I Came, I whined, I quit

I Came, I whined, I quit

From the directions in my guidebook I only got lost twice on the way to the Mount Thurston/Mount Mercer Loop ride. I know the metric system is different. I have actually lived places that use it full time, places that have never heard of feet and inches. I know it’s different but I still look at meters and kilometers and think feet and miles. The good news is this loop is 34 kilometers. Kilometers are less than miles so this route was shorter than my first-glance estimate. The elevation gain is 1,220 meters, and meters are longer than feet. When you are ascending, meters are a fuck of a lot longer than feet. By psychologically misjudging feet and meters and miles and kilometers I was definitely going to lose the “Who Needs the Metric System” game.

I still had not registered 1,220 meters in my mind as I started this ride which started on a bitch of an incline. No warm up at all. No foreplay whatsoever. I had just spent the past three weekends riding mountain roads in Washington so I thought I had built up an immunity to hills. I love hills, right? This was a forest service road and not only are forest roads steeper than paved roads but they are not paved. Unpaved means you lose traction and traction isn’t something you want to lose when you are grinding up a seemingly endless and brutally steep hill. I also ride a full suspension bike so that means I lose traction. What makes the back end give when you hit bumps also gives when you apply torque to the back wheel. When you are applying torque to the back wheel for all you are worth you don’t want an ounce of this energy wasted by the suspension, but that’s the trade-off for a smooth ride down.

I don’t think about it much—perhaps for a only few minutes each time I am out by myself—but there are plenty of mountain lions and bears in these areas. I’ve seen a few bears myself while out biking. I’m sure a lot of cougars have seen me. I wasn’t too worried about being attacked on this ride because I figured that no right-minded wild animal would eat anything as old, out of breath, and as foul-mouthed as the guy on my bike today.

This road was so steep that not only was it over-taxing my cardio-vascular system, I think I spit up some blood. The road was so steep in parts that if you stopped, you had a hard time getting enough traction to get going again. And it kept going up. And then I did something I’ve never, ever done before. I got off my bike and walked for a while. I did something I haven’t done many times; for lack of a better word I ‘bonked.’ I was done, out of gas. I looked back and remembered that all I had to eat all day was one puny little taco at a taqueria somewhere back in Washington. Under-eating isn’t usually one of my vices, believe me.

Bonked or not, going downhill is always a breeze. Before leaving I meant to replace my brake pads but the shop by my house was closed on Monday, so old clapped-out brake pads would have to do it. Bombing down a rough road like this is what makes riding a full suspension bike worth the effort on the climbs. Even a chicken-shit like me can get fairly reckless on descents when every hole you hit is sucked up like a vacuum by your shocks.

One thing that kept me going—if you can call walking your bike like an old hag ‘going’—was that I knew that I was going to go swimming in the Chilliwack River when I was done for the day. If you haven’t taken a dip in a mountain river lately, take my word for it; it’s really, really COLD. You can also take my word on this: If you want to feel about as good as you possibly can feel, try humping up some lung-busting steep mountain roads on a hot August day and then go swimming in the river you’ve been listening to all afternoon. If you can do this once in your life then consider yourself a lucky person.

"Canada, huh? Almost Made It"*

I loaded my car up with both my bikes, road and mountain. I made a new CD for my car’s MP3 player (heavy on the Latin), and I actually brought along a couple of changes of clothes this time in case I wanted to do something around other human beings and not get stared at for smelling like a goat. I bought a map of British Columbia and a book called Mountain Bike Adventures in B.C.. I had no idea where I was going but that has never stopped me from going someplace before.

I was going to cut over to Canada from Bellingham, Washington on Highway 9 through Sumas. I pulled up to the Canadian customs gate in my car. There was a young kid who didn’t seem too bright. He asked me a long series of questions about why I was going to Canada, where I was going, and for how long. Anyway, the little dipshit flagged me for a search so I pulled over and went into the customs building. At immigration I was asked a bunch more questions. They seemed a little confused that I was without really firm plans as to where I was going and for how long. I tried to be more definite than I really was.

The people at immigration were nice enough. One of them even commented on my Che Guevara t-shirt. I only then realized that I had worn this shirt that was bought as a gag. I now reflected on how this wasn’t the best sartorial choice for a border crossing. I won’t make that mistake again. It was on top in my top drawer that morning and I almost chose the "Dare to Keep Kids Off Drugs" thrift store t-shirt which I bought because I always thought that was one of the lamest programs/slogans I have ever seen. That, too, may have been an unwise choice because if I were a drug smuggler I'd probably wear an anti-drug t-shirt.

I was told to go check in at another desk. Another agent told me to “have a seat” while he checked my car. Before I sat down I went to the restroom. I had just finished at the urinal when the agent came busting into the bathroom screaming, yes screaming, asking why I had not followed his instructions and taken a seat. I told him it had been a while for me since I last had to ask permission to use the bathroom. He told me not to be a smart-ass.

He was a big guy and this was taking place in a pretty cramped bathroom. I half-expected it to come to blows. It was hard not to notice the fear and anger in his voice. I don’t get angry or scared in situations like these which further unnerves the other person. I even tried to apologize but he wouldn’t let me get a word out. Nice police work, asshole. I finally told him that when he gives people instructions perhaps he should be more explicit. “Have a seat” doesn’t mean the same thing as “sit the fuck down and don’t move.”

