My Cross To Bear

Should I had been carrying a lunch box, iPhone or coffee cup tagged with a green mermaid there would be no discussion. But carrying the Thule sixty-five pound swing-out four-bike two-inch receiver bike rack, I was the albino whale in the pod. Having made the decision to walk aboard the ferry in order to save forty bucks and meet the Craig’s List seller of the rack it was a situation that I was prepared for. The circumstance that one of my High School buddies in town for a day and his availability to meet for lunch added another layer of opportunity. 

Prepared for a couple of ‘out-of-comfort-zone’ hours, I committed to a ‘focus on the now’ tactic. That rack is going to be cumbersome at best and lunch with Barry could extend into dinner, but with a pinch of humor and a dash of defiance, we might get it done none the worse for wear. 

I meet the seller at the curb and we exchange bios on the walk to his truck. Nice enough guy, special needs son, former Amazon exec, moving to New Jersey for a cushy job, but my eyes are on the rack. It is a giant mass of black steel, looking like a mad engineer’s Lego project for the robotics fair. He starts the explanation of its many features but I am already feeling the weight of its bullet-proof mass  on my shoulder. I must walk to the restaurant to meet Barry, back to the boat and on the other side to Whitey, inconveniently parked a mile from the ferry terminal. My cross to bear. 

I pull out the three bills in my pocket to close the deal, wanting to get the ordeal started, and hence ended as quickly as possible. I wish him, his son and his plan success. He seems confused in re-counting the bills totaling one hundred and twenty five for the third time. I say one twenty five right? He says dead panned one fifty. Oh fuck, I’m sorry and reach again into Levi’s pocket for an additional pair of bills. I’m sorry, my bad, I stammer in cheap self-defense. Cool he says transferring the five bills from his fingers to the zippered pocket of his REI vest. 

I am walking away trying to find the sweet spot on my shoulder to bear the comically shaped weight of the bicycle rack that I just traded one hundred and fifty dollars for. Construction workers are already looking at me and I can almost hear them thinking…hand-truck, dolly, crane, another set of gloved hands, pickup, foolish civilians. 

I struggle across the street and towards Ivar's where we’ll meet for lunch. I am already tired. My shoulder is aching from the sheer weight of the rack. Sweat is starting to pour down like the fall Seattle rain. I can feel my heart working just this side of palpitation. I see Barry standing out front.

‘Looks like you could use a beer.’

Mysterious Ways

Since we were so, ahem, serendipitously sidetracked yesterday, I think it proper to pick it up where we left it off. The topic was the mysterious and magical workings of the universe. Not in the physical or scientific sense, but in the unexplained, misunderstood or even (the one that Hollywood likes), the paranormal. As an altogether unnecessary example, do you think there is a connection between the dystopian society currently being created by the cabal of republican criminals and the release of intel suggesting that US Navy pilots have been seeing a sharp increase of UFO sightings? Strange? True? Odd? Coincidence? Or are we just now realizing the reality that we are not alone, and that every action, thought, random act of cruelty (or kindness) has a ripple effect on everyone and everything else? All begging the question: Who is in really charge here?

I offered an example yesterday, an old adage about my infamous baseball career. It was 1972. I was captain of the reigning Metro League champions, the LA Pierce Brahmas. While nowhere near the talent levels of our prior team of the prior season, we got off to a hot start winning on heart, hustle and reputation. Baseball can be like that. No matter how bad they currently might be, the Yankees will always have the aura, mystique and mojo manufactured by Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle and Berra, the legends that turned pinstripes into navy blue capes. 

One humid late spring day I am sitting in our locker room deep in angst. The day before we knocked the snot out of one of our league rivals. I had a particularly good day, and we were undefeated in the defense of our crown. I had school, work, auto and most importantly, girl issues to deal with alongside the upside of baseball. As I walked the oak tree lined half-mile from the locker room to our practice field I tried the self-motivation trick of accentuating the good (baseball) while discounting the not-so-good (everything else). It was working and by the time I had reached the field I was (again) cocky, arrogant and filled to the brim of my cap with the false energy of ego. We will talk more about that later. 

The response of the universe to my self-deception was to order a grey squirrel to drop an acorn on my head. 

Interrupting the message, I immediately returned to a more humble state and we had a good, spirited and productive workout. 

After practice we are walking back to the lockers when the coach, a man I greatly respected, gives me a shoulder slap and a ‘way to be a leader out there today,’ quip. 

As much as I wanted to say, ‘coach if you only knew’, I muttered a muted thanks. 

It took a single acorn to wake me up. Shackled to misery and doubt, questioning my every motivation, confused and anxious about my future and frustrated by the past, even today the reminder that it is the present moment that matters most, fills my spirit with gratitude. There is a certain solace in the acceptance of the process of our growth. I know that now, but not then. 

I can sometimes picture the squirrel in that giant oak tree saying, as he takes aim at the poor struggling kid beneath him, ‘Do not worry about the past, it is over. Do not fear the future for it is not yet here. Be present, stay awake, enjoy the game and do your best.’ Fire one. 

Direct hit.

Ouch.

The squirrel works in mysterious ways. 

Serendipitously Dig On

One could, I suppose, conduct some testing. One could, as an example, spend the next thirty years or so sequestered in a remote and isolated laboratory trying to control variables and draw conclusions. It has been done. US taxpayers have, albeit unwittingly, already paid for it. The closest established dictionary definition calls it (and I do like the onomatopoeia of its diphthong), serendipity. But I think we limit its larger application when citing simply some unexpected good fortune found in an odd place. Really, who hasn’t at one time or place, found a ten spot hidden in the sock drawer? 

I am talking about something bigger, way more physiological and perhaps even magical. Something between cognitive bias, positive thinking and magic. Triangulate that, and you are in the cosmic ballpark. In the cheap seats, perhaps, but still in the yard anticipating the show and appreciating your part in it. 

Maybe an example will clarify (if only I could be everywhere at once!)

This morning we are ripping courageously through another set of Super Eights, the hardest and most demanding of all indoor cycling protocols. The hardest and most demanding IF DONE CORRECTLY. The difference between doing and doing correctly being, of course, one’s effort and intention - not one’s power and demonstration of superior DNA. I am particularly focused on this seemingly discreet detail as we pack what seems to be ten pounds of fat into a five pound sack. I am once again struggling with the rhetorical motivational cues to encourage the class to see the challenge as more mindful than physical. Because if your effort is pure and your mind (and spirit) are committed to the goal of maximal awareness in the present moment of peak power production - you cannot fail. As we used to say, all you can do is all you can do. I do not care about victory, winning, achievement, awards, records or egos. All I want is your best effort. Anything after that is rice gelato. 

