremendously important moment, I risked the rebuke and launched into the ‘meaning’ monologue. 

This is all a test. Like a game. Baseball, football, a french or trig test, interpersonal relationships, doing chores, expanding your knowledge base, anything and everything. It is life. And as I metaphorically ask my students on a regular basis, UNDER WHAT CONDITIONS WILL YOU QUIT? When the going gets tough, weird, scary or painful, when will you decide that it is time to toss the towel? Each of us has to deal with the issues confronting us, and when we do so with compassion, love, generosity, forgiveness and a spirit of assisting others, every act becomes a part of us, our character, who we are and who we wish to become. We can look at adversity and challenge as headaches and negatives, or we can step up and into the loving light of the growth process, allowing the circumstance to show ourselves to us like our reflection in a mirror. In other words, the worse that things are, the better our chance of learning their valuable lessons. How are we going to grow and learn if there are no tests along the way? This is a test. The only advice I can give to you is based on my experience with the same situation. Accept it, confront it with compassion and empathy, listen to your heart and respond to it with respect and peace. This is where the light of life shines most brightly. Every one wants you to succeed. You have my support and I got your back. You cannot fail. You can learn and grow, or try again, and again, until you receive the lesson, and ace the quiz. Forgiveness and gratitude, in my opinion, are the best tools for this job. If you can become a master craftsman with those two, you will succeed in any endeavor you choose, you will be able to build anything you can envision. That includes building the best you you have ever dreamed of. And I want to see that happen, I am honored to have a small part in it. Pragmatically, focus on what is in front of you. In school today, listen. When you play your guitar or bass clarinet, just play. When you read, just read. Take deep breaths and relax. You will be OK. 

It is time for him to shower, grab some breakfast and head out for the school bus. We had a good talk. We hug.

Hang in there. 

Three More

Adding thee more to the list we are now calling the Terrific Trio. In the remote circumstance that you  missed the 11.13.18 post, where we listed a few juicy threesomes of relevant utility. They have, not surprisingly, started to pop up with eerie regulatory. Like when you buy a new car and feel like a million bucks cruising down the highway and start to suddenly see how many others there are of the same make, model, year and color as yours. Are they everywhere and I just never noticed before? We used to call this 'random cosmic input', but it does have a scientific precedence, half serendipitous and half magnetic ion attraction. This phenomena can be rendered, with an assist from centrifugal forces spinning in chaotic vibration, into a process generally understood to mean, ‘like attracts like’. 

An current example of this can be traced to a thought I entertained yesterday (or was the thought actually entertaining me?). I was thinking about a conversation I had with a gal in our spin class. As we were exchanging notes on subjects far from the primary reason we were together, I needed to focus on her words, to really listen, because of the background clutter and general cacophony in the cycling studio. As I did so I noticed that I was looking directly into her eyes, deeply and with compassion. It was then that I noticed for the first time, the radiant blueness and vibrant depth to them. After class, driving to do some errands, the recollection of that exchange vividly returned and I realized what a beautiful moment it was. I considered the positive energy we shared in the conversation and I started thinking how beautiful she was, and is. I considered the other ladies in my life - and how beautiful they all are. Each in their own unique manner and each with their own special blend of life’s irresistible poetic interconnectedness. Smiling I consider that the reason behind my appreciation of their contributions to my happiness could actually stem from my desire to share my happiness and appreciation with them. Like attracting like. We know that when we smile the whole world smiles with us and that misery is said to love company, so why not like attracting more just like it?

It is magnetic. The more love, joy, happiness, compassion, empathy, forgiveness, harmony, respect and gratitude that we put into our personal lives, the better the odds that they will attract similar attributes in others. We need to notice more, to see more, to bear witness to the reality of this. I see more beauty because I accept the premise that one must understand it before one can deeply appreciate it. The more I give away, the more I respect, the more I smile and laugh, the greater the chances of a reciprocal return on my joyous investment in life. 

It should come as no surprise then that the current book on tape I am engaged with had the following three gems to offer. The author, a Zen teacher, Joan Halifax, in her spiritually captivating work, Standing at the Edge, suggests there are three elements critical to the deep development of every human altruistic endeavor, we long to: 

HELP, SERVE & FIX. 

Without taking credit, seeking approval or in the hope of financial gain. Random acts of kindness will always pay the highest dividend and return the greatest value. Because like attracts like. Try it today and see for yourself. 

Help someone. Serve someone. Fix something. 

Tommy is Engaged

Somewhere between start and stop, begin and end, on and off, I said something I now regret. 

Subbing for the 0530 class, and the protocol I selected, cooked the goose up pretty good. Junior and I then put in a spirited left session, today is his 16th birthday, and then it was back to the club for my regularly scheduled 0845 class. 

