You are currently browsing the category archive for the 'Uncategorized' category.
[Herewith are my last journal entries, mostly verbatim instead of summarized, as I have been wont to do before.]
27 June 2008
Spent last night tossing, turning & hunting a little mouse that was munching on the pop-tart I’d gotten myself for the morning. [The rest of the story: I was mortified that it kept making noise, thinking it was keeping the other guys up. Nope, it turns out, just me. The cheeky little bastard had kept quiet and still when I picked up my bike helmet (which had the pop tart in it) to see if it was under there, not thinking to look inside. Eventually, carrying the helmet out of my room to put it out of reach, the little pest dropped out through a vent and ran for it.]
And just as I was getting ready to go, I saw I had a flat–and I’d managed to leave my tire irons behind somehow!
But I’m in good spirits now. A hostel staffer gave me his tire irons and I fixed the flat handily. The bead jack worked perfectly too.
So I’m at a KOA campsite in Pescadero with a restaurant where I await a huge salad with salmon. [Ed. note: these "campsites" are so loaded with luxury they might as well call them "split-log hotels." I have nothing against travelers enjoying those amenities, but why call them "campsites?"] Tempting to go with the burger & fries option as I’m starved but some vegetable matter does sound appealing.
I also seem to have mislaid my sharpener–I may be forced to return to a pen! Oh, wait, there it is in my pocket. [95% of all my stress in life is summed up right there.]
The Internet at the hostel was unusably bad. Satellite, so impossibly slow, and the interface seemed to be 100% web-based and actively evil. When I tried to load up Skype, the machine seemed to be trying to bring up Hotmail (?!).
Oh, and again with the headwind today! Not nearly as annoying on the trike, but still I can even verify it now, lots of tall grasses, pointed directly at me. Sheesh.
[Herewith are my last journal entries, mostly verbatim instead of summarized, as I have been wont to do before.]
26 June
Back on the road again! It took two false starts, but I did 50+ miles today and climbed over 3000 feet! The worst of it was King’s Mountain Road. Much of that twisty torture was spent in bottom gear, grinding away at 3 mph or less. It literally would have been faster to walk–but probably not pushing 80 lbs. or so of trike and gear.
Drivers were uniformly courteous, even friendly. At one point I waved at a van as I was piling along some ascent, and I could see only the passenger’s hand–throwing horns. Implicit message: I rock! That’s right, I do. You betta respect.
After the hell (in effort only) of King’s Mountain, I ran into a motorcyclist who persuaded me to just take Highway 1 instead of Stage Road, as the guy in the bike shop had suggested when I was starting my day. Unfortunately the motorbike guy also held forth on the “problem” presented by Mexicans, Chinese, and other immigrants. He claimed to be a liberal at one point–I wonder how that change happens. I tried to listen for his needs, which was enough for me to keep my cool externally but not much else. [Upon reflection, that encounter was about as creepy as any I had in the whole trip.]
Tunitas Creek Drive was a whole different adventure. Bike Shop Guy had suggested it as safe, and it even looked [on the map] to be a fun descent. Motorcycle Guy didn’t like the various blind turns, which were many, but I wanted a more direct route, so off I went.
I thik BSG forgot to consider my trike’s lacking the Big Shock Absorbers [standing on the pedals]. The road surface looked like an airfield that had taken heavy bombardment. I could go fast on the seemingly random repaired stretches but soon had to hit the brakes. I poured water on them during a break–it sizzled right off, they were so hot.
Tunitas did turn tamer after a while, letting on to houses and organic farms. I slowed down and stopped for a cute cat, but it fled my weird machine.
Anyway, I got to Highway 1, now more south than I had originally planned, and struck out for Pigeon Point. BSG had warned me off part of it, concerned that the berm was inadequate for a trike. It ws fine, though. I find I need less room with the trike, as my control of the tracking is much more precise–seeing where the wheels are is much easier. I don’t feel the need for a lot of allowance for weaving, since a bump against one tire affects my course but little.
The last few miles were a bit of fatigue-torture, but eventually the lighthouse popped into view. And they had beds available!