We finish the set. I am as pleased with the group effort as I think they are of themselves. We traveled through previously unexplored territory this morning and we learned some valuable lessons about it as well as about ourselves. We are stretching, doing what I call the post-session decompression - raising both arms as high overhead as possible to counter the ravages of gravity upon our poor fragile spines. The thought occurs to me that ‘reaching for the sky’ implies stretching to infinity, or at the very least, into deep space. Which in turn creates the vision of Kurt Vonnegut’s classic space travel skill chronosynclastic infundibulum, a rare ability to travel endlessly through space without the restrictions of time (as told by Winston Niles Rumfoord in The Sirens of Titan.) Chronosynclastic infundibulum is not a word I use every day. Matter of fact, it has probably been a dozen years since I last felt the time and place to be right for this good-natured plagiarism. 

It was warm and reaffirming, validating in a conspiratorial way, when the wonderful story I read about Bob Weir referenced it as well (with a spine tingling announcement of direct connection to Tralfamadore.)

More data required? Too small a sampling size? Continue testing? Re-read Sirens? 

Call to mind a word, phrase, condition, trait, name, song, book, person that has been laying dormant in your internal memory for some time. Consider all the ramifications, where it came from and how far you took it. Is there an associated emotional charge? Why has it been put on the back burner? Is it asking for attention, like a dot wanting to be connected to another? Why now? Is something of importance trying to get your attention? Is this code red? 

See what response you get. If that data bit randomly pops up again, sometime later today, you have your universal confirmation. 

Serendipitously dig on. 

Resonate in Triumph

While comforting, the phrase seems to ring hollow. 

Some suggest that, ‘You are perfect right now as you are, so relax and enjoy the ride.’  Both this and the ancient wisdom calling for the superior man to steel himself to ceaseless activity have long troubled me. Which is it oh wise ones? Is it the entry or exit? Are we coming or going? 

If I am perfect right now are you telling me that there is no need to even try to improve? Further, if I am supposed to stay in a perpetual sate of activity, where is the balance between work and rest? We know from experience that the battery left on will eventually run down and be of little value when truly needed. Think of that flashlight in your kitchen junk drawer. Think back to the last power outage that so conveniently left you (and yours) in the cold and dark. Like the flashlight, a guy needs time to rest and recharge. And I will argue the point until I my final breath that we can all, every one, find something in our cache of skills, that could be improved upon. 

Maybe it’s a koan, puzzle or an inside joke. Perhaps the whole idea, the thinking behind, is like the idea of karma. Karma is not simply about tit for tat, eye for eye or mindlessly suggesting that what goes around comes around. Karma implies intent. It is what you think, what your plan, what you plot, collude to or obstruct. This is why, incidentally, that the solder following orders is not subjected to these laws while the politician scheming for preemptive strikes on innocent civilians who happen to live in corrupt countries with resource abundance, are guilty as hell on multiple counts of karma crimes. They are felonies, punishable by the death of the soul, without a trial of their peers or legal counsel. This is the Universe talking perp. 

Same with perfection. It also implies intent. It means acceptance. If you, I or anyone else fully accepts their place in time, warts and all, mistakes, failures, missteps and misdeeds as well as their counter parts, that is perfect acceptance of the transitory nature of our being. If we can learn to forgive, ourselves first, and then others, seeing the imperfections for what they are, the experience of living and learning, we are perfectly positioned to advance. We can let go of the past and look at every misdemeanor as time served. It’s over. You are free. Bail has been posted. Go about your quest with renewed vigor and a light spirit. The albatross has flown. You are perfect the moment of your acceptance of this universal fact. 

It does come with strings attached. Sorry. You are now obligated to see the imperfection of your perfection and move towards patching those chinks in the armor of your soul. Your alter-ego page needs to step into play and polish that suit of armor till it shines. This so others can plainly see and emulate your understanding, wisdom, leadership and compassion. 

That's the ceaseless activity recommended by the ancients. They knew about the battle, the hardships and the relentless struggle. 

We do not have a day to lose, continue your practice, move with grace and elan, fight the good fight, hone your intentions till razor sharp and accept the challenge with gratitude. 

The ring, no longer hollow, resonates a triumphant chime. 

Happy Memorial Day

I cannot get it right. This is my fourth attempt. I do not yet possess the skills necessary to adequately transcribe my gut feelings and deep sadness of spirit into the proper and respectful message of hope that I wish them to be. 

I love our country. Yet, perhaps paradoxically, I AM ASHAMED OF ITS GOVERNMENT. The obvious fact that today as we prepare to celebrate our freedom, democracy and greatness, at the gravestones of those who died for its self-evident truths, we are neither free, a democracy nor anywhere near great.  

We have become slaves to the totalitarian capitalistic model that runs our lives. The POTUS is in Japan today giving speeches and awarding wresting trophies instead of visiting a cemetery in Virginia where true Americans rest for perpetuity under gravestones citing their bravery.  Worse, the run-up to war, this time in Iran, has every indication of being the same horrific tactic taken by two Bushes before him (when both were facing diminishing approval numbers). 

War is not about democracy, freedom and truth, and has not been since 1944, it is about protecting our business interests in foreign markets. It is about money. It is about oil and about opium. It is, as predicted by Dwight D. Eisenhower, about the military-industrial complex. They have taken over and they are in charge. Casualties are collateral damage. The same way the blood of innocent school kids is collateral damage at the hands of, and the the frozen souls of, the NRA and the bigots who turn a blind eye to line their pockets with gold. 

America is an oil company with an army. Patriotism is pure propaganda to keep people from turning what should be a ferocious affront against the politicians who have sold their ideals to the companies who do nothing but profit from war into a rioting mob en route to their fortified and protected doors. Their nefarious goals are not to win the war but to sustain it. This is sick, twisted and by the terms and conditions of our very Constitution, illegal, immoral and punishable by law. The guys in power are now saying very loudly that they are above the law and that the Constitution is not a practical guidebook for control, power and obscene profits. So a few people get killed along the way. Heroes they say. Sacrificing in an eternal way for Democracy. Bullshit. 

I could go on. Maybe with another 500 words I might be able to talk myself off this ledge. Until then I will suggest that we all start paying more attention to what is taking pace. This is on our watch folks. 

My pair of suggestions for today are:

1) Let’s start to make ourselves more worthy of their sacrifices. Let us ensure that their lives were not given in vain. 

