This past weekend, in northern England, my friend, Andy, along with some family and friends, took on a 21-mile walk/run, in the name of his daughter, Megan Barnes. Megan, who lived with bipolar disorder, took her life in December of 2022.
Last weekend, Andy and friends, marched up steep hills, through difficult terrain, and lots of mud. All of this, in Megan’s memory, and to raise awareness, and hopefully a little money, for bipolar disorder in the UK. Andy and company did it under the hashtag #muddymilesformegs. Though I couldn’t participate in the Muddy Miles For Megs event over the weekend, I held my own event for Megan yesterday, on a gloomy day in Southern California — a long bike ride, in her name.
Since I learned of Megan‘s passing in December 2022, not one day has passed that I haven’t thought about her, her father, her family, and the friends she left behind. It’s always on my mind. It’s on my mind, at least in part, because I’ve dealt with my own suicidal thoughts since as far back as I can remember — perhaps the 3rd grade.
And I’ll be honest — when my day began yesterday, it wasn’t too glorious. I woke up full of self-doubt, riddled with inexplicable sadness, and the desire to just sit and do nothing all day. My mind was as gloomy as the overcast morning I woke to. I thought about skipping the ride and doing it another day — but I made a commitment to ride in Megan‘s name, and I wanted to honor that commitment.
Shortly after I left my house, maybe 2-miles in, I got a flat tire. Already feeling low, I was so upset by such a little thing, I almost threw my bike in a nearby creek, and would’ve walked home. I just wanted to cry — over a silly flat tire.
A few miles later, while standing out of my saddle while pedaling up a slight grade, the chain of my bicycle broke. Again, I didn’t want to fix the problem — I just wanted to throw my bike off the road and walk away. But I made a commitment to Megan, to her father, and to myself — to ride in her name. I keep some extra chain links in my shoulder bag, so I repaired the problem, and continued on.
Eventually, maybe 10-miles in, my head began to clear some — not all at once, but the sadness I’d felt through most of the morning, began to fade. I think overcoming my mechanical problems — the flat tire and the broken chain, heightened my floundering spirit, at least a little.
For as often as I’ve tried to put myself in Andy ‘s place, in the 16-months since Megan passed, I’ve been unable to do it. There’s no way I can experience anyone else’s pain — it’s foolish to even try. Yesterday, though, I did the best thing I could to show support for Andy — a long ride to the coast, in Megan‘s name.
Below is a link where you can donate to Bipolar UK, and do so in Megan’s name. The organization is 100% legit, and the money is used properly. If you can help, great. If not, that’s cool too — thanks for taking time to read this.
Since the day I learned of Megan’s passing, not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about her. I’m sure tomorrow will be no different.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Fleetwood Mac. Enjoy…!
I was pretty heavy-hearted when I rode yesterday. Two friends made the decision to help their senior dog transition from her failing body and distorted mind, to a better existence yesterday. It’s a decision they’ve been wrestling with for a while. Like many who face with that decision, my friends weren’t confident they were doing the right thing. But, of course, it was the right thing. I like to frame it this way…
An aging dog, especially one that might be living with pain, an inability to function normally, or a combination of those, isn’t assigned a precise day they’re supposed to transition home. It’s really a window of time — a range in which the human stewards in care of that dog, have to make the best decision on the dog’s behalf. That decision can only be made after days, and sometimes weeks of combining the reasoning of their brains, with the compassion in their hearts. No easy task.
And if a dog is fortunate enough to have humans like that — who agonize over such a decision, and who spend time trying to figure out when it’s the right time, then that dog is truly blessed. Indeed, millions of dogs die each year of neglect, because they either have no human to look out for them, or the humans who do, just don’t care. That wasn’t the case with my friends’ dog. Jenna had a family of people who loved her, and made her last weeks, and days as comfortable as they could. My friends assisted their dog in that transition, as elegantly as they could have. Those humans should be applauded.
I write this, with a 23-year-old dog on my lap, so the topic is close to my heart. I may have to make a similar decision in the coming months, and it crosses my mind daily.
So for anyone reading this, who may think there is only a fine-tuned moment — a specific day when it’s best to make that decision on behalf of a dog, or who fear doing it too soon makes it the wrong decision, just the fact that you care enough to contemplate and make that decision, is what makes it the right decision — your dog will be grateful you cared that much.
Hell — I think about it all the time. I obsess on it, actually. Will I end up there someday…? Am I going to spend eternity in flames, forced to drink boiling water while Satan himself sodomizes me with a flaming pitchfork wrapped in barbed wire…? That’d be pretty gnarly.
I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t always been the upstanding guy I am now. I’ve used some potty words. I lied to my mom a lot when I was a kid. I shoplifted candy bars in middle school too, but those are things you don’t go to hell for — I hope. I’ve also done things I regret — things that could be considered textbook sins, by any religious doctrine. I’ve done things I’m truly ashamed of — things that hurt others. I can’t say I’ve broken all the commandments, but I’ve busted a handful. And if I’m being honest, at least nine out of the ten have been on my radar since my teens. And if it wasn’t for the idea of hell, I’d probably be wearing an I Broke The Ten Commandments charm bracelet.
Oh Father…
I think about this all the time too — that if an adult child of mine lived an immoral life, took from others without giving back, or was guilty of crimes, violent or otherwise, I would be disappointed, and perhaps even angry. I might even go so far as to turn my back on that child. Never, though, would I feel it my place to punish that child for all eternity. I’d simply voice my disapproval, and assure that child I’d be there in the future to help with making better decisions, regardless of mistakes made in the past. That, in my opinion, is what a good parent does. And that’s why I don’t believe in hell.
Look, I’m as unsure as anyone that God exists. God is unknowable from an earthly perspective. In the Christian, Jewish, and Islamic faiths, God is often referred to as our father. Maybe. Some religious texts suggest God made us in his own image — perhaps there’s some truth to that. My daughter looks a lot like me, so maybe God and I have the same forehead…🤷🏼♂️ But if God is the father of humanity, we probably have a lot of his tendencies. And I keep going back to this, over and over, when I’m on my bike, and when I’m not…
If God created me, and made me in his own image, and if I know, beyond any doubt, I would always be there for my child, regardless of his or her crimes or lack of moral turpitude, it makes sense that God would always be there for me. And even if he wouldn’t always be there for me, I can’t imagine a scenario in which he’d punish me, relentlessly and eternally, with fire and torture, in an attempt to teach me a lesson I’d never be capable of learning or applying.
Eternity is a long time to hold a grudge against someone for making a mistake, or hundreds of mistakes. If a child of mine were guilty of any of those, I’d be shocked, angry, and again, might even turn my back on them, but I would never condemn them to punishment and fire for all eternity, so why would God…?
Whether God, Heaven, or Hell exist to me, matters less than the idea that our species evolved, both biologically and culturally, to believe they exist — that’s what keeps us in the moral middle ground. In an eye-for-an-eye world, there’s something profoundly out of balance with eternity in hell for even the most unspeakable trespasses.
So, if the God I believe in is capable of punishing me, for eternity, with pain and fire, and never gives me a chance to learn from that experience and apply it to future behaviors, perhaps it’s time I find a new God — or just change my definition of hell.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like, a 👍🏻, and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Jim Capaldi. Enjoy…!
At the peak of the thing, in 2021, I owned seventeen bicycles. Most of them got ridden at least once a month, and some more. Each bike had unique characteristics for different types of riding, and each bike had its own personality. Though I might have favored a handful, I made sure I rode each bike regularly.
It wasn’t easy storing seventeen bikes, especially with my 92-year-old my mother living with me. For a time, I even had to store a couple of bikes in mom’s small bedroom. She resisted at first, but after spending a couple nights locked in the laundry room, she relented, and accepted one behind her dresser, and another in her closet. And don’t roll your eyes — I fed her while she was confined to the laundry room.
After mom passed away, and I sublet her bedroom, I pared down to a dozen or so bicycles. For the last couple of years, as I’ve bought some, and sold a few others, the stable as I call it, has been as few as nine bikes, and as many as twelve. And I think that’s a good range — between nine and twelve bicycles. At least I did until recently.
As I’ve merged into my geriatric years, my body has slowed down some. I’ve begun favoring my lighter bikes, which are easier to ride. So, I began selling, and even giving away some bikes that weren’t getting ridden too often. Eventually, the stable was thinned to seven bikes, but even with those seven, there are three I ride most often — because the experience of riding them is more enjoyable than riding the others. Besides, owning a lot of bikes comes a lot of bicycle maintenance, and too much of my free time has been spent on wrenching things out, when I could’ve been taking naps. Again, I’m elderly now.
Last month, I began selling off more bikes, with the intention of keeping just four — two for recreational riding, one for cross-country touring, and since I don’t own a car, I’ll keep one bike to be the household vehicle.
So why am I writing a blog about my bicycles, for a bicycle blog that really isn’t about bicycling…🤷🏼♂️
Because I have a vintage Fuji (1978) bike, in excellent condition, that I’m selling for $150, firm. When I sell it, I’m going to donate the money to the Fallbrook Art Center — a local nonprofit, that is a gem in this community.
1978 Fuji S10S. In excellent condition, and I’ll sell to anyone locally, for $150. The money will go to the Fallbrook Art Center.
That will be a tiny donation for the Art Center, but every little bit counts. And it’s a good reminder that it’s a nonprofit organization, here to benefit the community, not to hold money back from the artists it showcases. If my small donation helps keep the lights on for another day, or even just a few hours, then I’ve made a difference.
So if any San Diego area locals know somebody looking for a classic bike to ride around town, to and from the beach, or to get a little exercise and recreation with, please pass my information along. Despite its age, this bike is in excellent condition, and will be perfect for somebody who’s between 5’6” and 5’11” in height. Again, all the proceeds go to a worthy cause.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from the late Steve Gaines. Enjoy…!
We’ve all been there. Nature calls, suddenly, and without any notice. From wherever we may be seated, we stand and begin walking quickly to the bathroom. As strength and fortitude give way though, that quick walk turns into a run. For most, we make it just in time. And it’s always a profound sense of relief that we do make it just in time.
I had such a walk this morning, that turned into a run, on my way to the bathroom. It appeared everything was going to be okay too. Though I hadn’t quite made it to the throne, I was already feeling that sense of relief, knowing I was going to make it — right up until I misjudged the distance between my forehead and the bathroom door. That’s when the bathroom door and my forehead gave each other a kind of a high-five…
If there’s an upside to a self-inflicted concussion, I thought to myself as I fell backwards to the floor, it’s that I learned I have an extra gear for bowel control that I didn’t previously know about. So as I sat on my hallway floor, with my hand on my forehead, feeling the contour of the bump which was already forming, my sense of potty urgency had left me.
I used some bad words too. I remember the cat, dashing from the hallway into the living room, fearing my impending meltdown. The dog stared at me quizzically from across the room, and turned his head in shame. He’s no more a fan of my cussing rants than the cat is. I released a series of f-bombs, with both the rhythm and the volume that the critters were expecting.
I stood up slowly. No longer feeling the immediacy of needing the throne, I approached the bathroom mirror. Wanting to avoid another fall, I kept one hand on the wall. I used the mirror to confirm the mound was in the precise middle of my forehead — just where I thought it was. The Cahokians would’ve been proud — a perfect mound. I took myself through a brief concussion protocol, and was confident there was no concussion. A bruised ego, and a bruised forehead, though, and it was just 8am.
Of course this took place just minutes prior to this morning’s ride. And you know, there’s nothing I love feeling more than the tightening a bicycle helmet around a steadily growing lump in the middle of my forehead. But if the helmet is going to stay on, it has to be tight. If nothing else, I figured, it might help push the bump down and keep it from growing more. That, or the bump would continue growing, and I’d adjust my helmet along the way, as needed.
Riding through a few rain squalls kept my mind off the bump on my head. And honestly, it really wasn’t painful, just sensitive. When I got home, I removed my helmet, and to my surprise, the Cahokia on my head wasn’t black and blue. Just a bump, roughly the size of a nickel, but protruding a few millimeters out. I think they call these goose eggs. I’ll always think of it though, as my very first potty injury. And at 62, if my first potty injury is above the waist, I think I’m ahead of the game.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Luther Allison. Enjoy…!