Not only that, i had a great evening’s conversation and got to share a hot tub (against California tradition, in swim suits) with a couple of touring bikers from Berkeley: C– and S–. It was more good conversation, and a stunning view of the fog-covered ocean with the lighthouse beam playing through it.
My apologies for yet another “quick update,” I actually have a few pages in my paper journal to transcribe yet.
My journey ended in something of a hurry as Amtrak had seats available for 24 July or 16 August, and I wanted to get back sooner rather than later. A 40-hour train trip and 3-hour bus ride (with 1 hour of sleep altogether), I was back in Vancouver. I saw the most incredibly exciting roller-derby game Saturday night (great hitting, refs all over the players like white on rice, super-deft skating, and sudden death overtime!), have rested up, and am feeling excited about life. Today begins my networking for a new job and first thing in the morning I saw an article about a restorative justice initiative right in this neighbourhood! A good sign.
Now to fix my laptop, which I managed to lobotomize on my first day here.
Hi folks,
Ran out of money, more or less, and took hyperspace again to get to my sister’s place here in Long Beach. Some exceptionally brutal and interesting riding down Salinas valley to avoid the Pacific Coast Highway closure from the Big Sur fire, on which, more later. Spending today recovering from the train ride and hard riding, and writing, and then I should be able to catch up. That will have to be the last update as far as travel, I’m afraid, since I can’t really afford anymore.
As it is, though, I’m whole and healthy except for a teeny bit of sunburn on my legs and a slightly down attitude. Talk again soon!
I ended up going all the way to Pigeon Point yesterday and staying at the hostel there, which I’d forgotten all about. It was a 50+-mile trip with over 3,000 feet of climbing! Quite a slog.
Easier, but in some ways less fun, getting here today. But it’s an interesting town, and I’m staying an extra day to go to the (very hip) bike co-op to re-tune my bike (which I’m thinking of naming Alan–get it?) after the beating it took going down Tunitas Creek Road.
More soon when I have a computer that actually works.
Just a quick update here to note I am today continuing my journey. Stuff I need to tell you about is my 50-or-so-mile ride with the excellent and redoubtable Western Wheelers cycle club, my obnoxious propensity for false starts, and of course, huge, huge gratitude to A– and M–.
To tide you over, here is a link to some more, fully-loaded trike pics.
Word from the road soon! I’ll be taking Foothill Express to 84 and that up to 35 (Skyline), then to 92 and down to Half Moon Bay State Park. I have a GPS, but as there’s no Windows in this house, it’s being a glorified odometer at the moment. Once I get that properly set up I should be able to post tracks and elevation charts.
So today I rode around Los Gatos trail on my second new vehicle: an ICE Trice T recumbent tricycle.
My fond readers will certainly recall I was working on a two-wheeled recumbent. I did, in fact, get to being able to ride it, a little bit. I had a little cheering section the day I finally got it started up without physical help; A– and M– were rooting for me. It took over a dozen tries to finally get my right foot up on the pedal (along with the left) and wobbling down the residential street. Further assisting was J–, who had recommended to A– that I get used to just riding around, to get the balance of the thing. In fact A– and I tried the tactic of helping me start up; it did work better to just ride first, then get into getting started. Of particular note was A–’s ability to verbally break down the physical intelligence needed to get used to the new way of riding, which I can summarize as “take all your instincts about riding and rotate them ninety degrees against gravity.” A– got it in a few minutes; but he’s a master of kung fu and stuff (OK, Tae Kwon Do and more recently Jeet Kune Do, technically).
With all this, and a new feeling of confidence, nonetheless it was very clear it would be many miles of training before I could ride it loaded and in traffic and on windy mountain roads.
Luckily for me, I had already decided, somewhat half-heartedly, to test-ride trikes at Baytrail Trikes. After my victory on the two-wheeler I very nearly canceled; now I’m very, very glad I didn’t. It took a couple of hours to get to Albany by transit. Steve, the proprietor, patiently answered all my questions, and shared his enthusiasm in a really human, low-pressure way. Also, he’s a former VMS systems administrator, so we had fun swapping horror stories. Of course, riding the trike made the sale–I was cackling like a madman just riding it in a big parking lot.