2) Let’s vote for leaders who encompass the values of peace and progress over profit. 

Happy Memorial Day. 

And More Beer

Yesterday’s wedding, literally in my backyard, seemed by all accounts to be a success. I wore three caps during the set-up, ceremony and subsequent celebration, a hard-hat for construction of the now infamous birch arch that served as official exchange of vows prop, the emergency FED-EX cap for the premium rush of two canopies to shield the wedding party and guests from the rain, and the informal cap of the dinner bartender. I had tons of quality help for each so please do not needlessly consider that I am playing a sorrowful dirge on my fiddle busking for sympathy. It was a pleasure helping the two young kids and their assembled family and friends. I have great faith that their journey together will produce better results than mine. 

The highlight of my evening I will share with as little fanfare as I am able. Goes like this:

I am behind our makeshift bar handing out mason jars to serve as beer mugs. For this special occasion he groom’s college mates hauled a keg of good local IPA all the way from Bozeman, MT. That being the most popular item on our short list of available beverages, along with red wine, white wine, one bottle of Prosecco and assorted flavored waters. After the initial rush, things settle down and I start chatting up the guests in the attempt to, as they say, break the ice. The father of the bride eventually makes it to the bar and asks for a mug. I ask if he is a Montana native and he says yes, third generation. That was all I needed. 

I give him, and the others standing near-by with topped-off mugs, the back story. In or around 1980, back in the area after a disastrous stay in LA and return on the day Mount St Helens erupted, I ran into a guy that would become one of my best friends. He was from Billings, MT. He, too, was recently singled and we shared a rental house for a year or so. Some of his buddies started to come out and spend long weekends, holidays and other festive occasions at our place. It quickly became apparent that he had a very cool rolodex of pals. So much so that I started keeping unofficial score. It seemed that everyone I met from Montana was cool. So I started the saying that “I have never met anyone from Montana that I didn’t immediately like.’ This has worked especially well with Big Sky cowgirls (on occasion). 

I tell the story to the father of the bride and he, as everyone, is charmed by the collective praise heaped upon him by a volunteer bartender wearing a Washington Huskies ball cap. But he is laughing a little too hard and I think for a split-second that there is a joke hidden somewhere that I am about to become the butt of. I ask his profession.

‘I have been Sheriff and Parole Officer of Gallatin County for forty years’, he says, ‘so it is doubtful that you have met any of my clients.’ The place erupts with equal spontaneous volatility as our famous volcano, and I add, ‘maybe I have and they were all so reformed by your outstanding work that when we met they had become model citizens!’

More laughter, more guffaws. More good cheer.

And more beer.  

To Your Health

This is a Saturday post intent upon keeping the (new) streak alive. Nothing more and nothing less. You may recall that our primary objective (way back on 1.1.19) was to post something every day for the entire year. We missed a couple of days along the road of that lofty path, but, immediately resumed the noble quest as soon as humanly possible. I could have posted this morning before our 0730 spin class, after our workout, or before I was handed the assignment of running out for utility canopies for the wedding we hosted on ( the rainy) site, but I got lazy. It was one I was asked to tend bar for. The one where I sampled the Bozeman IPA hauled 300 miles by the groom’s men. Impressive. 

The day’s work is done. The wedding party is down at the beach. I am heading back. See you tomorrow. To your health. 

Up Your ACQ

You have heard it here before. I talk about it frequently. It is something that keeps me curious. I suppose if one desires a categorical definition it falls closest into the human psychology section. Here are the broad strokes of the phenomena (in the form of a question):

Why is it that if two people, roughly the same age, gender, fitness level, IQ, social standing, religion, health, 401k, domicile square footage, number of offspring, party affiliation, average 5K time, and preferred choices of stress management, are given a standard physical readiness test, as we used to call it in MWR, that one will overachieve and the other under? Why will one push past pain to achiever the test objective while the other will toss in the towel at the first sign of uncomfortability? 

Simply because everyone is different and there are, as the popular song once suggested, different strokes for different folks? Please at this critical juncture, do not take my question to be judgmental in nature, I adore the differences between us and celebrate diversity as if every day was the Forth of July, but, as an athlete, competitor, coach and serious student of the game, this difference has always intrigued me, and continually provides additional data that I trust will, someday, prove useful. 

As you know we have gone so far as to create a tool in the attempt to measure, and therefore manage, this obscure element of testing and training. In testing we can use the precision of the ergometer to measure power, the odometer for miles, heart-rate monitors and oxygen volume uptake gauges as well as the myriad combinations of time, speed, distance and intensity. These are all physical, the athlete’s response to a given testing criteria. But this is also where traditional measurements end. No tools exist, to the best of my knowledge, that adequately measure the psychophysical (or dare I suggest the spiritual) response to the same testing protocol. Everything after the time, speed, distance, power and intensity becomes a very subjective matter of guesswork. Or, what many years ago Dr. Gunnar Borg established as RPE, our self rating of perceived exertion. Dr. Borg’s famous scale asks the participant to rate his or her effort from 1-20, one being napping on the sofa to 20 being the hardest thing imaginable. But this is exertion, what you feel about the effort level, and not an assessment of what you feel ABOUT said effort. Two completely different things. A hammer is just some metal atop a wooden handle UNTIL you pick it up and crash a nail to a pine wood floor. 

We developed the ACQ in response to this glaring need. The Athletic Character Quotient, while still firmly planted in the subjective garden of estimates and perceptions, gets us a little closer to answering some big questions. For instance this juicy one: UNDER WHAT CONDITIONS WILL YOU QUIT?

The person who has earned (through hard work, dedication, discipline, focus and awareness) a high ACQ will almost immediately answer: NEVER! While her counterpart with a lessor ACQ will game her answer to fit her experience, motivation and comfort level, anything producing a mist sufficient for termination of session and a return to the zone of comfort and convenience. 

Yes, we can practice this. With the goal of continual improvement foremost in mind, every workout, every class, every drill, every little thing becomes an opportunity to answer the big questions asked by the ACQ formula. UNDER WHAT CONDITIONS WILL I BACK OFF, SLOW DOWN, COMPROMISE, CHEAT, HIDE, IGNORE, BULLY, DISRESPECT, ENABLE, BERATE, ABUSE, HARM, OR OTHERWISE PREFORM BELOW MY PERSONAL STANDARDS OR THOSE OF MY TEAM? 

You have that magical opportunity at this very moment. Up your ACQ. 