I recently decided to reduce my bicycle aggregate. I currently own 10 bikes. With retirement looming, and an underlying desire to simplify my life, I decided to thin the herd to just three bikes — a road bike, a touring bike, and the mountain bike I use to get around town and run errands with.
If there’s a bigger cesspool on the internet than craigslist, I’m not sure what it is. However, for a person selling bikes, craigslist, like government, is a necessary evil. Though there are other means to sell used bicycles — Facebook Marketplace, Offer Up, and EBay, craigslist is where I’ve got the most money per bike, and my time to sell is always brief.
I initially chose to part with three bikes; a vintage Fuji bike from 1978, a late model Cinelli road bike, and my Willier Triestina — an Italian road bike I rarely ride. As soon as I placed the ads on craigslist, the inquiries began coming in — and all the craziness that comes with them. Equipped with a good bullshit meter, I was able to cut through the nonsense inquiries, and identify the more serious ones.
People who have a legitimate interest in buying used bikes, always ask bikey questions — Bruce was one of them. He was interested in the Cinelli road bike, which I priced at $150. It’s in excellent shape, and worth quite a bit more, but I just wanted to get rid of it. Bruce and I agreed to meet at the Fallbrook library at noon last Wednesday — he was coming up from Carlsbad, roughly 30-miles south of here.
I arrived at the library early, and stood inconspicuously behind some bushes, looking to see if I could identify Bruce when he arrived. If I saw anything suspicious, I’d just leave. When a tall man, resembling Lurch from the Addams family, stepped out of a black pickup truck, and with his head on a swivel, I knew that was my guy. He was wearing a Covid mask, but it wasn’t large enough to hide the good bit of homely he wore behind it. Bruce was an ugly dude, but if he had cash, all would be cool.
Bruce, I called out…
“That’s me…“ he said.
I approached him and introduced myself. As I extended my hand to shake his, he kept his arm at his side, stared from behind his Covid mask, and said…
“I don’t shake hands. You might have the disease that kills me…”
Well okay then, I said, let’s take a look at the bike…
Bruce then retrieved a legal pad and pencil from his truck. He leaned my bike up against a tree, and would spend the next 30-minutes going over it — measuring the frame in every possible way, including ways which made no sense to me. He silently scrutinized the bike, regularly shaking his head from side to side. Every so often, he’d make a note on his legal pad, but the entire time, he never spoke, not a word, and he never made eye contact with me.
When I’ve sold bikes in the past, the transactions have never taken more than five minutes, and have always been amicable. I was a little frustrated, but wanted to give Bruce leeway to examine the bike I expected him to drive away with. After a half-hour, he looked at me and said…
“I can’t say I’m excited about this bike, not at all…“
He then showed me his legal pad, with the figure $12.75 circled — that’s what he was going to offer me for my bike. To be clear, the bike wasn’t perfect, but was well cared for, and in excellent shape, notwithstanding that it’s blue book value was in the neighborhood of $600.
Completely gulp-smacked by his $12.75 offer, I explained that my $150 was firm, that it was a good bike, that I’ve ridden it regularly, and without any difficulties. I then told him I’m sorry it didn’t work out. As I was about to mount the bike and ridehome, Bruce made eye contact with me for the first time and said…
“Well, I’m going to need money for gas…”
I opened my eyes wide, and said again, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I mounted my bike, and rode away immediately, taking an unusual route, to ensure Bruce couldn’t follow me.
I sold the bike the following day for full price — a bargain at $150. The man who purchased it also scrutinized it, and loved everything about it. He rode it around the library parking lot, and returned with a big smile on his face. We shook hands, and the whole transaction was done in less than five minutes.
I’ve thought a lot about Bruce in the days since. My sense is that Bruce wasn’t a scammer, and that he didn’t go with the intention of lowballing me. Observing him scrutinize the bike the way that he did, it was clear he knew a lot about bicycles. It was just as clear, though, that he’s a malcontent, and excessively critical about small details. Bruce is a man, I concluded, that had he been a lieutenant on the frontlines in Vietnam, would have been shot by his own troops, and left to be eaten by rodents.
I’ve crossed paths with men like Bruce before, and I’m sure I will again. If you want somebody like that in your life, just go to craigslist, there’s plenty of them out there. And so it goes.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Kevin Morby. Enjoy…!
My first cellular phone weighed 3-pounds, and was the size a large brick. My first laptop computer didn’t sit well on my lap. It fit on my lap, but it was so heavy due to the battery technology of the era, my lap couldn’t support it for more than 15-minutes at a stretch.
Over time, though, as educated minds (nerds) facilitated a steady advance in digital technology, my cellular phone now fits in the palm of my hand. My laptop computer is now almost as light as my cellular phone, though it is much larger. Not only have my cellular phone and laptop computer become smaller and lighter, but they are far more powerful than their ancestors.
It’s a cliché to say, but an absolute truth, that my cellular phone has more computing power than the mainframe computer system that got Apollo 11 to the moon and back. And my laptop computer has better video resolution than the 50-inch television in my living room. That’s what I call progress in technology, and I’m grateful.
A bunch of nerds with crew cuts, skinny black ties, and pocket protectors, dedicated their lives so I could scroll YouTube from the telephone in my hand, and watch feature length movies on the device I actually purchased to be my word processor. Those nerds did good.
The first microwave oven I ever saw, the Amana Radar Range, was at my friend Brock Stratton’s house, I believe in 1969. It was more than a miracle — the Radar Range could heat up, in just a few minutes, what often took a conventional oven 30-minutes or more to cook. Microwave cooking revolutionized the way we cook, the way we eat, and the way food has been engineered and marketed over the last 50-years.
That said, microwave cooking technology has not advanced in the same way or at the same speed that computing and cellular technology have. And honestly, we shouldn’t find that acceptable. Why are the nerds behind microwave cooking technology not pushing the envelope the way that the silicon nerds have…?
In 1977, working as a sandwich maker at the Bagel Deli in Denver Colorado, it took roughly 2-minutes to melt two slices of Swiss cheese over a 1/4-pound of freshly sliced turkey. Today, in 2024, it still takes 2-minutes to melt two slices of Swiss cheese over a 1/4-pound of freshly sliced turkey. Zero progress — in 47 years…!
By applying the scale of advancement in computing technology to microwave cooking technology, over the same time period of time, those two slices of Swiss cheese melted over a 1/4-pound of freshly sliced turkey today, should take less than one second to cook — but that’s not the case. And when examining the cooking speed of most other microwavable foods — popcorn, chicken wings, frozen dinners, and Peeps Easter candy, the microwave fares no better today than it did in 1969.
Being single, I depend on frozen food for most of my nutrition. Frozen food is cheaper, and it should be faster — but it’s not any faster today than it was when Richard Nixon was president, and the Brady Bunch ruled Friday night television. That lack of advancement is expressly due to a lesser quality of nerds behind microwave cooking technology. Hell, those nerds haven’t even brought microwave cooking technology into the 21st-century yet.
Look, I’m a busy guy, and I have a little patience. When I want a microwave burrito, I want it now, not in 3-minutes. And the truth be told, the older I get, the more irritated I am with a lack of advancement in microwave cooking technology. Did I mention I have a bad temper, too…? I mean, not break my cat’s neck because I’m still waiting for my burrito kind of bad temper, but I have I slammed my fist on the counter a time or two, when staring at the popcorn in the microwave, knowing it’s got another 20-seconds to go. I don’t have time for that.
I don’t know why the nerds in the microwave cooking industry aren’t as capable and advanced as the nerds in the digital technology sector are. This is probably the difference between MIT graduates and Cal Poly graduates — sorry Ron😬. I just think that after more than a half-century of opportunity, microwave cooking should be instantaneous, and I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Anyone who’s ever eaten an Amy’s frozen macaroni and cheese dinner, that’s ice cold in the middle, knows what I’m talking about. I know it said heat it up for 6-minutes, but I don’t have 6-minutes. I don’t know, maybe we should get Elon musk involved…🤷🏼♂️
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Ray Wylie Hubbard. Enjoy…!
It’s 5am — dark and cold. I’m sitting on my sofa with a fleece Denver Bronco blanket on my lap. Stroodle, looking more like a seahorse than a Chihuahua, is curled up and nestled deep into the blanket.
With the exception of this blog, I’ve been on a social media fast for the last couple of weeks — no Facebook, no Instagram. I was hoping the break would provide me the opportunity for more productivity in my life — more time for yardwork, household chores, and to catch up with analog friends, via the telephone.
The social media break has given me that opportunity, but I haven’t taken much advantage of it. It’s interesting — I find myself staring at my phone almost as much as before, though I’m using it for different purposes. My routine is pretty much the same. I get up in the morning, stare at my phone for an hour, put it down and start making preparations for the workday ahead.
The workday ends. I sit and stare at my phone for an hour, and start making preparations to go to bed. The only difference between now and my social media fast, is that I’m using my phone to watch YouTube videos, read news articles more in depth, and I’ve dedicated more time than a normal person should, to studying the long-term weather forecast for the region. Speaking of that….
It’s been a good couple weeks of riding in February so far. I missed a few days due to some heavy rains. In Southern California, though, rain is a good problem to have. When heavy rain happens, I just hop on the stationary bike and pedal my guts out for 30 minutes. Thirty minutes is all I can really take on the stationary bike. I put my earbuds in, aim my bike towards the plasma screen on the wall, and watch surf videos, while I pedal. it ain’t glorious, but it’s exercise.
When the rain is light, or intermittent, I’m more apt to dress the part, and ride outdoors — which I did several times last week. So long as it isn’t heavy, riding in the rain is exhilarating. It also feels good to know I’m doing something few others are willing to do — to ride in a storm. There’s more than a handful of metaphors for life in that last sentence, but I’ll just leave it at that.
The week ahead is going to be clear and cool, but another storm system will begin passing through on Saturday. The inbound weather system looks to be four or five days in length, but appears to be packing less of a punch. I anticipate riding most days, unless things change, and the rain is heavier than expected.
Otherwise, it’s been a good week here in Fallbrook. I’m working more than I have in years. Like the heavy rains, working a lot is a good problem to have, so no complaining here. Below are some photographs of the area during and after our recent rains.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Vancouver‘s Red Umbrella. This band came and fizzled out quickly, nearly 20 years ago. A group my daughter introduced me to when she was a teenager, and I still listen to their two CDs regularly. It’s too bad they never really made it, but maybe that’s a good thing. Enjoy…!
A friend passed away recently — someone who had a significant influence in my life. Pete, and American ex-pat living in Australia, was roughly my age, and recently retired. A few months back, he set out to see more of the country that captured and kept him years earlier. Equipped with a modest camper-van, exceptional people skills, and the curiosity of a vagabond, Pete set out on the ultimate road trip.
He was free to turn left, turn right, or stop for the night, any time or any place he wanted. Via social media, Pete shared photographs along the way — the people, places, and scenery from his daily journey. At each stop, he’d hike along seaside cliffs, treelined trails, or spectacular waterfalls of the interior. Pete was just a couple months into his trip when he passed suddenly, of natural causes.
When I learned of Pete’s death, I was stunned. No loss of a friend has impacted me so deeply, so immediately. Not only did Pete and I interact daily, via social media, but we traded emails and messages frequently. Pete was a constant stowaway in my headspace — as though a part of him took up residence on my left shoulder, and stayed there for over a decade.
The thing is, Pete and I had never met — we’d never been in the same room, the same car, or even on the same continent. He was, though, a good friend. I thought of Pete often when I’d ride my bike, work in the yard, or when sitting on my porch, staring at the world passing me by. And that’s the upside of social media — it can make the world as small as the 7-inch screen in the palm of my hand.
I’ve been ruminating on this heavily since I learned of Pete’s passing — about what’s required in this era to know somebody, and how we define what a friend is, in a time when we can make so many friends so easily, and from so far away. I’ve been asking myself…
Does calling someone friend require we actually shake hands with them, sit down at the same table, share a cubicle, or go to a movie together…?