So, let me count the advantages: in a trike, if I want to take a break, I pull over and engage the “parking brake”–a velcro strap around the brake lever–and that’s it. There is no step three. You’re already sitting in a nice chair. Getting started after stopping: start pedaling. Because you never took your feet off the pedals, because you don’t need to. This is critically true on hills, where being in a really low gear may rob you of enough momentum to keep your balance. Going slow on a trike is merely slow, full stop. It’s also much, much less fatiguing–indeed, the ride is so relaxing I have to be a bit careful to pay attention. When I’m done my legs are tired. And the Trice trikes come with hub brakes. Why has the world not noticed how awesome these are? They don’t get wet and muddy, they’re not finicky, they’re easy as hell to adjust, and they require basically zero maintenance and last more or less forever. Oh yes. They’re heavy. Whatever. If you live in Vancouver, I recommend these things.
There are some disadvantages, of course. The thing is pretty heavy: 37 pounds in the stock configuration, and then you add on the usual stuff like a rack and fenders and it probably ends up over 40 pounds. Also, it’s big. Finding parking is a bit of a challenge, and getting around narrow obstacles meant to keep motorized vehicles off trails can be a nuisance too. Luckily this model breaks down into a more manageable size for going on trains and the like, but it’s not a quick fold, so going multi-modal with transit isn’t an option. So for me, it’s decidedly a dedicated long-distance or cruising machine. Some people regard the low-to-the-ground seating as less safe. It’s true you’re not so much at eye level with drivers, but I feel pretty good with the whippy flag sticking up seven feet into the air, and the width of the trike definitely encourages drivers to give me plenty of room–and I can really take the lane when I need to. Finally, trikes are even more expensive than two-wheeled recumbents. Mine was discounted for being last year’s display model (the 2008 has nifty new-fangled goodness for a higher high gear without sacrificing the low end).
Altogether though, the advantage of “I can take this out on the road immediately and feel better in nearly every respect than I did on the diamond-frame bike” is hugely overpowering.
“Where’s the philosophy, JB?” Thanks for asking. A lot of this was me again encountering my weird thinking about luxury, necessity, learning, endurance, and so on. I had actually originally planned on a trike but didn’t want to travel so far to look at one. That got me into the mail-order world (and for the record, the folks at The Hostel Shoppe were really wonderful from initial set-up to handling my eventual sad return of their lovely machine). And then, as noted before, there were delays from a damaged part. So, because I didn’t want to spend a couple days trucking around on perfectly comfortable and inexpensive transit, I actually ended up waiting a couple extra weeks, and spending rather more money than I’d hoped to.
In sum, I’m basically ecstatically happy with this choice. I’ll post some pictures soon, taken by my way-better-photographer host M–. The front lights are mounted on a little stalk, so the trike totally looks like some kind of freaky moon rover at night.
I hope to be back on the road, off to see my sister in Long Beach, in less than a week. At last! I’ve enjoyed being here of course but I’m really itching to get some miles under my bum again, and more amusing road travails for you all to read about. So, that’s it for now, and I’ll get the pictures up ASAP.
P.S. “HPV” stands for “Human-Powered Vehicle,” not “Human Papilloma Virus.”
Today I’m writing not about events but topics that have gone through my head a lot, gradually accumulating some (I hope) clearer thinking.
I think I’ve found a good distinction between violence and force. My recollection of the Nonviolent Communication definition of violence is that it’s any action taken that is done with disregard for another person’s needs. Force is usually framed within “protective force,” and the usual example is of knocking down someone who doesn’t know they are headed into traffic, in order to stop them from being harmed much worse. This is a pretty good rough definition; my intention is to add to its nuances rather than provide some wholly new idea.