Not Going Anywhere

It’s not going anywhere. I have used this as an affirmation (incorrectly) on many occasions. In building by choosing an improper - but easily available - piece of wood, fastening device or protective cover. I have used the compromise when cramming so much junk or debris into the bed of my truck that it would make George Sanford blush. Security as well. That chain and tiny lock on your expensive racing bike as it proudly rests in the arms of your hitch-mount rack as you slip into the 7-11 for coffee? Not going anywhere. Right. 

Today the sun came up early. By 0530 my skylights were full of golden reminders that the daylight hours we have today, for work, for play and for learning, are burning. I struggle again with my daily breath count ritual, a condensed morning exercise I incorporate to compensate for my temporary lack of discipline with yoga, stretching and meditation. I lay comfortable and relaxed and simply count breaths from one to ten. Should take about a minute. Many days it takes me ten times that to effectively still my mind and focus on just the in and exhales. If you are not familiar with this abbreviated form of meditation, please try it. I have found over the years that it is a powerful ally in starting the day without the excess baggage and emotional turmoil of accumulated stress. It gives me great confidence and calm to reach the bottom of the stairs and look at that person in the bathroom mirror as someone who can start the day with a clean slate. 

There are myriad chores, each with their individual strategies and tactical challenges facing me today. Which is, of course, the same as yesterday. And the day before yesterday. Every day leads up to this day providing us with a daily opportunity to learn from the past, stay in the present and build for the future. Just getting out of bed at sunrise and facing these miraculous options can sometimes be a reward unto itself. We need priorities. There should be a primary objective. The mission must be relentlessly re-focused and re-energized. As I asked the class this week: WHY ARE WE DOING THIS?

To learn, to experience and to grow. We must have unwavering faith, trust and hope that someday, some way, all the seemingly trivial things we have collected, all the lessons we have learned and all the circumstances and situations we have managed to successfully negotiate will be revealed to us as prerequisites for the BIG DEAL. Every step we have ever taken has put us on this path, today, to do, learn, experience and face our destiny. 

It could be a big bang, fireworks and a brass band, or something as simple as the passing of a hummingbird. The connecting correlation being that in order to get the message the universe is sending, we must be awake and aware. Some people need the cherry bomb and John Philip Souza, others just the gentle ripple of wind. 

I am trying my best to do the work with a high degree of stealth. My neighbor works late into the night and is still sleeping. I need to get the recycling bins out to the road end, re-tighten the four bolts on the new hitch-rack and re-insert the spare tire underneath Whitey. The party rental company will be here to drop off tables and chairs. They have ordered that the tree-lined drive be thinned so branches do not scratch their delivery truck. I get that job as well. If I can get those done and mow a clients lawn I might be able to paddle across the sound in a two-person kayak and have lunch at the Marina on the other side with my gal-pal. 

I am on my back in the rocky gravel driveway underneath Whitey (my 2010 Ford Transit Connect) torquing the four bolts that attach the mount to the undercarriage and frame. It was a serious pain-in-the-ass yesterday aligning the cast-iron mount and I inadvertently cross-threaded one of the bolts. Fuck. I could go to Home Depot and buy an expensive thread chaser for this one-time 18mm use, or, considering that three bolts are surely sufficient to carry the maximum load of sixty pounds (three bikes), I compromise and say way too loud:

It’s not going anywhere. 

We Speak Truth

Without sounding like a politician wanting both your vote and continued donations from his corporate masters, I try to answer the question with accuracy and veracity. 

It is one of the top three questions asked of the exercise physiology community. It has equivalency in many other areas, with perhaps the clearest being in retail. Their question mirrors ours; which is better, selling a lot of something for a little or a little of something for a lot? The answers are the same: It depends. 

Based upon a person’s Athletic Character Quotient, or the degree to which he or she forces the positive trajectory of their individual growth, which can be towards speed, power, strength, stamina, flexibility, special skills or any combination of them, said person will eventually discover (or not) that a point on the physical fitness timeline will include the active participation of the mysterious commodity known as passion. The mind must engage in this magical process if positive trending is to continue. This is where we add focus, flow, form, function and results to the package. If said person is lucky, dedicated, talented and aware enough to match these two internal components, the final piece of the puzzle is the involvement of the soul. And hence balance, presence, transcendence, joy and reward. BUT IT NEVER GETS EASIER. You, those who have earned a high ACQ, accept this as readily as the scholar who commits to a lifetime of learning. As your acumen increases, so does the work load. You lift more, run faster, ride more often, recover more efficiently, eat cleaner and rest deeper. You witness this process with gratitude and forgiveness. You enjoy the ride. You reach out in support of others, knowing the degree of difficulty that this process demands. You savor the highs and respect the lows. You recognize all this to be a proxy for life itself. The metaphorical imagery might be like climbing steps, higher and higher, one after the other, until you reach the top. 

And therefore, in answer to your question; Is it better to do 16 reps with lighter weights or 15 with heavier? I repeat: It depends. 

It depends on your ACQ, because it will guide your through the chaos, the distraction and the temptations to compromise. Should you have an upward trending ACQ you will see that the important part is in the doing and the measurement and management of that doing, while those trending in the opposite direction will simply see it as work, suffering, and discordant drudgery. 

When life presents you with challenge it is because our universal energy has determined that you are now, finally, at long last, ready to pass this exam and correctly answer the massively important question du jour. 

Those with a high ACQ stand up. Those with lower Q’s sit down. 

The corrupt politician might talk from both sides of his mouth. 

We speak truth. 

No Longer Too Small

I had grandiose plans for the campaign launch. A fairly simply fund raising, event promoting marketing event that would be, again, fairly easy and semi -inexpensive to execute. 

Those of you who have dabbled in on-line printing know, that while comparatively easy and affordable, there are inherent challenges. It has been my experience that you get simple, middle-of-the-road standard fonts, say this one, Times, and cheesy clip-art graphics in the solid color of your choice with maybe a drop shadow, and that is it. Anything really special, unique, dangerous or edgy nine times out of ten fails. Yes you can upload a completed design from AI or PS but that defeats, usually, the simple and fast benefits such platforms as Vistaprint. com offer. 

I tried my best to juxtapose my two logos onto a classic white coffee mug. I could not get the size right, big enough, because the on-line format would automatically scale it to max. And max in this case was not. Begrudgingly I accepted the design and waited with baited breath for my order to show up. Hoping that somehow the sizing issue and my vision would be miraculously fixed in transit. One of my other peeves with these companies is their shipping scam. Sure you can get decent pricing on shipping - but be prepared to wait - unless of course you pay for expedited shipping - through your freaking nose!