Nearly two decades after its inception, I wonder if there is really a difference between a Facebook friend and an analog friend…?
What is it, I keep asking myself, that truly defines friendship…?
In the early days of social media, we were told Facebook isn’t the real world, and Facebook friends aren’t real friends — not in the sense of how we defined friendship in 2006. Fast forward nearly two decades, and that’s no longer true. Some of the more influential people in my life have been people I’ve never been face-to-face with. These are people I value, and often feel I know on a deeper level than someone I might occasionally watch football with, or have lunch with every so often.
Friendship is simply the exchange of ideas, values, and interests, between two people who wish to share and receive them, via whatever medium is available — a restaurant table, or an instantaneous electronic impulse. What solidifies all of that, is trust. Trust is something we can only develop over time, by following our instincts, and being honest in our interactions. Being face-to-face is not required.
Last year, when another friend notified me, he’d lost his daughter to suicide, I couldn’t have been more clear in my response. I told him that I loved him, and I’d be available in any way he might need me. Like Pete, Andy, and I had never met, or ever stood on the same continent together. But the trust we have in each other, which developed over years of our wireless interactions, and our appreciation for each one another, are as strong as any analog relationships I maintain.
In this era, when societal norms are rapidly changing, it’s important to redefine outdated paradigms. Friendship is such a paradigm.?We are the only generation of human beings who get to redefine what friendship means as we transition into the digital era, and I take that responsibility seriously.
Through my online relationships, I’ve learned that you can love somebody, trust them, and believe in them, though they have never been at your side, or in the same room. And through understanding this, I’ve also learned we can spend a great deal of time with people, side-by-side, have the opportunity to get to know them, and never really do so. This has more to do with sharing ourselves, and receiving others, than it does with making eye contact.
Friendship begins with intention, and intention can be transmitted just as easily via a digital signal, as it can be across restaurant table. I know this now more than ever, because the pain and sadness I feel from Pete’s loss are as real as any I have ever felt.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Goose. Enjoy…!
In typical fashion, I’d like to close out the year, sharing my favorite photographs from my last 12-months, on and off the bike. In this case, though, it was really 11-months, since I’ve been sidelined since early December.
It’s tempting to define my 2023 by the last few weeks of my life, because it certainly what I’m thinking about most right now. However, 2023 was much more than a burst appendix and all the complications that go with it. This year there were trips to the East Coast, Mexico, a bicycle tour across Colorado, and a lot of local bike riding here in San Diego’s beautiful North County. I even did some urban rides in downtown San Diego, Chula Vista, and National City this year.
I’m probably another week or two from getting back on the bike. I look forward to starting the whole process all over again — riding, writing, taking pictures wherever I go, and sharing it all with people who are interested.
This year’s travel plans are on hold. I’ve made the decision not to leave Stroodle, now 22, while he’s still alive, so there will be no travel while he’s still here. I’ll get back to daily riding in a couple of weeks, and be available to Stroodle every night, and that’s going to be good enough.
For everyone who takes time to follow and read these, thank you very much for your support. Here’s to the best possible 2024 for all of us. These are my favorite pictures, in no particular order, from 2023.
Jhciacb
This is my favorite picture from the year. A Street musician in San Miguel de Allende. I offered him a few bucks if he’d let me take his picture, and he agreed. He then played a song that was very festive, and extremely smooth…
This year’s most played song: Won’t Forget These Days, by Furry In The Slaughterhouse
I didn’t realize this past Monday, that I’d be closing out my annual riding mileage at 7,293. Ididn’t realize it, because I still had 3 1/2 weeks to ride, and was knocking on the door of another 8,000 mile year.
You might have seen my post Wednesday morning, suggesting that I had the stomach flu, and missed a day of riding on Tuesday. In truth, I wasn’t sure if it was the stomach, flu or food poisoning, but I knew it was one of them. I woke up on the third day, though, experiencing stomach cramps, with a level of pain, I’ve never felt before. The day prior, two friends suggested it might be appendicitis. I dismissed that, because I’m a Cohen, and Cohens don’t listen to friends.
By 6am Wednesday, my pain was so severe I couldn’t sit still. I was heaving myself against walls, sitting, standing, trying to lay on the floor, and just walking around the house — anything I could to put my body any more comfortable position. None of that helped. This went on for nearly 30-minutes. I must have looked like David Banner after a speedball. At that point, I knew this was inconsistent with the stomach, flu or food poisoning.
As I was able to gain some momentary composure, I began to Google search symptoms of stomach cancer, bladder cancer, colon cancer, and a few others. No cancer I searched, came with the amount of pain that I was feeling. Then, on a whim, I googled symptoms of a ruptured appendix. Within 45-seconds of reading those symptoms, I called 911, and requested paramedics unit be dispatched to my house. They arrived in less than three minutes.
Because I stabilized quickly in the ambulance, with the benefit of fluids, I returned to thinking it was just the stomach flu. When the ER doctor pushed on the right side of my lower abdomen, and I went from zero to motherfucker in less than a second, appendicitis took over the conversation. The only question was if my appendix had leaked. Assuming it had, I was put on a course of intravenous antibiotics, and assigned a room overnight, with surgery scheduled for Friday morning.
One of the first questions the surgeon asked me was why I waited so long (a couple of days) to get to the hospital. I’m a Cohen, I told him, we don’t do stupid things half-assed. His Asian doctor humor was set to stealth mode. We discussed recovery. If there was leakage, and there appeared to be at least some, recovery would take longer, and be more complicated than just a regular appendectomy. Which brings me full circle…
The surgery was a success. There had been more than some leakage — it had burst, but did so in an organized fashion. That’s going to impact how long it takes for a full recovery. I can’t say enough about the quality and professionalism of every staff member assisting me at Temecula Valley Hospital. My guest room more compared to Hilton than a hospital. I can’t speak about the food — I haven’t eaten since Monday, but I have a feeling it’s going to be fine.
I probably won’t be back on a bike until after the first of the year. It’s also unlikely I’ll step into the weight room, other than to do some mild stretches and balance work, early until 2024. I should be able to return to work within one to two weeks, but even that I won’t rush. I need to do this right. 
This is the big reset for me, life-changing, and perhaps the biggest since my skydiving accident in 1993. I’ll spend the coming weeks investigating, extracting, and applying the lessons that will come my way as a result of this.
Last bike picture of the year…
I could have died on Wednesday morning. Throwing myself from wall-to-wall, and to the ground and back up again, I thought about calling my daughter to say goodbye. I didn’t want her to hear me that way, though. Better, I go out with a whimper in her mind. I can assure you, though, that was no whimper — I’ve never felt such pain. 
I want say a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to my friends and family, including  my social media friends. You’ve humbled me with your support, generosity, and the many offers assistance, both in the hospital, and beyond. I’ll definitely be accepting some help once I get home. Lesson number one this week: Accepting help is okay.
This is what I’ll think about for the next 3 to 6 weeks without riding… Jhciacb
Earworm For The Next Few Weeks: Whip Smart, by Liz Phair
Main Avenue in Fallbrook, is roughly one mile long. Riding down Main last evening, the street was lined with camp chairs, from one end to the other, on both sides of the street. Tonight is Fallbrook’s annual Christmas parade.
The tradition of using camp chairs to stake out one’s spot the day prior, precedes my 23-years here. Without fail, by midday on the Friday before the parade, the sidewalks along Main are jammed with camp chairs. Some have ribbons, balloons, or bows tied to them, so they can be easily identified, while others are just unique.
Our Christmas parade begins just after dark, on the first Saturday of each December. It’s everything you’d expect from a small town parade — marching bands, the local car clubs, equestrian groups, fire trucks, and floats sponsored by our many nonprofits, which support Fallbrook. Along with our annual Avocado Fedtival each spring, our Christmas parade helps to define this community — it’s a big deal here.
Because Fallbrook is spread out, most attendees have to load their cars, drive into town, and then go about the business of remembering where they placed their chairs. I’m lucky, I live just 60-yards off Main, and can walk to the parade in less than a minute. Many residents show up an hour or two before the parade begins, to socialize and to be seen. For our many restaurants, it will be the busiest evening of the year. Tonight will be my 23rd Christmas parade in Fallbrook.
In December of 2000, recently divorced, and lost in life, I drove into Fallbrook for the first time — on a whim. I stopped at Me & Charlie’s, a coffee shop on Main Avenue. I grabbed a bagel, a cup of coffee, and a copy of the local newspaper. I sat on the wooden patio of Me & Charlie’s, mesmerized by the movement of this community.
I was taken by the third-world charm of it all, and the duality of the obvious money which was also here. Tiny Guatemalan women, probably in their mid-teens, were pushing baby strollers up and down the sidewalk, while Escalades and Mercedes carried blonde people about town. Fallbrook is equal parts Guatemala City, and Rancho Santa Fe, with a pinch of rural Oahu thrown in.
Sitting at that coffee shop, having only been in Fallbrook a couple of hours, I made the decision to spend the rest of my life here. From an advertisement I saw in the local paper, I called on a guest house that afternoon, paid for it that evening, and moved in the following day. Several days later, I attended my first Fallbrook Christmas parade.
If I were to count the ups and downs of my life since moving to Fallbrook, the downs would have a clear advantage. Early on, I created a life here that was selfish, and loaded with bad ideas. Somehow, though, I managed figure it out, and put the bad ideas behind me. The ups in my life since, have been steady, and given me enough motivation to keep pursuing them.
Tonight I’ll attend my 23rd Christmas parade in Fallbrook. Some of the teenagers I met and worked with when I set up my business here, are now married, with children of their own. I was 39 years old when I moved to Fallbrook, but this is where I grew up. This is my home.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Yesterday’s Earworm: Til Next Time, by Fallbrook’s own Anthony Cullins
When I’m hit by a depressive spell, it’s like being suddenly surrounded by an unseen enemy, fluid, stealth, and able to track my every action — kind of like the Predator, from the movie of the same name. I have no idea where it is, but I know it’s there. I can chase it away, but that requires strength, the right tools, and some creative planning on the fly.
A friend asked me recently if I’d ever taken medication for my depression. I explained that I did, for a short time in the early 2000s, a drug called Neurontin. It took away my lows, to a degree, but it also took away my highs, my mediums, and everything in-between. During that period, I felt less energetic, unmotivated, and unable to feel too much of anything.
After several months, and fearful I was turning into a zombie, I made the decision to discontinue the drug, though not in favor of trying another. That was the day I decided to create a life, to the best of my ability, that put me in a better mood. I looked for ways to minimize my lows, but still allowed me to experience the highs, the mediums, and everything in-between.
I leaned into Lloyd Dobler, the main character in the movie, Say Anything. Years earlier, a line from that movie struck me, and stuck with me. Dobler, played John Cusack, asks his sister…
“How hard is it to be in a good mood — to decide to be in a good mood, and just be in a good mood…?”
I began to create a life that, throughout each day, I’d choose activities, be around people, select foods, and create a mindset, that would put me in a better mood. In hindsight, this wasn’t so much about treating my depression, as it was about elevating my mindset. If I was in a more elevated state when depressive episodes hit, I wouldn’t fall as far. I think there’s something to that.
That transition wasn’t immediate. I didn’t suddenly become an expert on treating my lows, or become the conqueror of my own depression — anything but. Extreme lows, suicidal thoughts, and bouts of anger and frustration would still manifest regularly — for years. I never gave up, though, on the process, or the idea of deciding to be in a good mood, and just being in a good mood. Twenty years later, I’m still fine-tuning it.
Of course, physical activity has been the battering ram I use each day to break down the doors of being in a good mood. Every time I do something physical — strength train, walk, stretch, or ride a bike, it elevates my mood. Two nights ago, I skipped my bike ride, ordered a pizza, and watched television. It should come as no surprise that the following morning, I woke up feeling low, frustrated, and wishing I didn’t exist.
Conversely, yesterday I ate well, took a short walk, rode my bike, and spent an hour in my weight room. I also reached out to a few important people in my life. This morning, despite waking up at 3am, to the sound of a dog needing to go outside, I feel good — positive, and ready to take on the day. I’m in a good mood, because I just decided to be in a good mood.