I’m using an empirical kind of definition, simply put: what is someone’s response to ouch? I came on this idea while A– and I were watching World Combat League a couple of weeks ago, critiquing the technique and sportsmanship of the competitors. (WCL is a martial arts team competition with some basic rules to prevent serious injury and promote short, action-filled bouts.) It was easy for us to agree on who showed concern for the other person on the mat, and (by degrees) who showed contempt, glorying in their enemy’s suffering. Concern or its lack was clearly evident in a fighter’s posture after an opponent was knocked to the mat. One pair even embraced after a long, well-matched bout. From this, I think it is clear that even force with potential to do serious injury, and without a protective intention as such, can be nonviolent, meeting needs for accomplishment, learning, play, and of course connection, among many others. Martial arts, as A– has said, can be a very intimate exercise. Certainly willingly exposing yourself to injury is about as vulnerable as it gets.
Then there is verbal sparring: sarcasm, trash-talking, “your mama” contests, and so on. I think here it’s also possible to tell when harm is intended, but it can be a lot more difficult to make that call, especially in the heat of the moment, or with relative strangers. Add to this the intellectual machismo that often goes with very verbally talented people, where “ouch” is a show of despicable weakness, and a lot of pain and confusion seems practically inevitable.
Even so, I have many fond memories of times when really terrible-sounding language was used in fun and everyone involved was positively joyful about it. My favourite example is a game of Jungle Speed I played at the December 2007 NVC International Intensive Training with about six or seven other people from all walks of life and a variety of different national backgrounds. The trash-talk, started by me, was ferocious, the most intense ever when playing the game, and it has a tradition of trash-talk, so that’s saying something. People’s abilities or lack thereof were roundly and volubly mocked, tasteless stereotypes about Germany, Russia, Canada, and the USA were indulged in, and physical intimidation was an element of play as well. It was unbelievably fun and would certainly have been less fun without that aspect. (Jungle Speed is a seemingly very intellectual game of pattern matching, except for the element of snatching a playing piece from the center of the table to win contests–I suspect this is what brings out the inner ape so marvelously.) The game went for many rounds, late into the night, and everyone was laughing uproariously.
The big guy who tended to position his hand so that it looked like you’d lose an arm if you tried to grab the totem before he did explained it well the next morning in our last group meeting. He reflected that the trash-talk was itself a kind of proof of container we created by our mutual respect and intimacy (very high at the end of the intensive) and its robustness and authenticity. We knew we were safe, thus we could really go all out with our “jackal talk,” something normally regarded as dangerous. And as we went all-out, and hurt didn’t result, we could tell that the judgment of safety was correct. I don’t recall any “ouch” at that table; there might have been some yellow lights, perhaps.
I guess my point is, force is another way by which we know each other and the world we live in. It is praiseworthy or regrettable not in itself but by what it does with different kinds of feedback. This is like the tool to know whether something is a request or a demand: how does the requester respond to “no?” If they respond with threats or punishment, it’s a demand. So someone who responds to “ouch” with no concern, or accuses the person trying to show their hurt of being a wimp, stupid, over-emotional, or whatever, that seems like a big flat clue that you’re looking at aggression and not play. (I’m also aware that some people use vulnerability as a weapon–indeed, it’s a tactic I’ve used myself–yet I don’t see how responding even to such tactics with contempt is really helpful to anyone.) At its best, force both physical and not represents an avenue of great intimacy and surprising (for most) opportunities to express caring and love, for others and oneself (consider how you respond to “ouch” internally, regardless of where the hurt seems to originate).
I’ve also had opportunity while here to think about conflict and what that means to various people. I like to gripe about the “pneumatic analogy” so I’ll so some of that here. This idea if some kind of emotional steam engine is very popular in my world. Where it comes to conflict there’s an idea of “pressure” building up, and a conflict is a place where that pressure is “let off” or it may even “explode.” I don’t find this set of options very appealing; I want conflict to be more of an exchange, or ideally even a kind of collaboration.