My meager order of mugs, six-dozen, shows up and I am again the butt of a cosmic ceramic joke. The logos are way too small and now I am not only out almost $500 but stuck with enough coffee mugs to get me through my next five lifetimes, because I cannot sell these things even if I had Joe fucking DiMaggio as official spokesperson. 

The initial plan was to partner with a local coffee roaster. There are several to choose from here as this activity, along with craft breweries, are all the rage. If you roast it or brew it they will drink it once said Shoeless Joe.

This sad tale continues as my apathy grows with the passage of time. I have researched the roasters but procrastinate on the cold call. I speak with a local confectionery chef thinking that maybe a specially created chocolate treat would be a nice accompaniment to the coffee sample that will neatly fit inside my mugs. WHOA: NOW HOW MUCH WOULD YOU PAY? (I hear the pitchman say.)

We are running out of time. The first of the two rides is in thirteen days. Time to fart or leave the outhouse. And so I decide to act. Add the personal touch. Grab your favorite fat red sharpie and number the mugs on their bottom, next to the Made in China sticker from one to seventy-two. Forget about the coffee and chocolates. 

For $11 you get the mug, a chance to sponsor a wholesome outdoor activity, and a one-in-seventy two chance to win the grand prize: YOUR CAR DETAILED BY ME!!!!!!

Drawing will be held on July 4. 

I pitch my Monday morning class asking the twenty-two assembled how many would buy into this grandiose once-in-a-lifetime sponsorship opportunity. 

EVERY SINGLE HAND GOES UP!

I am sitting atop my spin bike holding a sample mug (number one), seeing the smiles on all the happy faces as they pledge actual dollars to fund my bike trips. I look at the mug. 

Suddenly the logos no longer seem too small. 

The Power of Beauty

The Power of Beauty. 

The guest lecturer had used this as an introduction to one of his incredible nature collages. We are at Benaroya Hall in Seattle to hear him show us and tell us all that goes into his art. He is the creator, and as far as I know, the sole purveyor, of a photographic genera called ‘Day to Night’. In this excruciatingly detailed and difficult medium, he shoots with a 4x5 camera behind very expensive and capable glass. Glass being the inside slang for the lens of a camera. His name is Stephen Wilkes and I was very impressed with his work, as it is nothing short of magical. 

To provide a brand textural overview of his art is taking the real chance of missing the point because, by his own admission, the sum always has the potential to be greater than its parts. I’ll try anyway and take the risk. First and foremost he, due to the staggering success of his work, receives financial compensation, sponsorship and grants from literally a who’s who of art world heavyweights, National Geographic today’s sponsor among them. Imagine having a job description that contains the understanding that money is not an issue. That is this. He selects the most scenic, noteworthy, famous and photogenic spots on the planet as subjects. He and his team then scout out the optimal location to set up for the shoot. They then build super heavy duty scaffolding to house the gear with the primary objective of keeping it shake proof. Having shot video for twenty years I can tell you that vibration, unwanted camera movement or anything more thermally violent than a butterfly flutter, will absolutely ruin even the best of shots. Stephan then sets up shop to shoot, from a fixed angle, an hour before to an hour after the arc of the sun. Sunrise to sunset, or day to night. This labor of love sometimes requiring a 24-36 hour commitment.

In post he and his assistants laboriously fit the individual shots, sometimes numbering into the thousands, into one seamlessly flowing portrait.  

A quick visit to his site will quickly show the majesty of this painstaking approach. I tried to find an on-line price for one of his prints but was politely asked to call the gallery. Which I of course took to mean that if I had to ask I am not in his target demographic. 

I can still be inspired by his work even if I cannot afford it right? I could allow the ‘motivation to imitate’ envelope me in the web of creation? I might even find the energy to disciple myself to learn the skills necessary to produce such outstanding examples of the wonders of nature. THAT would be a fine response in addressing my own definition of the power in beauty. 

It is with this backdrop, squarely in the afterglow of my magical exposure to this fine art, that I considered how I might use his vision for our immediate benefit. 

Let yourself be amazed. Find your potential. Commit to your commitments. Persist. Stay strong. Find the vibration that satisfies your soul. Develop your discipline. Do something small every day - one day at a time and one frame at a time. Stay humble. Take ownership of the entire process and do what must be done. It is quite possible that when you master these traits the relevance will make sense and the truth will shine forth.

THAT is the beauty of power. 

How Would We Know?

How would we know?

Junior and I are in a grudge match of epic proportions. Having already completed our floor routine (planks and core), our free weight interlude (30lb dumbbells in ten positions) and the obligatory exchange of ‘new and interesting’ glimpses of inspiration (music, history, science, technology), we are on the bench. Resting above us is 120lbs of resistance in the form of a steel bar and evenly balanced rubber-coated plates. We are benching three sets of nine. 

I remain on the subject he raised earlier. They are onto the Japanese involvement and entry into WWII in History class. He had mentioned during our floor session that at one time in the illustrious history of the Land of the Rising Sun, that should a careless rice farmer insult or otherwise disrespect the Emperor, said farmer could face a rather harsh sentence known as seppuku or hara-kiri. He went on, as we rested between reps, to demonstrate the knife motion used for successful disembowelment. 

I asked if he knew of Bashido. He said yes, the code of the Samurai. I asked if he knew the role of the Samurai. Yes, they are to the Emperor what our Secret Service is to the President. I asked if that is an accurate comparison. He said what do you mean? 

Well, for starters, their code was, and remains, light years above the comparative simplicity of the standard job description of an agent in the Secret Service. As an example, one of the most respected traits of the Samurai was his ability to remain calm under the stress of battle. So much so that should a Samurai display cowardice in battle he too would be subject to the same capitol punishment as the renegade rice farmer. Whoa. 

Additionally, the self-inflicted punishment was supervised with the guarantee of completion by a Samurai swordsman standing directly behind the repentant prisoner. Kneeling on the threshold of eternity, should the ‘alleged’ fail, lose faith, re-consider or lack fortitude at this critical moment in his temporal existence, one swing from the powerful sword would finish the job. Wow.

Yes big time stuff. The code. Bashido. We have nothing even close to its magnitude. 

We talk, we dig. We exchange. We discuss what it means to do, or be, you’re every best. What would it take? What cause, belief, dedication, commitment would get us there? Can we measure and then manage it? Can we practice?

We blow through the three sets and Junior rubs his gloved hands together and hops back on the bench in a dazzling display of presence, announcing that we are doing another rep. OK. As he lifts I segue into the philosophical. It is my experience that when someone says that they have done their best and cannot do any more, that they usually can. Always, truth be known. Every case and every time. We can always do more. One cannot, I insist, have too much courage, desire or dedication. 