There’s no doubt that depression will show up at some point later today, and slap me on the back of the head, across the face, or kick me in the nuts. And I will fall, absolutely. I know in advance, though, that I won’t fall as far, and that I’ve got the tools that, once I get up, to put myself back in a better mood.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Yesterday’s Earworm: In Your Eyes, by Peter Gabriel
Christmas came early yesterday, and I had a 4-hour break early in the day. I can’t remember the last time I rode without a sunset being involved.
I headed to the Pala indigenous community, and enjoyed what’s going to be the last of the 80° days for a while. Rain is coming tonight, and will be intermittent for the next few days. Hopefully it won’t be so heavy that it prevents me from getting out, but time will tell.
I rode just under 40-miles — nothing that required extra fuel. Still, on the way back I did something I rarely do when I ride that direction — I stopped for a snack at the Pala Casino Market. I didn’t need the Gatorade or protein cookie, but I did need an excuse to sit and keep time standing still for a while longer. A snack in the sun would be the perfect excuse.
There are tables outside the market, and I took one directly in the sun, with Palomar Mountain ahead of me in the distance. I removed my helmet, my shoes and socks, and put my feet on the table, leaning back on the fence just behind me. As perfect moments go, it was as perfect as it gets. The protein cookie I purchased was “birthday cake“ flavored.
I don’t know what kind of chemistry or witchcraft was involved in making that cookie, but it smelled like a birthday cake. I didn’t even eat it for a while. I just kept holding it under my nose and breathing it in. Several people entering and leaving the market, took notice of me smelling the cookie. I’m sure I looked strange.
I thought about canceling the rest of my day, and extending the ride another 20-miles, but responsibility got the better of me. After a few minutes of smelling the cookie, I ate the thing, laid back against the fence again, and let the sun shine on my face. Eventually, I put my helmet and shoes back on, and hit the road. For the record, I stashed my socks in my shoulder bag.
Time is currency to me, and yesterday I got a little windfall of time. Just like I do with my money, I don’t let it sit around for long. I spent that free time as soon as it came my way, and I have no regrets. I could’ve done a little yardwork, caught up on some laundry, or cleaned my studio. Instead, I went out to play. If it happens again after the rains pass, I’ll do the same thing.
Oh, and in case, you’re wondering… The lime-cucumber flavored Gatorade, tasted exactly saline and lettuce.
If you’re gonna say it, you gotta live it. When I made the decision to get rid of my car earlier this year, it wasn’t a hardship. I live several hundred yards from the nearest market, the hardware store is even closer, and there are a dozen restaurants within walking distance. If my aim is good and the wind is right, I can hit 7-Eleven with a frisbee, from my driveway.
5am at Oceanside Harbor…
For greater distances, or anything not available in Fallbrook, I have a bicycle for every occasion — with panniers to carry my goods, and even a small trailer for cargo, when necessary. So living without a car, I haven’t missed a beat. Things just take a little longer, but there’s value in that too. Well, until I remember the nearest airport is 65-miles from my driveway.
Sixty-five miles isn’t a long bike ride, but generally, especially traveling to the East Coast, I like to take the first flight out in the morning. That would mean getting on a bike at roughly midnight, to meet a 6am flight. I wouldn’t even be opposed to that, but a mechanical breakdown at 2am, halfway between Fallbrook and San Diego, isn’t something I’d risk, not wanting to miss my flight, or get murdered by a transient.
A good compromise: A bike, a train, and then a plane.
The Junta. The kitty is the ringleader…
It’s vacation week for me. Off to Philadelphia, to see my daughter…
Wednesday evening, after a long workday, I booked a room at a motel at Oceanside Harbor, a mere 25-mile bike ride away. I left my home at 9pm. A majority of the ride took place on a bike trail that parallels the San Luis Rey River. Riding that trail after dark was fabulous. The trees growing along the riverbed, give it a Sleepy Hollow feel. The inbound fog from the coast only added to the mystery of the surroundings. I was the only bike on the trail, and ran my headlight at full-tilt, lighting up everything in front of me for 30-yards.
It was cool, but not cold. The periphery of the bike path was lit by the glow of campfires and cell phones, helping keep the homeless community of the riverbed warm and well-connected — as necessary for them as it is for me. I was enjoying the ride so much, I gave consideration to riding all the way to San Diego, just so I could experience a complete coastal night ride. I was getting sleepy, though, and wanted to be well rested for my trip.
Drexel Campus, Philadelphia…
Before checking into the motel at the harbor, I stopped at a convenience store for a diet Dr Pepper and microwave burrito, which served as my dinner in bed, after checking in. I clicked on the news of the day, long enough to remind me how crappy the world is, and how blessed I am despite that, and flipped the channel to a Spanish soap opera. I probably fell sleep within 15-minutes.
Out of bed at 4am, I took a quick shower, dressed, and carried my bike down a flight of stairs, where I got on it, and took a brief tour of Oceanside Harbor in the darkness. It was stunning to see the reflection of the sailboats, masts, and all the lights on the glassy water, under a partial moon and through intermittent fog. It instantly became my favorite way to see the Harbor.
My next destination was the Oceanside Transit Depot — just a few miles from where I spent the night. There, I waited, still in darkness, for the first train of the day, to downtown San Diego, scheduled to depart at 5:16 am. The San Diego Coaster might be the most scenic commuter train in the country, but not in the dark. I put my bike on the rack in the front of the train, took a seat, and fell asleep for the journey south. The Coaster stops in Old Town San Diego — site of the first Spanish settlement on the West Coast.
Too dark to take any pictures in Old Town, it was back on my bike for the 7-mile ride to the San Diego airport, where I’d lock my bike for the next five days, in trust that it’ll be there, intact, when I return. I attached the frame of the bike to the rack with a U-Lock, and bound the two wheels together, with a separate cable lock. If somebody gets it, they will have earned it. I got to my gate on time, and did so without driving a car.
Knowing I had the trip ahead of me, a half-dozen friends offered to give me a ride to the airport. Some, insisted with serious intent. Though I was grateful, I was never tempted to say yes to the offers. Many people can’t relate to it, but that’s where the stuff of choosing a different lane in life is…
It’s parking my bike in the kitchen after the market, and unloading the groceries from the panniers directly into the refrigerator. It’s connecting a handlebar basket for my dog, and letting his face turn into the wind as we ride to his weekly veterinary appointment. It’s the ride on the haunted bike trail, on my way to the airport after a long day’s work.
On my return, I’ll repeat the process in reverse. I’ll be anxious to get home, but I’ll spend a little more time in Old Town — to take some pictures in the light of day, and enjoy being a tourist on my bike, if only for a while, before I turn it back into my primary form transportation.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Yesterday’s Earworm: Black Fingernails, Red Wine, by Eskimo Joe
Epic ride into the sunset last night. All of the pictures below were taken on a single bike ride. This is why I do it — not so I can take the pictures, but so I can see the things I’m taking pictures of; people, landscapes, and wildlife, even if the wildlife is a semi-domesticated.
I rode just shy of 50-miles last night, half of it into a setting sun, and the other half after dark. I rode to Oceanside Harbor, with a stop at Guajome Lake on the way back. I was stoked from the time I left my driveway, until I crawled into bed.
Last night, I went over the 50,000-mile mark on my riding app, MapMyRide, which I began using in 2017. It’s a stupid milestone, but a milestone, nevertheless. Though I got off to a slow start this year, I’m on track to close the year out at 8200 miles. Not my best, but respectable.
Earlier in the day, I’d spoken with my riding partners, Tim and Ashley, about our cross-country trip, which was to begin in mid-May. Due to a business opportunity for Tim, which will begin for him in May, we’ve decided to begin our trip earlier, probably in late March. That time of year, though, riding across the northern tier of the country, would be prohibitive due to weather.
We’ve chosen a faster, warmer, and more direct route, from Oceanside, California to Jacksonville, Florida. Conceivably, this can be done in about 25-days, even carrying gear. There’s also a possibility that a couple of other people we will be joining us, and maybe even a chase vehicle involved. More on that later.
I’ve never enjoyed riding a bike more, whether I’m doing my day rides which are usually 23 to 25 miles, or my weekend rides, which are usually 50ish. There’s just a stoke I get riding, that I never found surfing, hiking, running, or even in the weight room. There’s something magical about riding a bicycle, and that magic has never manifest more than it has these last few months.
At some point, I may not be able to do this — I may become injured, incapacitated, or be inflicted with some disease that I can’t control. So for right now, every day that I can wake up and ride, I will wake up and ride, because it sure beats binge watching anything.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Yesterday’s Earworm: Come on Come On, by Mary Chapin Carpenter
In the immediate days after Russia began its war against Ukraine, we saw the duality of war in real time. There were pictures of people hiding in soviet era bomb shelters. We saw images of apartment buildings and hospitals blown apart. We read stories of execution style raids on Ukrainian soldiers.
At the same time, we saw images of people shopping, working in restaurants, pumping gas, and skateboarding — as best they could, knowing a missile could strike near them at any moment. It wasn’t that the whole country was under siege, but the limited siege could show up anywhere, at any time.
As best it can in Ukraine, life goes on.
When I consider all that’s going on in America today, I wonder if that might be in our near-future. Fast forward to the days after the November 2024 election. Although there may be a peaceful transfer of power at the federal level, maybe, many Americans won’t accept the election results, regardless of who wins, because that standard has been set.
The civil unrest in this country that will follow the next election, will be the worst we’ve ever seen. It’s just my opinion, but 2024 is going to be 1968 on steroids. Think Northern Ireland in the 1970s, Central America anytime in the last 80 years, and Africa in the 20th and 21st centuries.
Civil Wars don’t require battlefields and militaries, just armed factions with a bit of spending money, and a continual supply of discontented souls who’s priorities are out of whack. And just like pacific storms in winter, civil wars can be very localized — the dark clouds overhead can be vast but the rain might just fall here and there.
As I’ve watched the duality of war in Ukraine, and the simultaneous decay of civility among our elected leaders, I’m glad I was paying attention to Ukraine — it’s given me at least some idea what I might expect in the coming years. I don’t think I’m too far away from going on a bike ride, but with my head on a swivel, just in case one of those factions of discontent starts playing the devils game here at home.
If I’ve learned anything from watching Ukraine in the last year and a half, it’s that hospitals may get blown to pieces, but in the distance, there’s usually still a kid on a skateboard, or a couple on their first date, trying to convince themselves that life goes on.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from CCR…
Shortly before I rode Friday, I got a call from an old friend, Mike. He checks in every so often. He and my older brother were good friends in grade school, high school, and beyond. I’ve known Mike since I was in the 1st grade, when he and my brother were in the 5th. All these years later, it’s nice to still be connected. And we still connect face-to-face, when the opportunity presents itself.
Mike and my brother were formative in each other‘s lives growing up. On a visceral level, I believe each still bears the fingerprints of the other, at least to a degree. Me being the tagalong younger brother, I got on their nerves more than was tolerable or acceptable to them. Little brothers have a way of clinging on, wanting to be like the big kids, but in an annoying kind of way. I wanted to be like Mike and my brother — both excelled at irreverent behavior, making mischief, and oddly enough, leadership.
To subdue my attempts at riding on their coattails, they’d rough me up a bit here and there, both mentally and physically. I probably deserved more than they gave me, though, don’t think it was in anyone’s best interest the day they stuffed me down the laundry chute — from the upstairs bathroom in the house I grew up in, to the basement, three stories below. I was 10.
One of the reasons I value my friendship with Mike, is because I respect him. He’s one of those guys who’s done things the right way. After high school, he joined the Navy, transitioned into college, and had a successful career in the grownup world. He retired at 62, and spends his spare time on home-improvement projects, and flying his lightweight aircraft. Mike has a great work ethic, is an informed decision maker, and knows the difference between right and wrong. He, like my brother, is a good example of work hard, and doing the right thing.