So I’m thinking of it in terms of music, which has a bigger vocabulary. Harmony, disharmony, dissonance, tension, resolution, and so on. There’s pretty good agreement out there that music accommodates different styles, and I think that translates to a possible tolerance for different kinds of conflict and ways to work skillfully with it. And tension in music isn’t anathema–it’s actually necessary for an interesting piece. Thus it isn’t a problem that needs to be fixed or avoided–it’s the condition you’re actually playing with to get a desired effect.
I don’t mean to minimize the tragedies of really intense conflicts like war, abuse, suppression of dissent, and so on. “Disharmony” is a pretty inadequate description of the terrible pain suffered by refugees of wars, soldiers on both sides of a conflict, the grieving families left behind by murder. I just think it’s preferable to the idea of “letting off steam. No big conclusion on this one, it’s a less-developed thought than the stuff above on force & violence.
I’m interested in feedback on how these thoughts strike people, whether they are satisfying ways of describing the world or lacking in some way. So please comment. Thanks!
As some have noticed, this tour is apparently sitting still, at least on the larger-scaled maps. Still, I have been getting out more often than not, visiting different cultural attractions, puttering around, and (finally!) getting enough tools to actually replace a broken spoke. (There’s something that I have yet to see in a touring guide. So here it is: you need a spoke wrench, chain whip, cassette lockring tool, and a big enough wrench to leverage that tool. That’s 3-4 pounds to replace a multi-gram spoke. There’s got to be a better way.)
Anyway, here are some recent events: over the last weekend I visited my step-brother, J–, and his lovely wife M–. It’s odd to think of him as a “step-brother” since our families were linked for over a decade before my dad and his mom actually eloped, sending an email with a picture of them happily before a Justice of the Peace in northern New Mexico. As they were into their 60s or 70s (the timing escapes me) at the time, the family’s scandalization was a bit on the affected side. Anyway, J– remarked he thought he’d missed me in a comment to the last post and I was immediately prodded into action. There was no reason I couldn’t take the Caltrain up to San Francisco, and so I hatched plans rapidly, and happily, he and M– were free that weekend. Off I went, on a nice long train ride, except for the pre-drunk Giants fans and one car that sounded so tortured every time it turned you wondered if it was going to derail.
I chose not to bring my bike, which turned out to be a good idea–the Honda Impulse that J– picked me up in would have been a real job to fit the massive Fuji into. My plan for the evening was to go to Urban Dharma, a Dharma Punx-affiliated sitting group. It was not to be, alas; my train was late (cf. Giants fans), and traffic was bad so J– was a bit late (ibid.), and finally, we ran smack into a Critical Mass ride. Of course, being San Francisco it wasn’t just any Critical Mass–this was where the whole idea was born so it was massive–thousands of bikers defining the traffic flow of the streets. It was joyous, I was perfectly okay with the delay. And I was really, really hungry, so I scrubbed the sitting mission and we met up with M– for sushi instead.
That began a long, happy conversation that lasted through a good bit of the night and most of the next day. M– is from Japan, and J– is fluent as few adult learners of Japanese are, and has lived and worked in Japan and with Japanese business partners for much of his professional life. Not surprisingly, Japan, its weirdness, and the United States and its weirdness, and navigating between them, were frequent topics. I absolutely love exploring other cultures, and I also tend to feel a bit weird when doing so around people actually from them; I worry that I’m asking them implicitly to be an ambassador, and maybe they’d rather just talk about their favourite TV show or something. I suspect this is a white guy thing that ironically impairs intercultural dialogue, something we’re sorely in need of in this world.
The next day we had some really lovely pastries and fruit, artfully arranged by M–, and then headed out for a breakfast that could be described with grand understatement as “substantial.” I noted the chilliness of the weather and J– shared a famous Mark Twain quote: “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” I happened later to be reading about SF’s World Naked Bike Ride day, and the email list had a brief discussion suggesting that the ride be moved to a warmer day–in September. Sheesh.
We toured Fort Point, an old artillery installation near Golden Gate park. Pictured is their handicap-access system, which has been preserved in its period form from the late 19th century.
(All right, I’m having you on. I’m not sure what that thing is for.)