We are now on our record breaking seventh set. We have the mojo and he will not back down before I do - and I not till he. Stalemate. The goal is to find the best in yourself, work towards it, relentlessly and with gumption, focus and awareness. 

We finish the eighth set and look at each other. Nothing needs to be said. Our best? Without the attempt - how would we know? 

How would we know?

A Long Way to Go

Yes. It is the same story. Just a few chapters, they, as literary proxy for years, later. Having already drawn up the protocol for the morning’s spin session and assembled a set list to accompany, the overall experience, the class take-away and my responsibility to orchestrate it to the best of my abilities, was the final piece of the puzzle. I decided, against the data suggesting otherwise, that it might be fun to wrap all of this around the anniversary of the eruption of Mt. St Helens. Today being that day, the fiery chapter thirty-nine years behind the timeline. I say against the data suggesting otherwise because I have used ‘theme-ology’ in the past with very mixed results. The mere mention of Christmas, St Patrick’s Day or The Grand Olde Fourth sends immediate shivers of prosaic dolefulness to my muscle mind. Images of poverty stricken drummer boys, frolicking leprechauns and star-spangled faux patriots is not, and has never been, my idea of motivational music. Especially when intended for the accompaniment of high-intensity exercise. At best it is cute, at worst, insulting. 

So it was with the trepidation borne of experience that I figured I’d give it one more try. What is the worst that could happen? 

I mash-up a semi-thematic set and select a protocol to suit, calling it Build and Boom. If you just rolled your eyes it’s OK, I dd too. It is a smoking sampling of generas including the obligatory classic rock, country-mariachi (Ring of Fire), Motown, Blues and even a pop tune or two. The best part of the sum is the work load element, what we actually did with the soundtrack to our session. It ‘built’ like this: One minute seated, ascending in resistance from 14-19 with each successive rep, one minute standing in the groove zone, another minute in the same ascending order as the first, and the the ‘boom’ fifteen seconds of explosive power, followed by forty-five seconds in 7/120 recover mode. I guarantee that should you light this fuse at home it will blow the lid off your current power threshold. 

We are hallway through the set when, for reasons obvious to those comprehending what we call the ‘endorphin factor’, I launch into the story.

The story of my involvement, as a spectator, of the famous eruption on May 18, 1980.  (Editors note: it is NOT a great story, but one that I will never forget, so THAT has to be worth sharing, eh?) 

I knew the moment we pulled out of the drive that this leg of the adventure was doomed for a sad ending. Without divine intervention this was not going to end well. We had leased the ranch, fifteen acres of alfalfa and a cozy farm house nestled on the Southern bank of the Methow river in North Central Washington, and pointed the U-Haul towards LA. To salvage the marriage, my wife insisted. And against by better judgment I agreed. 

Fast forward. I am in the Auto Parts business with her Dad and two brothers in Orange County, CA. Making lots of money. Playing in my brothers Country-Rock outfit. All that going for me except for the fact that my demeanor is miserable. I was seriously wanting to be back on the ranch and grossly unhappy about my relationship. One evening I invite Dad to go to an Angels game with me. We have a couple of beers and get home late. I stay up all night drinking thirteen-year old Chivas and writing a sad country song. The major-key chorus repeated a ‘What do YOU want to do?’ theme and when I woke the next morning (at noon) I saw that there were tear stains on the sheet of music. A decision had been evidently made.

I announce, not necessarily in this order, to my wife, the band, my business partners, my Mom that I am going home. I have had enough. The experiment has failed and it is time for me to look after myself and take the advice from a song I heard somewhere asking what I wanted to do (with my life). 

So, filled with melancholy, sadness and a bittersweet curiosity about change, I book a one-way flight to Seattle. My departure will be at 0755 on May 18. 

You know the rest. We are 33K above one of the most spectacular organic detonations in history and I am thinking about metaphors and the wicked sense of humor owned by Mother Nature. Boom. 

We are now almost finished with our set. A legit hour of power. I am semi-speechless and emotionally drained. For once it has worked. 

Someone innocently asks if the story is over. 

Nope. Same story, different chapter, a long way to go. 

Hackers Never Win

In part one, yesterday, of our two thousand part series on the birth, rise and death of American dependency on fossil fuels, we looked at one example currently locked in the headlights of time like a four-point buck. The deer, in this case being my 2003 Ford Ranger. In trying to be pro-active and downsize my puny possessions prior to the demolition of the cabin, scheduled for mid August, I am selling off the big stuff first. Already gone to new homes are two of my favorite bikes, a tent canopy and a box of assorted books by authors from Twain to Bourdain. 

Yesterday you will recall, I showed the Ranger, la champignon, to a guy I fully expected to become its third owner/operator. Interestingly we have some friends in common, always a good starting point when dealing with Criag’s List bargain hunters. We talked as he looked at the body (good), the tires (OK) the engine (oil on the manifold), the interior (a few stains), and then took her for a test ride. I continued my work on the van conversion as he test drove, deciding to remove the sofa-bed because of it being exactly two inches too long for the short Transit box, all the while thinking about his response, reaction and reply. And then I shuddered in recollection of the fact that I never test drove it after the front brake pad replacement. I merely replaced the old pads, installed the new chatter clips, slapped the tires back on and torqued down the lugs in proper order. Once she had all fours back on the ground, I rolled it around the driveway to check pressure and adjustment and then went back to the office, happy with my effort. 

I shudder thinking about the liability. What if the brakes fail while he is speeding down one of our hills and broadsides an innocent soccer mom in a Escalade? I shake my head in disagreement with the notion, placing my trust in the massive amount of good karma I have so secularly stockpiled since 1952. Still…..

He is gone a little longer than I had anticipated, par for the course as he is a firefighter, and among the many noble traits of that brotherhood is the fact that they are meticulous when it comes to tools and equipment. I hear his approach and act busy. He doesn’t know that I have placed the title and a fresh Bic pen (black) inside the kitchen where they wait patiently for the two signatures required for a transfer of ownership. 

‘Runs pretty good’, he says stepping out.

‘She’s been good to me, 66,000 miles in 5 years, never an incident.’ I repeat. 

I am waiting for him to make an offer and I am ready to consider no more than a hundred dollars less than advertised. A good-faith OBO. Except…. that….

“She’s got a pretty good front wobble when breaking.’  With an astonishing amount of transparency I tell him of the new pads and my failure to test. He nods appreciatively and says that explains the smell. “They should wear in OK.’ 