Talking with Mike before riding the other day, primed me for thinking about the friendships which formed early in my life, and still continue today. That list is long. I’m a soon-to-be Social Security recipient, yet, many of the relationships I value most today, were forged between the ages of 6 and 17. I think that’s magical — that the seeds of so many friendships planted in the 1960s and 1970s have matured into massive trees today, strong, sturdy, and supportive when called upon, just like the trees of time.
I won’t name names here, but if you’re reading this, and we met between 1969 and 1981, you’re part of the forest.
That’s not to discount the friendships that formed in my adult life. Many of those are just as strong and just as meaningful. There’s something, though, about knowing somebody for most of my life, and still being connected. It reminds me friendships are a big part of what we’re here for. It also tells me I must be doing something right, to stay connected with somebody for so many years, and so too must they be doing something right. Like I said, magical.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Miles: 200.00
Climbing: 10,500’
Mph Avg: 14.6
Calories burned: 11,135
Seat Time: 13 Hours 44 Minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Micky Braun. Enjoy…
Our ambition was simple; a challenging tour, with beautiful scenery, lots of miles, to earn some serious climbing, and do it in a short amount of time. Tim built the perfect route — a loop through the mountains of central Colorado.
The tour began in Larkspur, would pass through Colorado Springs, Manitou Springs, Woodland Park, Florissant, Buena Vista, Salida, Cañon City, Colorado Springs again, and back to Larkspur. We prepared to camp, but were open to motels, depending on where and how our days ended.
Day1…
I booked a room near Denver International Airport. My intention was to unbox my bike at baggage claim, and ride to the Days Inn DIA. It would be a chance for me to check my gear, and get a few miles in before starting the tour the following morning. When I unboxed my bike though, I saw the rear derailleur had been broken in transit. After calling a half-dozen area bike shops, I found the part I needed at a shop in downtown Denver.
I canceled my hotel at DIA, and Uber’d, with bike, to downtown Denver. Trek Bicycle Denver put me to the head of the line. I got a hotel nearby, while the Trek crew got my bike squared away. After dinner, I rode from downtown Denver, to the neighborhood I grew up in. I felt the altitude slightly, but the bike worked flawlessly. I enjoyed a little urban riding in downtown Denver before going back to hotel. Denver is as vibrant as it’s ever been.
Day 2…
Tim and Ashley picked me up early from the hotel, and we headed to Larkspur, where our journey began. Our first day was short — a way for me to acclimate to riding at altitude, and for us to get some kinks worked out with our gear. We spent most of the day riding the Santa Fe Recreation Trail, which extends from Southeast Denver, all the way to Colorado Springs. The trail is mostly gravel, which slowed us down, but on a short day, no big deal.
Off the Santa Fe Trail, we did a loop through the Garden Of The Gods, which, just before sunset, couldn’t have been better. The red rocks of the region always look best in evening light. We spent the night in Manitou Springs at the Eagle Inn. After checking in, we met Jean-François, who had ridden his motorcycle from Montreal to Colorado Springs, in just four days. Jean-François is on an epic motorcycle journey across the western United States. As we prepared to leave in the morning, Jean-François was mounting a 6-foot overhead extension to his motorcycle, with a camera capable of capturing 360° views. He planned ride to the summit of Pike’s Peak later that morning, and take panoramic photographs from the top.
Few things on the tour, pleased me more than seeing this sign in front of the house, while walking through Manitou Springs
Day 3…
We began climbing immediately out of the motel parking lot in Manitou Springs. We spent most of the day climbing. There were a few courtesy descents, but climbing as what we came for, and climbing was what we got. We stopped for 30-minutes in the town Woodland Park, mostly so I could score some V-8 juice, which I’d been without for nearly two days — the horror.
The scenery along the way was magnificent. Growing up in Colorado, and having driven those roads many times, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it look so beautiful. I caught myself, several times, about to ride off the road because my head was on a swivel looking at the green mountainsides and snowcapped peaks. The broken clouds above, provided contrast and texture to the scenery.
We intended to camp that night outside the town of Florissant, on the far side of Wilkerson Pass. Exhausted from climbing though, we chose to camp, illegally, at a rest area at the top of the pass. Dinner consisted of Tagine, which Tim and Ashley prepared ahead of time, freeze-dried, and reconstituted with water once in camp. It was amazing, truly.
Note: I learned that when one puts V-8 juice in a bicycle water bottle, even if thoroughly cleaned, whatever goes in that water bottle going forward, will taste like V-8 juice.
Tagine, anyone…?Atop Wilkerson Pass… They didn’t know I can’t be trusted with hummus…
Day 4…
We woke to a stunning sunrise, cascading over Pike’s Peak, from our 10,000-foot vantage point 40-miles to the west. We broke camp and hit the road shortly after. I left wearing three longsleeve t-shirts, full-finger gloves, and a thermal beanie under my helmet. Tim was in a short sleeve t-shirt. That’s what separates a San Diego guy, from someone raised in the mountains of Colorado.
From the top of Wilkerson Pass, we enjoyed a 20-minute descent into the town of Florissant. I hardly kicked for the first 3 or 4 miles. We stopped in town for breakfast and coffee, and enjoyed talking with some locals. We met a young woman — a professional dog trainer. Her black-and-white border collie, Tico, might be the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen.
Our next stop would be Hartsel, where we stocked up on fluids and calorie-dense snacks for the climbing ahead. In-between, we climbed Trout Creek Pass, at just under 10,000-feet, before pushing into Buena Vista. Again, the scenery was spectacular. For much of the trip, we paralleled a rail-line from the mid-1800s. Nearly 200-years later, many of the structures that supported that rail-line are still standing, though scarcely intact.
In Buena Vista, we stopped for a late lunch at Wayno’s Burger Wagon — something slightly more than a food truck, with covered seating, and a porta-potty out back. The veggie burger was excellent. Wayno, himself, served us. He was an easy-going guy, who looked more like a retired insurance broker from Poughkeepsie, than a local, and probably was.
From Buena Vista, we rode the final stretch of the day into Salida, where we stopped for the night, choosing a motel, rather than camping, so we could shower. All the climbing from the two days prior, had turned us into rolling street urchins. The stretch between Buena Vista and Salida was the highlight of the day for me. A valley of agriculture, surrounded by massive snowcapped peaks, at the height of spring, was spectacular.
Pike’s Peak in the distance, from the top of Wilkerson Pass… Surely they must not have known I can’t be trusted with hummus…Tico — as handsome as he is wise…Morning bed-head, at 10,000 feet…
Day 5…
After breakfast in Salida, with Tim’s friend Dave, who lives there, we hit the road. If you’re ever in Salida, Robin’s is the bomb for breakfast. My brûlée‘d grapefruit was off the hook. Something I love about small towns, is they often haven’t surprisingly cosmopolitan restaurants. Robin’s is definitely on that list.
From Salida, we began a descent that extended nearly 50-miles. We had to kick most of that time, but it was easy pedaling, and for much of it, we glided. Gravity pulled us slightly downhill, alongside the Arkansas River, for the better part of three hours. It might’ve been the best three hours I’ve ever spent on a bike.
A Quick Physics Lesson…
Tim and Ashley ride a tandem bike, which is heavier than mine. They also carry more gear, which makes them that much heavier. In our quest for terminal velocity, Tim and Ash had the upper-hand. We spent most of that section, from Salida to Cañon City, riding separately. They stopped every so often, and allowed me to catch up, only to have gravity take them away again. At one point, they were nearly 5-miles ahead of me — all pedaling with equal intensity.
Before stopping in Cañon City for the night, we took time to visit the Royal Gorge bridge — the highest suspension bridge in the United States. If we were going from river level, to the height of the highest suspension bridge in the country, which crosses that river, there was going to be some steep climbing. After gliding for nearly 3-hours though, our legs were rested, and the climbing was fun — we just didn’t realize it was fun until after it was over.
A popular tourist stop, the Royal Gorge bridge is no longer open for automobile traffic, as it was when I was a kid. It now receives thousands of visitors per day. Tim found an agent from the Parks Service, who opened a side gate, and let us bring our bicycles through. We rode 1000-feet over the Arkansas River, with video cameras in-hand. People stared. It’s not easy to drive to the Royal Gorge bridge, and folks were astonished we did it on fully loaded bicycles.
At the far end of the bridge, we stopped and met a nice family from Commerce City — a retired truck driver, his wife, and their two grandchildren. We chatted for a while, they took our picture, and we thanked them — also thanking him for being a truck driver. Walking our bikes back across, we met a 14-year-old black lab, named Lilly. She was soaking wet, having found the fountain outside the visitor’s center. A lab’s gotta lab, even at 14.
Leaving the bridge, we descended once again, to Cañon City, and found a charming motel at the exit end of town. Dinner was a walk-up Mexican restaurant, inside a gas station. Ashley selected it, based on reviews, and it didn’t disappoint. Great food, and a lovely woman at the counter. We took the food back to the motel, stretched out on our beds, and ate like pigs until it was time to turn the light out.
Royal Gorge Bridge…Lilly the lab…
Day 6…
What I anticipated being the most ordinary day of the tour, was anything but. We left Cañon City a little after 8am, and rode State Highway 115 toward Colorado Springs. The highway has been under construction, being widened, for a couple of years. After climbing, all morning, we were gifted a stretch of road, probably 7-miles long, that was finished, but cars weren’t allowed on it yet. We had the road to ourselves as we descended into Colorado Springs. Not only was that fun, but it kept us from having to ride through a very narrow construction zone for that same distance.
We stopped for snacks at a convenience store near Fort Carson. Tim noticed a pile of credit cards on the ground outside the store. He gathered them, and took them to the clerk inside. Moments later, a man drove up and parked in a hurry. Tim asked if he had lost his wallet, and the man said yes. Tim explained that he just took his credit cards into the clerk, but the man looks confused. A few minutes later, he exited, wallet in hand, but it was a complete wallet, not just the cards we found. It appears two men lost wallets at the same convenience store in a matter of minutes. Not sure if the man who dropped all those cards was ever reunited with them, but it was time for us to move on
Back on the road, we headed for Larkspur, our destination, which was also our starting point. Navigating through Colorado Springs was difficult. The best options for getting from Colorado Springs to Larkspur, are to take a dirt trail and have difficulty riding, or make an arc, east of the city, but with easier riding on rural roads. We chose to go around the city.
This wasn’t far from where I grew up, and I’m familiar with the weather this time of year — which can be unpredictable, and occasionally violent. As we climbed toward Douglas County, the skies developed in a way that wasn’t just threatening, it was eminent. There was going to be rain, lightning, hail, and possibly tornadoes. The only question was whether we’d make it to our destination before it began.
We had come nearly 300-miles, and experienced nothing but great weather the entire tour. But God wanted me to have something to write about. As it usually does, the rain started with just a few drops. I was convinced, with just a few miles left, and the sky still being broken, we’d make it before things got worse. Within a few minutes though, the broken skies became a gray mass, hail began falling as lightning flashed, and the wind changed direction by the moment. There was virtually no place to shelter.
Tim asked if I wanted to stop and put on rain gear, which I did not. I stopped long enough to move my phone to a location where it wouldn’t get wet, and that was really the only thing I was worried about.
Good news…
Now that we were in a downpour, it was time to turn on to a dirt road for the last mile and a half of our journey. The rain and hail only got heavier, as the mud flew from under our tires. The three of us were dressed in shorts and t-shirts. As the hail intensified, it battered our helmets, forearms, and knuckles. Descending a stretch of the dirt road, and a fairly high rate of speed, my disc brakes were so wet they were no longer functional. I rode past Tim and Ashley screaming…
“I don’t have brakes. I don’t have brakes. I don’t have brakes…“
There was one moment I was certain I was going to lose control, at probably just under 30 mph. I leaned my bike to the right, put my foot down, dragging it through the dirt and mud, which eventually stopped my bike. I pedaled back to my partners and explained I’d have to ride to our destination, now just a half-mile away, slowly.