As he was tossing my car I talked with one of the other “good cop” agents I had spoken with before. I told him what a jerk the other guy had been. He said that I was welcome to talk to a supervisor about the incident. I thanked him. I passed on his offer because maybe it was his thick Canadian accent but the way he said, “Talk with a supervisor” rhymed with “cavity search.”

When I was instructed to return to my car bad cop was there but he had changed his demeanor a bit. He had been told that perhaps I was going to talk to a supervisor and he started explaining how tough his job is and how hippies will flush things down the toilet (I was using the urinal, Kojak). I was trying to be nice but I repeated that he needed to be more explicit when he gives an order. I told him that I was in the Air Force and when you were on the flight line there was a line painted on the tarmac. You did not cross the line or you got jacked-up by security police. It didn’t matter why you stepped over the line. It didn’t matter if you were out getting drunk and playing darts with the cop the night before: You didn’t cross the fucking line.

If you have never been to Israel then you should go if only to see how their security people work. They look as casual as can be but if they pick up the slightest flaw in your demeanor or story then it’s off to the little room. I tried to buy a one way ticket from Tel Aviv to Athens on one trip and the red flags may as well have come shooting out of my ass. I got the “come over here to this little room” treatment but it only took them about three questions before they had me on my way. They profile the living shit out of people because they know what and who they are looking for. The less time they spend dealing with no-threat people the more time they have to spot trouble.

U.S. customs is guilty of taking too broad an approach to searches and questioning of U.S. bound travelers. You don’t need to search everyone and by doing so you dilute your effectiveness against the true targets.

The agent was completely civil after our initial bathroom encounter. As I was leaving he said, “Enjoy your stay.” I can hardly wait to deal with customs on the U.S. side.

After I had a chance to reflect on this whole matter I realized that what the bad cop was experiencing was panic—plain and simple. Panic isn’t the best emotion for keeping borders safe. You have to remember, sometimes—most of the time—a guy taking a leak is just a guy taking a leak.

*If you don’t know this line (my favorite, I don’t know why) from Super Troopers then we can’t be friends.

Poetry on the Radio

I was driving north to British Columbia with both my mountain and road bike on the roof for a week of tuning out.

I DON’T HAVE TO BE ME (‘TIL MONDAY)
 
I got me a brand new car waiting in the driveway.
Shinin' like a bright new star;
I been wishin' on it everyday.
To take me away from here.
So I called in to where I work; told a little white lie.
No my back don't really hurt, but that's my alibi,
My temporary ticket to anywhere but there.
Call it an early weekend; call it goin' off the deep end;
Call it what you want, I made up my mind:

I don't have to be me 'til Monday.
Friday, Saturday, Sunday.
I ain't gonna face reality.
Three days without punching a time clock;
Three nights of goin' non-stop;
No work and all play.
I don't have to be me 'til Monday.
Yeah.

I can do what I wanna do, be who I wanna be.
I got no one to answer to, soon as I turn the key.
A cash machine, gasoline and we're outta here.
Call it an early weekend; call it goin' off the deep end;
Baby, you and me, we can leave it all behind.

I don't have to be me 'til Monday.
Friday, Saturday, Sunday.
I ain't gonna face reality.
Three days without punching a time clock;
Three nights of goin' non-stop;
No work and all play.
I don't have to be me 'til Monday.

*by Steve Azar from the album, Waitin' On Joe


ON THE WAY TO WORK
 
Life is a bitch. And then you die.
--a bumper sticker

I hated bumper stickers, hated
the notion of wanting to be known
by one glib or earnest thing.
but this time I sped up to see
a woman in her forties, cigarette,
no way to tell how serious
she was, to what degree she felt
the joke, or what she wanted from us
who’d see it, philosophers all.
If I’d had my own public answer—
“New Hope For The Dead,”
the only sticker I almost stuck—
I would have driven in front of her
and slowed down. How could we not
have become friends
or the kind of enemies
who must talk into the night,
just one mistake away from love?
I rode parallel to her,
glancing over, as one does
on an airplane at someone’s book.
Short, straight hair. No make-up.
A face that had been a few places
and only come back from some.
At the stop light I smiled
at her, then made my turn
toward the half-life of work
past the placebo shops
and the beautiful park, white
like a smokescreen with snow.
She didn’t follow, not in this
bitch of a life.
And I had so much to tell her
before we die
about what I’d done all these years
in between, under and around
truths like hers. Who knows
where we would have stopped.

*by Stephen Dunn from the book, Between Angels

One of the above is a poem by a fine American writer, the other a popular country western song now in rotation on stations around the country--both western and otherwise. I'm not trying to discount either one by saying that just about anybody can probably tell which is which. I liked both of these works when I first encountered them. They both had something to say and both didn’t have any trouble saying it to me. Country music is pretty far from poetry, and poetry doesn’t come around often to the world we generally think of when we think of country music, but they don’t seem so different after reading these two pieces.