Our negotiation ends with him saying that he needs to think it over and will call me back shortly. One hour later I am back at Les Schwab making an appointment to have the rotors turned. 

When it comes to karma, politics and brakes, hackers never win and winners never hack. 

Thanks Henry

There is no doubt about it. We, the American culture making machinery, have been so successful at making car culture a hit, that despite the overwhelming evidence that our love of all things bearing four wheels is actually killing us, we motor on. Not wanting to sound conspiratorial, please consider before we engage the manual tranny and get rubber, the effect our love affair with our rides has produced over, say, the last century. In 1919 Henry Ford was King of the automobile, producing a robust (for the time) 500,000 Model T cars, all of them black and selling for $500, or $7,400 adjusting for inflation today. I’ll take two please!

WWI, our exploration of the mysterious suburban landscape, rises in the standards of living (including the phenomena known as keeping up with the Joneses), new business resulting from the new logistic capability to move product fast and inexpensively, consumer credit, and my personal favorite, the introduction of new leisure activities, all came as a direct result of the freedom the car now represented to a new America on the move. Those are the pros.

The cons, as we are now witnessing, are in pollution, global warming, industry obsessed with the obscene profits almost guaranteed by our thirst for mobility, up to and including world war, and the vile dismissal of alternative energy forms that could easily reduce our fossil fuel habit altogether by the two-headed monster of government and the oil industry. It has been suggested, and I agree, that the USA is an oil company with an army. As I write this our ‘leadership’ is mounting the case for another war with the worlds leading oil producer. I wonder why. 

We are victims of our own success. We have, by our demand for bigger, better, faster and more powerful cars, supplied the auto/oil/insurance/ military alliance with ample reason to feed our addiction. As a quick example, last week I posted about the beautiful luxury camping rigs currently available at Vandoit.com, where for a mere $90,000 I could own one. I actually plotted and contrived a tactic to game the purchase. The fact that they get about 10mpg and insurance would set me back about $129/mo was a secondary consideration to the quality of life value that would surely follow me off the lot. 

With all of this as a 500 word lede, it is with bittersweet melancholy that today I will sell (most likely) the 2003 Ranger that has served me so well since 2014. Five years and 66,000 miles. No incidents and lotsa fun and work inevitably associated and assigned to the neighborhood hack with a pickup. 

It has been a good ride. I will be sad to see it drive down the lane with a new owner. 

Thanks Henry. 

Stay Humble

Intended as a compliment, it immediately initiated a snort of disbelief. We are getting set up for a Super Ten session (when eight simply will not do) in the PowerBarn when she walked in to announce that it was time to go. The destination being a monthly trivia contest at the local craft ale house. As it was fairly obvious that I would not be attending, and that this represented my fourth event invitation, she says, to one of the other riders, ‘too bad for us because he knows everything.’

SNORT.

Channeling Sgt Schultz (of Hogan’s Heros fame) I quickly replied that “I know nothing about everything,’ thereby quickly returning the complimentary ball back to the court of the server.

My opponent in this tennis match of verbal upmanship is a lawyer. She is sharp. She does incredibly effective research almost always holding logical and legal serve. Tonight however she seems to be determined to compliment me, however backhanded the spin might be. I continue to argue in my defense, remembering that the defendant representing himself defends a fool, and make a final desperate volley, saying, “I also have chronic Dunning-Kroger disease.’

Suddenly the only sounds in the room are those emulating from bike wheels on rollers and The Kinks on the stereo. After a beat I scan the room and see blank stares, quizzical looks and questioning glares. “Is that like Lou Gehrig disease?’, “Is it treatable?’, “Are you sure, did you get a second opinion?”.

I look at her and ask if she knows of it. She flatly replies to the negative.

‘Dunning-Kruger is a cognitive bias so strong and ingrained in our self-assessment that it creates a false reality. We think we are so smart, know so much and are so full of knowledge and wisdom that there is no need to advance, to question or to be the slightest bit curious. About anything. We actually convince ourselves that we have reached the pinnacle of knowledge, when, in reality, we are too dumb to recognize how little we actually know. We don’t know that we don’t know. We are, to quote Frankenstein the Younger, idiots.’

Someone laughs, one is intrigued and probably went home after our session and Googled it, and she comments something about it sounding like a Republican issue, so we shouldn’t have to worry about getting it.

Early this morning, as we hammered our way through another set of Eights in the House of Mirth, I used, again, the ACQ as a measuring tool, suggesting that the two types of athletes, the over-achievers and their under achieving counterparts, all suffer from the glaring lack of tools to measure this important metric. The accurate assessment of perceived exertion is, after all, something valid and of high value. One can think he is a King when merely a pauper, or one can see herself as a handmaiden when truly a Queen. WHERE IS REALITY HIDING?

Dunning-Kruger says many overestimate. They, erroneously, consider their work, effort, responses and capacities to be way more than actual. Interestingly, these folks have a low ACQ because the athlete that refuses to face reality has little chance at change, a commodity necessary for improvement. Conversely, that athlete with a high ACQ is in a perfect position for growth as a direct result of their humility. They KNOW they can improve, they see their weakness and humanity, their failings and shortcomings and have made solemn vows to continually improve.

I ask the class who, what type, of teammate they would prefer, what type of partner, teacher, neighbor, leader or lover. Unanimous.

Stay humble my friends.

Deep Consternation

I am in deep consternation. That precarious position between recognition that something needs to be done and the hard place of wondering what it is. Being a solid follower of the theory stating don’t interfere with the progress of others as that path belongs solely to them, I also am firm in my belief that even the smallest indications of support can be the nexus for change. Sometimes, as I do a pre-frontal cortex search for specific fact and relevant precedent, I recall a handful of key moments where someone, a coach, partner, employer, band-mate, parent or even the occasional star-crossed lover, has said or done something to successfully illustrate the binary trajectory from the pain of the past, the reality of the present and the promise of a better tomorrow. 

I wish there was some bona-fide, fail-proof, guaranteed method of accomplishing this objective. And maybe there is. I could, after all, allow my (imperfect) unconditional love and relentless search for truth shine through a muddling amalgamation of rhetorical musings, an epistle in the modern vernacular, or a business letter formatted to the personal. Some simple, honest, lightly veiled attempt at asking the elephant in the room to please move along. The fact that this pachyderm has been grazing in the savanna of my consciousness for so long that I see it as a natural part of the landscape gnaws at me every day that the sun rises on the Serengeti. 