When we arrived at Scott and Jenn’s house, Scott, not knowing we were around the corner, was out front of checking the volume of water flowing from his roof. When he turned and saw us, he directed us immediately to the garage, which we did. We were soaked, but the tour was done. High-fives all around. I was shaking like a Parkinson’s patient with the DTs. Scott set us up with hot tea. While he and Tim grabbed pizza, I took a warm shower, to keep hypothermia from setting in.
Two Coasties, riding through a landlocked state…, Completely soaked, after riding through 3-miles of rain, hail, and wind…
Prologue…
No tour compares to any other. Last year we rode across the Mojave Desert during the hottest week of the year. That came with good times and challenges, as riding through the mountains of Colorado also came with good times and challenges. I say this every year…
The best part of touring is the people we meet along the way, and very often their pets. There’s also the critters we see along the roadside — horses, llamas, burros, cattle, and so-on. We saw an antelope outside Florissant, who was having difficulty getting past the fence on either side of the road. Eventually, he found a wildlife under-crossing, and danced his way across the chaparral. There were at least two occasions though, when I thought he was going to be hit by a passing pick up truck.
We met a shabbily dressed East Indian man, with an average bicycle, on the trail outside Colorado Springs. He asked for help changing a flat tire, but wasn’t dressed for cycling. I thought it was a trick, and he was either going to rob or kill us. Turns out he’s a professor of civil engineering at Cal State Fullerton. We exchanged email addresses, and talked about having lunch and going for a ride sometime when he returns from his summer in Colorado Springs.
It was fantastic meeting Jean-François, from Quebec. He seemed genuine, and relentlessly positive during our conversation. We connected, via Facebook, shortly after meeting. It’s been fun to follow his motorcycle adventure across the western United States. I’m not sure I’ll ever find myself in Montreal, but if so, he’s the first person I’ll reach out to connect with. Safe travels, Jean-François
Jean-François, from Quebec. Safe travels, friend…!
Surprisingly, the altitude never bothered me, not while riding anyway. Little things like brushing my teeth, walking up stairs, and putting on my shoes got me noticeably winded. Riding up Wilkerson pass, and the others, I never felt the altitude, though it probably wore me down cumulatively.
Everywhere we went, people commented on Tim and Ashley‘s tandem bike — such a spectacular sight. I felt like a buck-tooth orphan with a limp every time. Hey, what about me, I have a bike too…🤷🏼♂️
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from David Wax Museum. Enjoy…!
With so much talk about the potential for AI having its way with the world, and everyone in it, I got to thinking while riding yesterday, what are we really afraid of…? Is it that AI is going to take control of the world, everything in it, and crush its inhabitants into the ground…? Or, are we just fearful that something else is taking over the job that human beings have been doing for the last 15,000 years…?
Como se llama, llama…?
We’ve turned aurochs into cows, wolves into Chihuahuas, and maze into Coca-Cola. We’ve turned forests into housing tracts, burned holes in the ozone, and a blown up entire cities, because we wanted to teach a handful of people a serious lesson. When I think about AI, it doesn’t scare me much — I mean, in comparison to human leadership.
AI will probably contribute more to solving the climate crisis than human beings have, to this point anyway. It’s likely that AI will find cures for diseases that exhausted researchers might be prone to overlook. AI has the potential to find answers to many of the problems that confront us, and at speeds human beings are incapable of.
AI might level the justice system a little more evenly. AI will very likely be a better bookkeeper than The United States Office Of Budget Management. And the most likely solutions to the immigration problems around the world, are going to be silicon-based. AI might even write the greatest American novel, yet.
When it comes to solving the hunger problem, issues with poverty, and homelessness, I think AI is better equipped to find legitimate solutions than humans are. When I consider a graduated distribution of wealth, based on merit, I think AI will conceive a better system than a handful of fat cats sitting around a boardroom table, in a hurry to get home to their Courvoisier.
So when I think about AI, and its potential for disastrous results, I give it a pass until it proves me wrong. I’m not sure it’ll do much worse than its human predecessors have to this point. And if your argument is that AI is going to enslave us all, and make our lives worse, isn’t that where we’re already headed…? I’m willing to take that risk.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from AI. Enjoy…!
I sat down to write this morning, but the thing I write about most, cycling, didn’t happen yesterday. Still, the compulsion to write during morning coffee is still in me. It’s not just part of my daily structure, writing and sharing my thoughts each day have become my identity. And the thing that gives my life the most satisfaction, sadly, is feeding that identity.
My identity should be the people I love, the way I love them, and the things I do for others. My identity should be my work, my actions in my community, and my willingness to put others ahead of me. All of those would make a worthy identity. I recognize this and think about it every day. The identity I covet though, and the only one I really pursue, is my social media identity.
I’m the guy in your feed who rides bikes, takes pictures, and shares all of that to an audience of dozens each morning. It makes me feel worthwhile that a handful of people, most of whom I’ve never met, see me and give me a little heart, a thumbs-up, or a happy face — can’t disappoint them. Really though, it’s myself I don’t want to disappoint. I need those thumbs-ups, those hearts, and those happy faces to fuel the ego that’s directly connected to that identity.
And that identity I covet so much, that fuels my ego, and that I’ve built my entire life around…? It’s also a ball and chain. Not only does that identity keep me from expanding beyond the sum of its components, but it makes me less approachable to others, in so many ways. I’m an island, tied to a 7-inch screen.
There’s times I want to shed the identity — to walk away and move on. But then my ego would starve, my self-worth would dwindle, and I’d turn to a life of apathy, self-pity, or gluttony. It’s kind of an all or nothing proposition with me — be the me I covet, or be the me I loathe. I just can’t seem to be the me I think I should be — the one that Muhammad, Confucius, or Jesus would look at with respect.
And the funniest part of all is that this identity I speak of — well, I’m probably the only one who sees it as my identity. Perhaps everyone else just sees me as me, and the things that I think define me, are just traits or quirks others see in me and accept, or not, but like me anyway.
This is what I think about when I think… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Glossary. Enjoy…!
My 3rd grade year was, perhaps, the most formative year of my life. Most of the questions, struggles, and dualities which haunt me today, began forming around the of age 8 or 9. Those were the years I learned about war, divorce, suicide, social unrest, and the destructive powers of alcohol and hard drugs.
Though I may have been exposed to all of those earlier, that was the time in my life when I became able to comprehend them. In 1970, the harsher side of life began to show up in my city, in my neighborhood, and even in my family. The innocent boy who’d previously been a wide-eyed spectator to the world, became absorbed as a participant.
During my 3rd grade year, the older brother of a classmate was killed in Vietnam. As shocking as that was, I was more confused, and saddened that my classmate had to go to school the next day. Perhaps mom and dad had no better way to create space to deal with their loss.
A well respected businessman from the neighborhood, when caught stealing money from the company he worked for, decided to take his own life rather than face a trial. His daughter, Connie, the cutest girl on my diving team, had a perpetual smile. She continued with diving practice after the loss of her father, but the smile gave way to a haunting stare which remained until her family moved away later that summer.
A kid who lived on the street behind me died of a drug overdose. I didn’t know it was a drug overdose at the time. To protect me, my parents told me he’d gotten sick on a trip to Estes Park with his parents. I’d later learn that, though he had been in Estes Park with his parents, he’d taken some (unspecified) drugs along the way — apparently too much.
Not long after, a kid from down the street drowned at a nearby lake. Again, to protect me, my parents told me that his legs got caught in some underwater vegetation that held him down. And again, I’d later learn later that he’d been drinking, passed out in the lake, and drowned.
It was in my 3rd grade year that my own parents, who’d previously said “for better or worse“, decided to void that contract, at least for a while. They’d actually done it once before, when I was in kindergarten, but I didn’t understand it at that time. In the 3rd grade though, it was a kick in the stomach that lasted for months. They would reunite, only to break up again, a couple of more times during my childhood.
The 3rd grade is when I began talking to myself. In part, because I enjoyed conversations with myself more than those I had with friends — I could be more creative, stretch truths, and call fantasies into order. But also, because what few friends I had, weren’t interested in what I had to say. The 3rd grade is when I developed my lifelong tendency toward isolation.
It was the year my teacher, Betsy Ridell, frustrated from me asking the same question several times over, pulled my head back so I could look her in the eye while she scolded me. She didn’t mean to cut my forehead with her fingernails, but when she saw blood, her disposition changed. My dad took it from there.
I was in the 3rd grade when the Beatles, who I’d only begun to appreciate, broke up. Songs like Come Together, Magical Mystery Tour, and Let It Be opened my ears and mind wider than I could have imagined. Don McLean be damned, when I heard that the Beatles broke up, it really was the day the music died.
Apollo 13, the most haunting thing I’d ever been exposed to, took place that year. Could anything be more frightening to a nine-year-old than astronauts floating into space for eternity, or until they ran out of oxygen…? One morning my mother told me about an earthquake in Peru that took 80,000 lives.…
“Some of them“ she said, “were probably Cub Scouts like you…“
Mom didn’t say that to scare me. I’m sure she hoped it would foster empathy. But I cried myself to sleep that night, and it didn’t want to go to school the next day.
And the riots of 1970…? My dad would have me believe that life outside suburbia was unsafe, and a place I should never go. The required evening news drove home a fear in me of the inner city, by watching it burn on television, that’s still with me today.
When I think about my doubts, fears, character flaws, and the visceral cynicism that underlies them all, it was the petri dish of my 3rd grade year which provided the perfect environment for it all to grow. And I think about that time in my life, and in the world, every day of my life.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Slightly Stoopid. Enjoy…!
Due to the the extensive interstate and non-interstate travel of my youth, through my teens, and into my adult life, when I fly anywhere in the United States and look down, I’m certain to have driven on the roads below.
Beyond the large and obvious landmarks of The Tetons, the Grand Canyon, and the Mississippi River, I always know what region I’m flying over, what towns and cities are below, and which roads break it all up. Flying over the United States is like being in a time machine that, in just a few hours, can visit every age of my life.
Last week, enroute to San Miguel de Allende, in the Mexican state of Guanajuato, my flying experience was changed. Flying over the interior of Mexico, though I’ve been on a few roads and through a few regions, was strange. No less spectacular than flying over the American southwest, but foreign. No hillside, lake, village, nor road seen from above had ever been in my view before.
I looked for all the usual suspects — Shiprock in New Mexico, Lake Mead, the Colorado River, but nothing. The land formations, washes, and all the towns and villages were a mystery. As I took it all in, I couldn’t help but think the natives looking out the windows in front of and behind me, might know every square mile. At one point, flying over a massive body of water, I tried to recall what the largest lake in Mexico was. It had escaped me that I’d be flying over the Gulf Of Baja. One of my favorite places on earth to be on the shoreline, is differently spectacular from above.
I thought about culture too. My daughter, an archaeologists, once told me that the word culture can’t be defined. I might’ve been the lone American male on my flight. I was also the only one in short pants with a ponytail. The other men, regardless of age, wore denim pants, leather shoes, and had well-groomed hair — and their shirts tucked in. Nearly every woman, regardless of age, had their dark straight hair pulled back in long ponytails. Despite my daughter’s edict to the contrary, I think that’s the very definition of culture.
My return flight, from Guanajuato to Tijuana was different — it was at night. Flying over the United States at night, I know well the difference between the lights of St. George Utah, Flagstaff Arizona, or the quad-cities of Illinois and Iowa. When I see a narrow line of lights stretching 100-miles in length from south to north, and it’s bordered by complete blackness to the west, I’m looking down on the cities of Colorado’s front range.
Flying over Mexico at night was guesswork. Dozens, hundreds of clusters of lights below were indistinguishable — just a scattering of small towns and villages flickered into the slowly moving horizon. A half-dozen large cities surprised me. Maybe they were home to a half-million or a million people — I don’t know. They existed though, in airborne anonymity to me. I had no idea where I was.
Last week’s trip is a story for another blog — or two. Flying to and from though, wasn’t so much a reminder of how small the world I live in is. It was a reminder that the world beyond my world, though not infinite, is spectacularly large — and largely unexplored by me.
This is what I think about when I fly… Jhciacb
If you dig it, please share and help spread the word. Oh, and there’s this from Graham Nash. Enjoy…!