Where, of course, I dialed it up once again, this time more to keep me involved and motivated by the challenge than anything else. I have found over the years that this tactic helps me get through double sessions.  If I am actively pushing an intensity level offering a serious challenge, I need to be able to rise to the occasion, compete and get to the finish line. Please keep in mind here that I am still suffering from PIMD (Post IronMan Depression) from my last long-course event up at Ironman Canada in 2005, where I dropped out half way into the run, taking a DNF with me. The decision I made at that time, the nano-second that I justified my pathetic response to fatigue and sulked back to the hotel, has haunted my every day since. I have had to live with that failure every day for 13 years, or 4,745 days if your like keeping tabs. Maybe you could send me a Hallmark ‘sympathy’ card on the 5,000th day (Middle of July 2019). 

Armed with this back-story, in the heat of battle this morning, absolutely boiling over with endorphins and probably a touch of adrenalin as well, I entered into the hall of the mountain king, the podium of the motivational speaker. I figure that there is no better time than when I am actually involved in the work I am speaking of. Breathing hard and sweating profusely adds a nice visual touch when talking about effort. 

I am rolling through the buzzwords of success, trying to get the class as amped, committed and inspired as I am. My heart rate tells me that the option most likely to succeed is a series of one word descriptors, delivered with emphasis and operatic precision. The words become more than the complication of vowels and consonants, they take on animation and color, sizzling with drama. You/WE must be,

C-O-U-R-A-G-E-O-U-S

COMMITTED 

TIRELESS AND FEARLESS

FOCUSED

OPEN

PREPARED

RELAXED

DEDICATED

DISCIPLINED

COMPASSIONATE

EMPATHETIC

HONEST

PRESENT 

AWAKE

AWARE

A-L-I-V-E

And, I finish the overly dramatic soliloquy as The Underture from Tommy winds down, ‘I plan on using this a thousand more times today because it encapsulates all of those wholesome actions just mentioned, I/ WE must be, absolutely:

E-N-G-A-G-E-D.

Engage with life my dear friends. Engage with life. 

I regret that I am 500 uses away and might not make it. But I will give best effort. 

On Three

One could do a LOT worse. 

If asked to compile a three part list of those traits necessary to achieve goals, in life, career, sports, travel, education, art, or whatever field of endeavor is important to you, these three might suffice as an accurate road map: 

CONFIDENCE, RESILIENCE & HOPE.

This trio, submitted by longtime ultra marathoner and educator, Andy Jones Wilkins, is a great start. One could also substitute the big three from Dan Millman and light out on the trail:

PARADOX, HUMOR, CHANGE. 

Or as they advise at Success Factor:

VISION, PASSION, PERSEVERANCE.

All valid, legitimate and worthy. Every one needs to have a default core belief, something to hold on to, cling to, rely upon when the going gets rough. As I am fond of warning in spin class, the going WILL get rough. A good thing. A VERY good thing. 

What a wonderful opportunity we have to practice this. We, indoor cycling instructors to personal trainers, coaches to mentors, competitors to spectators, facilitate the transformation of courage from merely a word in the dictionary to a powerful tool we can employ to assist us in the attainment of our dreams. Courage is the crescent wrench in our tool-box of change. Here is the scenario and the application we use to train for future success:

SHOW UP, COMPETE, RECOVER.

Before any change or adaptation can take place you must display some courage, face your demons, your excuses and show up. Once there we create safe protocols to regularly up the ante to stimulate the adaptation process with the singular challenge to rise above your former self, challenge your core beliefs and grow. You get stronger, fitter, faster, more confident, more appreciative, more passionate, with cleaner vision and a brighter smile in your heart. Once this magical process has begun the spirit of the athlete is respectfully accessed prompting continual improvement with enhanced enjoyment of the process. Simply stated, by creating a structured series of tests (training), one eventually ends up in the general proximity of where one initially envisioned to arrive, i.e. one’s goals. 

I am continually humored at the complex simplicity of all this. So much so that several years ago, I began saying that there are really only three things one needs to do to achieve ANY goal. 

After a thorough review into the truth, and thereby utility, of each of the threesomes listed above, their validity and practicality, I can honestly say that once they are incorporated into the mix, they all function effectively with my ’no snake oil’ formula. 

In order to achieve any goal, at any time, with any tools, one must simply:

START, CONTINUE, FINISH. 

On three. Break. 

This Too Shall Pass

My good friend’s house is no more. He bought the empty lot and then built a lovely home back in about 1982 or 83. Although larger than to my liking, the hardscrabble grounds he painstakingly transformed from rocky and desert-like to a flowing, terraced outdoor park. It was always a treat to stop by for lunch on the patio, where the views offered a peek-a-boo of the Pacific Ocean. And while Malibu is home to many in the entertainment industry, they all share a common 24/7 concern. That of fire. A fire that travels faster, spreads further and is uncaringly destructive to whatever should be in its path. The firefighters tried, retardant was dropped from planes and people were evacuated under very strict and urgent orders: Get out now. 