We all have disagreements, differences of opinion and personality quirks that, if left to fester unaddressed, become threads in the fabric of our lives. We have all negotiated some sort of compromise to avoid doing the one thing that needs doing; To forgive. And then to find the courage to move along while simultaneously asking for similar action from the other. To offer an olive branch in the hope of:

1) Adding additional content to our piece of mind, doing the right thing, and possibly saving another persons life as they hopelessly wallow in depression, addiction or any seemingly overwhelming, impossible predicament. 

2) Through our courage, conviction and action actually make an impact and orchestrate positive change. 

No small challenge. Like demolition, something needs to come down before being replaced by something newer, better, more stable, more efficient. 

As of this writing, I have three people on that list. Two of them are relatives, the third a close friend. They are three very difference circumstances, yet all share a common evolution leading to their current dilemma. 

What unites them, the immaturity, instability, fear, phobias and neurosis, all come about from inadequate positive responses to adversity. Or in one of the cases cites above, from being too kind, too generous and too forgiving. How paradoxical can it get when the solution is to dummy-down and wrestle with the very pigs who caused the initial conflict? Oink. 

I wish I had more skill in matters like this. I wish there was a go-to manual where I could look up ‘words to empower the clinically depressed’ or ‘how to light successful fires under the sedentary’ or ‘enlightened evictions of deadbeat meth-heads’. Not even the Google tool is sharp enough for this task. 

I will take a stab at it. I will author a short and hopefully concise one-pager to each of the three and send it off with a sincere offer of support. I have no idea of how much this might help. But it is something I feel I must do. 

Someone once did it for me. 

Something I appreciate very much to this day. 

File Closed

File in the: Be grateful for what you have - instead of angry over what you haven’t - folder. Here is the actual story of an altogether mundane incident that occurred in the last Saturday of my life. Not that LAST Saturday but last Saturday. Whew!

I have just exchanged the Bianchi Eros that I cleaned up and readied for road use, with a cute gal from North Seattle for $125. It was a bargain for her and as I am mired deep in the process of downsizing for the pending cabin demolition (rescheduled for 8.15), a necessity for me. A modern day win-win. 

I am walking back to Whitey Ford, a 2010 Ford Transit Connect that serendipitously came into my life a few weeks ago. As I leave the site of the aforementioned exchange of money for non-polluting, free, transportation, I pass the building that has housed a bicycle rental facility for several years now, owned and operated by an old friend of mine. He has branched out and is now the Northwest rep for a company called VANDOIT who manufacture and market luxury campers. And I do not use the adjective lightly. He was in a conversation with another wanna-be adventurer so I cued up and waited patiently for my turn. When it came my friend went immediately into his sales routine showing the myriad top-of-the-line features that the rig boasts. Before I knew it we were comfortably settled inside listening to the thousand watt stereo housed between the refrigerator, solar water heater, hydraulic bed frame and four bike movable ball-bearing rack. This thing is awesome. 

A full forty-five minutes later I decide that I gotta get back to work and ask for a brochure, of course readily available. We say our good-byes and I head up the street already putting together a game plan for the new web-site, franchise opportunity and riches that will surely follow this grand opportunity. I am crossing the new bridge over the ravine when I recall the brochure in my back pocket. Hesitantly, I pull it out and quickly inspect its triptych sales pitch. And get to the bottom line: Cost.

Two packages (with financing available and a trade in on any vehicle), the Go package from 48 -88 and the DO package from 38 - 78. 

My initial reaction, said out-loud with the appropriate facial expression and tilt of head is this: Not TOO bad. I start running the numbers on my mental ten-key calculator. By the time I had reached the end of the bridge is was blindingly obvious that I am not in the luxury category. And with that reality and acceptance another reaction followed. It went like this:

Dude, you just spent one-tenth of that on Whitey Ford. You will be taking people to experience the very same things that they will. Like flying coach class - you end upon at the same destination - but much, MUCH cheaper. So be happy. Appreciate the things you have - and do not obsess over the things you have not. 

File closed. 

To Your Health

I have the Bianchi Eros in the back of Whitey Ford. The bike I have cleaned up, polished and sold on Craig’s List. Whitey is my new Ford Transit Connect that takes its name from its color. I am delivering the bike to its new owner at the ferry terminal, and this being a supper sunny Saturday the ferry will no doubt be full and late. Knowing this I decide to return the book on tape (Another Jack Reacher epic) that I finished before the big LA trip. As I enter our beautiful Library, I see the sandwich board announcing the monthly book sale downstairs. Despite the current mission to downsize, recycle, sell-off and bequeath my latest personal collection of junk, I do not possess the disciple required to walk past a book sale without inspecting the titles offered. 

With the timing of the rendezvous in mind, I walk down the stairs and into the basement sale area fo the ritual. I know how the staff has organized the books and immediately game the duodecimal system to my advantage. Today will not be the usual leisurely stroll through the volumes but a focused and direct strategic operation. 

There is a woman sitting on a foot-stool at my normal starting point, so I improvise and start from the usual end. The thought that ‘going backwards’ is somehow appropriate today enters my mind and I chuckle in response. 

This being a local library, a fundraiser and very popular, it is a small, but pleasant surprise that I would find today several of the books that I previously owned and donated after one of my major yard sales left them unclaimed. Somewhere along the long dusty road of my painfully slow literary pilgrimage I began to tag books with the date, time and location of their purchase, even dedicating a few to mysterious and unknown recipients of imaginary association. 

I see a copy of The Leopard, use my index finger to tilt the slim volume from its shelve and open. Sure enough, there is the inscription I wrote in 1986:

To Gabriella on this glorious summer day, May the blessings of the Sicilian sun forever shine upon you. Alla vostra salute. KML. 

I glance at my phone because I no longer wear a watch and see that I have ten minutes to either reminisce or further explore. I move, stopping at the five stations that usually provide titles of my interest. Without providing the category I will give you the titles of my five purchases and you can piece that puzzle together on your own.

Keep it Simple series for guitar. 

Sacred Contacts. Caroline Myss

Racing Weight, Matt Fitzgerald.

Thinking Fast and Slow, Daniel Kahneman,

As You Wish, Cary Elwes. 

A rush out to Whitey with the books under my arm just like in High School and speed down to the parking area where I grab the bike and ride helmet-less to the terminal to deliver the two-wheeled goods. 

The boat, as expected, is late and just rounding the bend in the harbor. It is hot and I feel the familiar cool dampness of sweat forming on my back and brow.

Sigonella, Sicily was like this too. I smile in fond remembrance and say to no-one in particular, alla vostra salute.