All photos were taken with an iPhone 11, and with no color adjustments — only slight contrast adjustments when needed.
I spent a lot of my rolling time this week, thinking about Senator John Fetterman. More specifically, about the public perception of Fetterman‘s choice to take leave of his Senate seat, to address a mental health concern. Fetterman has dealt with depression, intermittently, throughout his adult life. According to sources, that depression became more severe after a recent stroke. Approximately 1/3rd of all stroke survivors experience some level of depression.
Members of the opposing political party, and some media outlets supporting that party, were quick to call for Fetterman’s resignation. They argued that someone dealing with a mental health issue was not fit to execute the responsibilities of that job. If living and dealing with mental a health issue precludes one from performing their job, at least half of America should be out of work, according to that reasoning. Fetterman’s decision to do what’s in the best interest of his mental health, is not only admirable, it was brave. It sets an example for others, that mental health should be addressed — like any other illness.
When past members of the senate and the house of representatives have dealt with physical issues such as heart disease, cancer, and other debilitating physical issues, their constituencies, as well as their contemporaries from both parties, have supported them. Failing to do this for a mental health issue sends a horrible message to the tens of millions of Americans who are already afraid to take that step into the hospital that Fetterman took last week — to get help.
This shouldn’t be a partisan or a media thing. The stigma associated with mental illness is the largest barrier between those who need help, and the help that’s available to them. That we stand up for and support people dealing with cancer, heart disease, and other physical illnesses, but wince or belittle someone who struggles with mental health, is to our national shame.
I’ve lived with mental health issues since I can remember. I can’t count the times that, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary day, I’ve thought about stopping whatever I was doing and checking myself into a hospital — because I felt I was profoundly incompatible with the world around me. And for that precise fear of being stigmatized, outcast, or perhaps put in the wrong level of treatment, I John Wayne’d my way through it, finding therapy in exercise, writing, and for 10 years of my life, through alcohol. Somehow, and by the grace of God, I’ve managed to stay ahead of it, though the shadow of depression still leans over me regularly.
Until we view and discuss mental illness in the same way we see cancer, heart disease, or rheumatoid arthritis, people will be afraid to seek treatment they need, and the problem will cascade, only to grow larger, and larger still. Regardless of your political persuasion, or what your agenda is in the voting booth, we should support Senator Fetterman in the same way we would support our own child. He set an excellent example for the millions of people who are hesitant to take the exact step that he took — a step that may have saved his life.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
If you dig it, please share and help spread the word. Oh, and there’s this from Tex Perkins and Murray Paterson. Enjoy…!
Facebook Prison changes a man. The moment that silicon door slammed behind me, a shudder ran up my spine — it came straight from the devil. When I heard that key slowly turn to close the cyber lock, my soul became void of love and emotion. Facebook prison is colder than a pimp’s heart.
I’d been there before — accused, tried, and convicted of so-called crimes I felt were innocent acts of simple amusement, misunderstood by the algorithms. There’s no judicial process in social media though, just an invisible kangaroo court that tilt the scales of justice toward the billionaires.
My first prison sentence was in June of 2021. I’d suggested in a Facebook comment thread that we should still burn witches. I received a six-day sentence. In hindsight, I see the foolishness of that remark. If I’d only suggested we drown witches, I probably could’ve gotten away with it. At the very least, if I’d used drowning instead of burning, I could’ve built a strong defense on my behalf.
In August of 2022, I got sent before the algorithms for the second time. I posted a GIF of the television character, Al Bundy, pretending to hang himself. That the GIF was available on Facebook to begin with, was never taken into consideration. I should’ve known better though — on social media, talking about anything violent, is as good as doing it. It’s like the algorithms are Catholic or something. Another six-day sentence.
Last week, someone posted a picture of a cat with a transparent cone on its head, showing its teeth in anger. I captioned the meme…
“I’m a martini, and I’ll kill you…“
I should have written…
“I’m a martini, and I’ll beat you up real real bad…“
Would’ve made all the difference.
On my first day in Facebook prison, my only meal was a meatball, with no sauce, just like Cosby got on his first day. I slept on a cold bed of stainless steel — with no blanket. My cell-mate was a deaf, mute with a nervous tick. He used his spork to carve the following sentence onto the cell wall…
“I’m in for using a potty word…“
All through my first night, I heard other prisoners coughing, crying, and lashing out — it was like in asylum in the third world. I just lay in my bed, shaking and wishing it were all a bad dream. The following morning I was issued me my first blanket — it was made of straw. Breakfast was a cucumber. I was shown to my job at the prison laundry, but given no instructions. I just sat all day, and huffed laundry soap.
On the fifth day, the algorithms contacted me via email — bad news. A seventh day had been added to my six-day sentence. I’d been caught attempting to create a false Facebook profile, as a way around my initial sentence. I was told that any further attempt, and I’d be given a life sentence. I thought of my brother, Mark, now in the third year of his life sentence, and the anguish my mother felt the day they closed the door behind him.
I’ve accepted my sentence and will serve it quietly. I’ll do my best to rehabilitate myself, and to resist the temptation to post questionable memes, use potty words, and make threats against witches. With good behavior I’ll be out Monday evening at 5:45 PST.
To those who’ve stuck with me, and believed in my innocence, I thank you. To everyone who’s reached out; your support in this lonely time has been invaluable. I’ll do my best to honor the trust you’ve shown me, by not putting myself in this position again. Ah, who am I kidding…? I’ll be back — I am a recidivist, repeat offender.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers :
Bikes Ridden: 4
Miles: 146
Climbing: 6,500’
MPH AVG: 15.0
Calorie: 8,200
Seat Time: 9h 45m
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from The Chesterfield Kings. Enjoy…
Mondays are busy days. When they’re over, I hit the road and attempt to decompress from the conversations of the day. Conversations go with the gig, but talking with different personalities all day, on a variety of topics, can scramble my brain.
My last Monday client though, well, he doesn’t talk much. He’s apprehensive to speak — because he’s unsure of everything. He lives with Alzheimer’s. He’s the only client who doesn’t come to my studio. I go to his house, because he’s unable to drive.
Despite that I see him twice a week, he doesn’t remember my name. He recognizes my face though, when we meet at the front door. He smiles as we shake hands, and he shows me to his home gym like an old friend. The moment we make eye contact, I sense he’s comfortable with me, even if a little confused. On a visceral level, he recognizes routine, and senses safety.
I ask him if he’s ready to exercise. Without saying a word, he nods in the affirmative. I explain the first exercise to him as though he’s never done it before. I then demonstrate it, because that dials him in. And so it goes for the next 55-minutes. I explain the exercise, demonstrate the exercise, and he subsequently performs them — perfectly.
Part of my approach in putting clients at ease, is by making conversation in-between exercises. Sometimes it’s light, other times we try and solve the problems of the world. With this client though, every question is a surprise that he has no answer for. So in-between exercises, the only thing we talk about is the exercise itself. Small talk isn’t an option.
And the thing is, despite that he can’t name the exercises, or even the trainer, he’s committed and works out hard. He lets me push him, and he enjoys it. The familiarity of being pushed, and the routine of it is a portal away from his dementia, if only for an hour. I often think if he had the stamina and I had the time, he’d exercise with me all day long. Throughout the workouts, the only words he speaks are to ask me if he’s doing the exercises properly. I reassure him, and do so with sincerity. Did I mention he’s in his 80s…?
And that’s the extent of it. I show up, we make eye contact, he works hard for an hour, and I leave. And though other clients might read this, I have no problem saying, my workouts with this man are often my best Monday sessions. Two people connect for a common cause, and both benefit. I have a client whose express purpose is to exercise properly. And he has a companion he feels safe with. Win/win.
This is what I think about when I ride…. Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 5
Miles: 116
Climbing: 5,900’
Mph Avg: 15.4
Calories: 6,600
Seat Time: 7 hours 34 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from The Grip Weeds. Enjoy…
Some things I think about when ride, I just can’t write about. Some good friends are currently dealing with unimaginable adversity in their lives. Their pain is not my pain though, and their story isn’t my story to share. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about them — and feeling secondhand pain, which quickly turns into sadness.
When I think about my gratitude, for all I have and all I am, it’s often rooted in the adversity of others. It comes from the pain, trauma, and turmoil that life throws at people, who in all cases, aren’t deserving of it. As tragedy has struck my friends recently, it was a reminder that tragedy could knock on my door any day, unannounced, and dressed in black.
It constantly bubbles in the depths of my thinking — the whole idea that I’m just one phone call away from a really bad day, and a life changed forever. Some friends have received such phone calls lately, and my heart breaks for them, daily. It also reminds me how fortunate I am. I’m not sure where this comes from, or if it’s even normal, but when I see others facing trauma, I find comfort in my gratitudes.
Gratitude for my family, my pets, my home, and my livelihood. I have gratitude that I’m still able to dream and live to pursue those dreams, while others who’ve been struck by tragedy, find their dreams stifled, distant, and obscured by grief. Most days, I feel I have more than I deserve. I wish I could give that gratitude to my friends in need, but gratitude isn’t a form of currency.
I understand when tragedy hits somebody head-on, they’re not thinking in terms of gratitude, they shouldn’t be, and that’s not what I’m suggesting. What I am suggesting, is when somebody close to me experiences tragedy or trauma, and I’m tempted to glean their pain, I fight that temptation by embracing my gratitudes.
Anyway, I rode a bike yesterday and thought about some friends I love, and the phone calls that changed their lives forever. Be kind today, please.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 4
Miles: 123
Climbing: 6’100’
Mph Avg: 14.8
Calories: 6,900
Seat Time: 8 hours 20 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Rusted Root. Enjoy…
My final post for 2022. It’s been a fantastic year, on and off the bike. Rather than bore you with my usual end-of-year wrapup shtick, I’m simply sharing my favorite smartphone pictures from the last 12-months.
Many of these were taken during my daily bicycle rides, others from walks with my dog, and any pictures that look like they’re from beyond southern California, were taken on the two cross-country trips I took during the summer.
I thank you in advance for taking time to flip through these. You can click them to enlarge them, or just throw the whole thing in your trash file. All pictures were taken with an iPhone 11, and the only filters used were occasional contrast or brightness adjustments. There were no color adjustments on any pictures.
Wishing you all the very best in the coming year. Thanks again for taking the time…
Preface: I was born an East Coast Jew. My first job was as a sandwich maker in a Jewish deli, owned by an Austrian holocaust survivor. My father, also an East Coast Jew, ensured we had bagels each Sunday morning as far back as I can remember, up until I left home at 16.
There’s that whole game we play — if we were stranded on a deserted island for a year, what’s the first thing we’d want to eat after being rescued…?
Most of the guys I know would say a steak, pizza, lasagna, a mug of beer — stuff like that. Most of the women I know would say a kale salad and wouldn’t mean it. What they’d really want would be a baked brie and a glass of wine, but they’d never admit it.
Me…? I’ll take a bagel, but probably more than one. And after a year on a deserted island, I’ll take all the bagels, please.
Bagels are the best things on earth. Honest to God, I can’t think of a better thing to eat, whether I’m hungry or not. Not chocolate, not pizza, not a lobster tail, but a bagel. And just about any variety of bagel will do. The salt bagel is my preference, with plain being next, egg bagel, and then the everything bagel. But there’s no such thing as a bad bagel, only different levels of good.
But if I’d been stranded on a deserted island for a year, I wouldn’t want a bagel that’s been tainted with cream cheese, whitefish, or lox. That’s stupid. I could live to be a thousand years old and never understand why somebody would ruin a perfectly good bagel with dead fish and milk paste…🤷🏼♂️
There’s only one best way to eat a bagel and I’m going to share that with you now, per my previously mentioned qualifications…
You toast a bagel.
You toast it until it’s golden brown with a little black around the edges. Then, as soon as it comes out of the toaster, you cover it with butter — whipped butter, but not that unsalted shit. In fact, you sprinkle a little extra kosher sea salt onto the butter as it’s melting into the bagel.