Life is a bitch but sometimes you skip a day of work and drive far from home or see a stranger you wouldn’t mind talking to if your parallel universes ever could intersect if only for a minute, or a drink. The possibilities are limitless—at least in our imaginations. What else matters? These are the things we are compelled to write about, those of us who are compelled to write (and that seems to be just about all of us these days).

I can’t say I’m a big fan of modern country music but I tune in once and a while. I listen because I am rewarded with a really great phrase now and again. I could repeat those two sentences and replace ‘country music’ with ‘poetry.’ I have to say that I am more comfortable with prose but I’m always willing to listen and learn.

Maybe it was the mood I was in when I came across that poem and heard that song but I was struck each time by the honesty of both works. Just like you can usually look someone straight in the eye and tell if they are telling the truth, honesty is fairly easy to spot in a song or a poem. It’s like you just want to say to the author, “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, brother.”

I heard both of these works on the radio. Stephen Dunn’s wonderful poem was read by Garrison Keillor on NPR’s The Writer’s Almanac and Steve Azar’s song I heard today when I got the radio fixed in my car and tuned to the country station. NPR and KAYO Country are close enough on the dial but probably worlds apart as far as demographics go. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t get outside of my target market ghetto as often as I should. As big as my world is, it seems pretty small at times. All it takes to get out of where you’re at is a cash machine and gasoline, or a spin on the radio dial, or a library card. I get out as often as I can, and I’m always glad when I do.

Clash of the Nutritional Titans

We were driving home from a not-very-ambitious day in the mountains--my first day of rock climbing this year. We did two routes and called it quits. I thought I could get in a bike ride before the end of the day if we made it back to Seattle before 7 o’clock. We threw our gear in the car and got on I-90 west.

I had to skip my tradition when I am out in these parts of ending the day with a beer at the North Bend Bar and Grill in North Bend, Washington which lies at the foot of beautiful Mount Si. The Mariners had a day game that had already ended. They lost to Minnesota. Watching the Mariners is the other reason besides beer that I go to the Bar and Grill. It wouldn’t kill me not to have a beer; it would just hurt a lot.

We pulled in at the quickie-mart in North Bend to get something to eat and drink for the drive home. Once inside the store we headed our separate ways and we met again in the car. Anyone can tell you that there aren’t a lot of healthy choices to be made when buying something to eat at the I-90 quickie-mart in North Bend, Washington, but I thought our choices were startlingly unwise. My friend opted for an ice cream sandwich, while I went old-school with a pepperoni beef jerky stick. Just call us west coast health food nuts.

Between an ice cream sandwich and a pepperoni stick, which one represents the biggest iceberg to the ship Titanic of personal health? Which one is more of a nutritional Chernobyl? Which one of us would die more quickly and in the most painful manner if our diets were reduced exclusively to a supply of our choices made at the North Bend quickie-mart? I should have had the beer after all.

Don't Quote Me on That

If Ben Franklin made a fortune off a stupid aphorism like “A stitch in time saves nine” then I think I can come up with a memorable quip that will put me on easy street. To be perfectly honest, I don’t even know what Ben was talking about. I don’t know if that makes it easier or more difficult for me to hit the jackpot in the quotation industry.

How about Shakespeare? He got famous for some pretty weak observations. “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Or maybe that was Tennyson. I might take exception to that one. Wouldn’t you rather have been born without a hand than to have your hand cut off in an industrial mishap? It probably doesn’t hurt like fuck to be born without a hand; I can only assume that there is no such thing as a painless saw mill accident. My advice to you, Mister LORD Tennyson, is that you shouldn’t try and peddle your lies in a lumber town—too many guys missing body parts.

So now that I have debunked two of history’s top quoticians (quoters?) all I need to do is come up with a couple of my own. I want my quotes to be useful, to have meaning in this era of technology. I just thought of one:

Buy as many pairs of the same color of dress socks as you can so when you immediately lose a few you won’t get angry and punch a hole in the laundry room wall.

Ok, so it’s not very catchy, but it makes total sense to me, and no one lost a major appendage at the lumber yard. Let me try again.

Always put your keys in the bowl on the bookshelf by the door so when you come home shit-faced you won’t put them some place really stupid--like in a drawer in the kitchen--and then have to spend the next day hung-over looking for them.

So maybe Shakespeare had something with that “Brevity is the soul of wit” bit, but it won’t help you find your keys. I need something nice and short. Someone else already came up with “No Fat Chicks.” You just know that guy made a fortune off that one. This is harder than I thought.

Return movies on time so you won’t have to pay late fees.

That one really sucked but I wasn’t ready. Don’t rush me, and when you just stare at me like that I get nervous. I just can’t do this with you right here. Why don’t you just put a gun to my head? Step outside and have a smoke or something.

If you try to force it out you might strain something, something might tear or rip. You could burst a blood vessel. You have to be perfectly relaxed. If you think about it too much it won’t come out, either. Try to think of something else, something pleasant. When nothing comes out you get frustrated and feel backed-up. I don’t plan on blowing a bowel just to get stinking rich writing witty one-liners. I’ll finish this later. Does anyone have a magazine I can borrow?