I also got some superb pictures at the Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate park. They had a clever set-up there to show off butterfly development, a rack of cocoons at different stages, so that you can generally witness a butterfly emerging.
Over there is a monarch butterfly just emerging. Incidentally, posting these things is a pain–flickr makes it really easy to make a blog post of one, but not multiples. Anyone who knows how to do this right, drop me a comment.
Back at J– and M–’s house again, I got to see M–’s art, mostly monoprints, a kind of lithography that gives mostly one-off images, since it’s stuff painted onto the litho, rather than etched into it. She uses a variety of media–glue, acrylics, paint sticks I think, among others–to get interesting, somewhat unpredictable affects. That uncertainty, she says, is part of the appeal for her, and the effects are a kind of semi-abstract work that’s a kind I like.
My host J– was keen that I should give him a shout-out in my journal after my fulsome praise of A– and M– and how cool they are. I pointed out that the most hits I’ve ever gotten was about 40. (Six of which, he immediately quipped, were from our mom, in the inimitable family style. The sharp banter around the dinner table was tough for me to adjust to when I was a sensitive lad, but I miss the repartee now.) So anyway, here is your shout-out, my brother: J– and M– were unstintingly generous with time and energy and interest, going into overtime without complaint when it conflicted with their original weekend plans (how’s the movie script going, eh?). I especially enjoyed all the wordplay, something I don’t get as much of as I once did.
I returned to A– and M–’s place around 9:00 PM. We had a late dinner–burgers by M–, very tasty–and chewed the fat a while. I was excited finally to meet A–’s daughter S–, and was amused to see how much his daughter she is. At 14, she’s precociously funny, energetic, and aware, and from reports, a fine martial artist in the making. I liked her instantly, and quickly developed an avuncular, protective feeling towards her. I suppose that’s sensible given my brotherly feelings for her dad.
While the father & daughter team went off Sunday to beat on each other, M– and I went to a game store and picked up Set and Robo Rally. We got to play them later; the former turne dout to have a radical gender divide. In one round of play A– and I went entirely scoreless while M– and S– battled between themselves. It would be interesting to see if this holds true across the board or if it’s a fluke. We also played my perennial favourite, Jungle Speed, and though A– had expressed reservations about the trash-talking aspect (there’s a long post coming up about the difference between force and violence, a wonderful dialogue that A– & I have developed to a very refined degree over years), he got into the spirit of it after a bit.
Finally we all went to see the latest Indiana Jones franchise. Fun, but it doesn’t bear close scrutiny all that well. I happen to have just seen the first movie again yesterday, and overall, I just don’t like Spielberg’s ham-fisted directing very much. Harrison Ford holds up amazingly well as a sex symbol though.
So, finally, onto the new topic. I got the new bike Monday, only to find that a critical part was damaged in shipment. This threw me into mourning for a bit, after the long wait. Eventually I got the replacement part (the folks at Hostel Shoppe were most helpful), and took the bike for a spin. Wait! No, I didn’t. I sat in the seat paralyzed with fear. Yes, it turns out, the set of skills for a recumbent is totally different, and basically I’m learning to ride a bike all over again. Lifting my second leg up above my center of gravity, it turns out, is not something I’m willing to just blithely pull off.
So now enter J–, who had been helping M– and I with moving stuff around for the epic paint job that the house has been getting. (There is much low comedy to it, suffice to say it has not gone to plan and no one is very happy with the contractor.) Her assistance there was invaluable, as M–’s “baby brain” and my–well, I don’t have an excuse really but staying on task is challenging for me. Anyway, having enabled all sorts of ass-kicking on that front, J– showed great kindness and caring in being willing to push the bike behind me while I got shakily up to speed, staying encouraging, and keeping the task light-hearted. It really was a major hurdle and words fail me to express my gratitude; I had been ready to just pack it up and send it back.
So chalk up a win there, and now I “just” need to get myself to where I can hit the pedal with my left foot, give a push, and get my other foot pushing in one go. I can cheat a little and pump one pedal repeatedly on a normal bike but you can’t really do that on a ‘bent. We’ll see how it goes from here.