His home is now rubble. Nothing left. If you stop for a moment and consider the impact, the emotional  response of forever losing the things you have accumulated over the course of the last forty years, you might get close to the reconciliation necessary to carry on. The only thing I can compare this to is the day that the sale of my cabin, after thirty years of mortgage payments, insurance, maintenance, expansion, improvements, and all the living that goes along with it, was finalized. I was walking out of the home equity bank after the final signature when an overwhelming numbness descending upon me like a thick fog. I stopped walking and stood silently in the attempt to understand what was happening. I started to cry. I was that sad over the strange turn of events that had created this sorrowful scenario. God, my cabin. Was gone. 

The Buddha tells us that all things are impermanent and even when things are desperate and dire, seemingly impossible and bleak, that they too shall pass. 

I got over my puny little loss. Although there are times when a old memory pops uninvited into my consciousness causing a bee-like sting to my ego. Or heart. Or soul. When the memory bee shows up a buzzing and looking for sentimental honey, I am most always able to dodge its sting. What’s done is done. What was once as solid as rock, crumbled into oblivion. My plans dashed and my dreams shattered, the only relief I find is remembrance of the truth in the Buddha’s, (or Solomon, or Sufi, or Jesus’ words). This pain, this suffering, this hardship, the reality of the human condition, will all pass into nothingness as well. 

And we carry on. We rebuild. We take the lessons of the past and apply them to our future endeavors. We get over the loss. We try to find strength from the experiences that call on our response for positive outcome. 

The truth, in my opinion, is that each of us will one day, and in way or another, have to come to an understanding with the reality of this truth. Nothing lasts forever. Still, there are days when this is an easy pill to swallow, it makes perfect sense and down to the cellular level I agree. There are those times, however, when I wish it had ended differently. This I feel is normal, something everyone reconciles. 

I don’t know exactly how my friend feels today. I can guess. I wish there was some secret that I could share with him to lessen the sadness and loss he surely feels. I could tell him that however much it hurts, no matter the level of pain and regardless of the emotional carnage he feels today.

That it too shall pass. 

Handle the Truth

We rode two hours this morning, indoors. Although I rode my Honda to and from the PowerBarn, the indoor cycling facility where the ride took place, braving the chilly temps was a small price to pay to improve my MPG’s by almost 300% over the gas-guzzling Ranger. At over $3.50 a gallon, this has me concerned…..again. 

Concerned for a number of reasons and on a number of different levels. The most basic of both is that it is expensive. The most perplexing is that it shouldn’t be. The truth is buried somewhere between those extremes. Like most things steeped in capitalism and sweetened by demand. 

I watched a flawed but interesting movie last night called Shock and Awe. Directed and starring Rob Reiner, the brilliant man behind the equally brilliant A Few Good Men. I know Reiner’s politics and his talent so naturally I assumed I would enjoy his take on our post 9-11 world. Yet I couldn’t get past what history now confirms our suspicions at the time: That Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld  and even Colin Powell looked at us directly in the eye of the camera and blatantly lied their collective asses off. 

We have been in Afghanistan and Iraq for 18 years now. It is the longest running war in our sordid history of war. Please remember that we went into Iraq because of politics. Politics and an open ended opportunity to create profit for the very complex that DD Eisenhower tried his best to warn us of. We know now that they lied. We know that as a result of the over 30,000 Americans who have died as well as over a million innocent civilians. Cheney said we're be there a week. 

Boeing, Lockheed-Martin, Halliburton, Johnson Controls and every other arms manufacturer are doing fine. The current administration personally sent another gratuity their way to ensure the flow of ammo, bombs and the craft to deliver them continues. The budget of the Pentagon is now 700 Billion a year with no end in sight. 

The worst part is not the absurd amount we spend on military and defense. By far that nebulous honor goes to our government itself, for creating such a openly phony and corrupt system that sends kids to their dismemberment or death and then turns their back on them should they return to civilian life. They call this patriotism. Patriots protects freedom. And freedom is as American as apple pie and baseball. BULLSHIT. This is about money. 

Today is Veterans Day. Your leader America, decided that a little rain was cause enough to cancel a trip to honor those who lost their lives in WWII. 

Our current involvement in several countries is obscene. Please do not contribute to this stunningly successful hypocrisy any longer. This has nothing to do with freedom, democracy, justice or anything other than greed. We are there because it is a trillion dollar business. American lives are simply collateral damage. I would gladly pay $30 for a gallon of gas if I knew a percentage of that profit was being used to uphold the values of our former America and its constitution. It isn’t. 

You know this. So did Knight-Ridder.