Then you eat the bagel, and you eat it immediately. And in the case of a toasted, buttered bagel, it’s okay to eat it like a pig. You can make sounds that come from your mouth or nose — doesn’t matter. You can take enormous bites and tear the remaining portion away from your teeth like a caveman chewing the leg off of dead rabbit. Gosh, I’m getting worked up just writing about it.
Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about when I was riding yesterday. And I wanted to share my opinion with you, because I’m as qualified to tell you how to eat a bagel as anyone you know. Now go enjoy a perfectly toasted, hot, buttered bagel. You can thank me later.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Big Head Todd And The Monsters. Enjoy…
Before I leave to ride each afternoon, I put one of the critters in charge of the house while I’m gone — to ensure no intruders get in. I sit on the sofa between Mischa Kitty and Stroodle Dog and it goes like this…
“Mischa, you get the nod today. Stroodle will be your lieutenant and backup if needed, but otherwise it falls on you. Use your cunning first, and your ability to reason. Use your teeth and claws only if you need to. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours. When I return, you can have the evening off…”
On the days Stroodle gets the nod, Mischa is lieutenant and backup. On Sundays they both get the day off, but are essentially on-call when I’m gone.
Before I close the door, I ask if either one has any questions. Neither has ever asked me a question — a sign of their respect for my authority. As I pedal from the driveway I’m confident that, whoever’s in charge, my home is in good hands. Ehr, good paws.
Stroodle is 20 now, and slowing down. In our time together, we’ve shared seven homes. In that time he’s flawlessly protected each one. As I’m now contemplating my own retirement, it occurs to me that Stroodle’s working days should be behind him. He’s paid his dues.
Before I left yesterday, I sat with Mischa and Stroodle and had an overdue discussion. I explained to Stroodle that his working days are done. Mischa, now 9, was handed the torch. In time, I told her, there will be another critter, most likely a dog, to share the responsibilities. However, for the foreseeable future, it’s going to be her gig. She’ll still get Sundays off, and on the days Mischa’s not feeling well, Stroodle can pick up a shift here and there if he’s up for it.
It may seem eccentric or even crazy that I talk to my critters this way, and that they have assigned responsibilities. The ritual is good for all of us though — it’s a way that we bond through the sound of my voice, and it gives them a sense of purpose, And for a small portion of my day, somebody actually listens to me.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Billy Joe Shaver & Company. Enjoy…
It should go without saying that, after eight days off the bike, it felt good to get out yesterday. I wasn’t sure what I’d be thinking about or how my legs would feel, but it didn’t take long for it all to settle in.
I just drove from Philadelphia to San Diego — my daughter borrowed my car for a couple of months and I flew out to retrieve it. Though I logged a lot of interstate miles, I made sure to get off the freeway for at least a couple stretches of road each day. I drove some state and county roads, and even a few dirt roads used mostly by farmers in the Midwest. I wanted to be places I’ve never been and see things I’d never seen. Mission accomplished. Those stretches of road, off the interstate, were the highlights of my summer.
The landscape of this country has always inspired me. It’s as diverse as the people who’ve inhabited it through the millennia. So when I chose the audiobook 1491:New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus (2005), by Charles Mann, I thought it would be the perfect soundtrack as I traversed and viewed this thoroughly modern landscape.
I read 1491 from cover to cover shortly after it was published, and I’ve listened to the updated audiobook twice since. It’s a fascinating account of the Americas prior to the European influence. It dispells, and often times blows out of the water, many conceptions and ideas we have of pre-Columbian Americas.
When the book was released in 2005, it was reviewed well by book critics, but academics — historians, anthropologists, and archaeologists pushed back. Academia suggested Mann took too many big leaps at once. In the decade and a half since being published, academia has caught up with Mann’s big leaps, and many support his far reaching thesis.
Mann makes four major arguments in the book and subtly sneaks in two lesser ones toward the end…
That the Americas were settled much longer ago than previously believed. Some estimates, based on archaeological evidence, suggest that human beings walked in the Americas as far back as 30,000 to 35,000 years ago.
The population of the Americas was significantly greater at the time Europeans arrived. Estimates vary, but when they’re ammended, it’s always upward. Many scholars believe that the population of pre-Colombian Americas was between 80 million and 100 million.
That pre-Columbian civilizations were greater, more complex, and interacted with one-another more than previously believed.
That American natives manipulated the land and wildlife to such a degree that they not only influenced, but created the landscape we know today. Assumptions that we’ve made about everything from bison population, to forests in New England, and the grasslands of the Midwest, are likely out of step with how they came into being.
Two lesser arguments that Mann makes…
The men who forged the documents that shaped our lives — the Founders, may have been influenced as much in matters of personal liberty, limited government, and personal responsibility by the natives they interacted with on a regular basis — more so even, than the enlightenment all-stars of France at the time.
That had the natives not succumb so quickly and in such large number to the diseases the Europeans gifted them, Europeans would have been no match for the natives in warfare and claiming eminent domain. At best, Europeans may have played a much smaller role in the advancement of the nation and exploitation of its resources. Mann presents evidence, from New England all the way to the Peru, that on an even playing field, natives of all varieties were better warriors and more prepared for battle and the Europeans. They lacked only the numbers due to the diseases that cut them down by as much is 85% in the first 150 years.
As I said, 1491 was the perfect book to accompany me on a trip from the East Coast to Southern California. From the forests of Pennsylvania and New Jersey, through the farms of the upper Midwest, to the great plains and the grasslands, across the Rocky Mountains, and into the desert southwest, 1491 was a great tour guide, providing detail and meaningful lessons in how far we’ve come and how far we fallen — simultaneously.
This is what I think about when I ride — and drive… Jhciacb
It’s back to the bike for me this week. And as much I enjoyed my travels, it’ll be nice to get back into the routine again. Oh, and there’s this from Robert Jon & The Wreck. Enjoy…
(all images taken from an iPhone 11. No color adjustments, and only slight contrast adjustments on a few)
From my Facebook page this morning, Sunday, September 4….
This is the 8th Sunday this year I haven’t posted an essay to my WordPress blog. Prior to 2022, I hadn’t missed a Sunday blog since I began it in 2017. I guess the WordPress blog has become a lesser priority.
The WordPress blog was intended to be a creative outlet for my writing, to share my smartphone photos, and as a platform to express how cycling helps me fight the depression and idiopathic sadness that I live with from day-to-day. I had no intention that it would blow up, get discovered, or be something I could monetize. Mostly it was just a digital postcard to let people know where I am and what I’m up to.
Hosting this page concurrent with that blog, I often wondered why I needed both, and didn’t just focus on one or the other. The short answer is that many subscribers of the blog aren’t on Facebook, and most of my Facebook connections are too lazy or technically illiterate to open a link to the blog 😜. I’m not talking about you though.
Anyway, the main reason I’ve kept the WordPress blog active is for the few friends and family I have that aren’t on Facebook. Facebook, for better or worse, are my people. Christ, I can’t believe I just said that…🤦🏼♂️🤦🏼♂️🤦🏼♂️
So the WordPress blog will remain, but probably be a once, maybe twice a month endeavor. Most Sunday mornings now, I can be found right here — the same place I can be found every other morning ending in the letter “y”.
Of course it would make sense that later today I actually post this on my WordPress blog, so the subscribers there will know to look for me here — which means this won’t be the 8th Sunday in 2022 that I failed to post on the WordPress blog, but anyways…
So if you’re reading this on WordPress today, and you want to read my stuff regularly, please check out my Spoke And Word page on Facebook.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This Week By The Numbers…
172 miles 7,600’ climbing 15.0 mph avg 9,700 calories 11 hours 32 minutes seat time
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Deacon Blue. Enjoy…!
When I sat down after last night’s ride, to bullet-point the thoughts which most consumed me, I didn’t get too far. You see, some of what I think about I’m afraid to share. After all, I’m someone whose self-worth is supremely correlated with how others view me. And the truth be told, I hold back a lot of what I think about for that reason. For example…
Most people reading this have no idea I’ve been privately studying Islam for a decade, and my interest in it goes back another decade beyond that. That’s not a joke. To date, I’ve completed nearly 30 books on the subject and have been to a local Islamic center a handful of times meeting with their education leader.
My interest hasn’t yet guided me to accept Islam as a faith, and I’m not sure it ever will. I do feel though, connected with it far better than the Judaism I was raised with or the Christianity that surrounds me. Whether I accept Islam into my life or not is a story for another day. I can only say that as a blueprint for community living, I’ve not seen a better one, and I’ve looked at most of them — in depth.
Just the thought of sharing that with an audience of dozens frightens me, though it’s been on my mind nearly every ride since I began this page four years ago, and since I began blogging and 2002. The Islamic faith, as a model for community living and how one should conduct one’s self privately, is what I think about as much cycling, fitness, and all the other nonsense that occupies my brain.
That’s as much as I’m going to share for now. Throwing this out there this morning, to people who will fix to strong opinions quickly, feels like jumping out of an airplane. And if you know my story, the last time I jumped out of an airplane, it didn’t go so well, but I did make a full recovery. Still, this morning I’m taking that leap.
We live in an age where we accept a president who says it’s okay to grab a woman by the pussy. We have state legislatures making it more difficult for poor people and people of color to vote. We have elected officials proposing legislation to minimize the rights of gay and transgender people. We have representatives and senators who are willing to make racist and homophobic statements to the cheers of the crowds which finance them. Yet in all of that, I’m afraid to show my true colors. Shame on me. Shame on us all.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This Week By The Numbers…
170 miles
7,300’ climbing
15.0 mph avg
9,700 calories
Seat Time: 11 hours 22 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Praise. Enjoy…!
I created my first Facebook account in 2006. A friend, familiar with the organization, assured me it was going to be huge. I didn’t use that account much, but as Facebook grew in popularity and more people I knew were using it, I got increasingly drawn in. This was before the era of the smartphone and my desktop computer was my exclusive porthole into social media. I’d check Facebook for a few minutes each morning, again in the evening, and maybe in the middle of the day if I wasn’t too busy. It was far from being the center of my world.
The evolution of my Facebook use was subtle, but increased over time. The more connections I made, the more time I spent using the platform. And as evolutions go, I barely noticed what was happening. With the advent of the smartphone and the Facebook app in 2008, the social network left my desktop for my hip pocket. On a dime, I went from checking it 2 to 3 times a day, to checking it in the grocery line, at traffic lights, waiting for a waitress to take my order, and anytime I wasn’t otherwise engaged — including airport bathrooms. It became central to my daily experience.
As my use increased, I found value in the platform — I’m a people person and Facebook is made out of people. I’m also an introvert with a tendency toward social awkwardness, so it allowed me to fulfill my need for human connections, but from a safe distance. I enjoyed connecting with people over music, fitness, and art. I also participated in my share of sophomoric hijinks, including homemade videos of my talking dog.
Between 2010 and 2015, as the tenor the nation began to sour, Facebook became more political, more volatile, and increasingly divided. Finger-pointing, abusive language, and vitriol became the the currency of exchange for many. As this manifest, it became a badge of honor for some to be sent to Facebook jail, to have their accounts suspended, or like my brother in 2020, banned from Facebook for life. During this time, many left the platform of their own accord due to the negativity.
As the platform grew more negative, I leaned in with a more positive presence. I shared original stories, original photographs, and kept my interactions as positive as possible, though I still participated in some sophomoric hijinks — because in a nation absent of decorum and struggling to stand up straight, I never lost my sense of humor.
As interactions grew more negative, the call increased from governments, action groups, and parents for Facebook to minimize threats, abusive language, and people who abuse the platform. Facebook responded with the use of artificial intelligence (bots and algorithms) to determine who was violating their “community standards”. Those in violation would have their use limited or suspended, with little recourse on the part of the offender. As this continued, inconsistencies began to surface in how Facebook justice was administered…
Recently a woman photographed a dramatic image — her own shadow against low gray clouds. The image was magnificent and made it around the internet in a matter of days. When a friend shared it on Facebook last week, I made the comment…
“Witchcraft. Burn her…!“
Within 48-hours I was notified by Facebook my comment went against community standards and my account had been suspended for 3-days. This came just two weeks after a similar suspension for using the word “execute“ in a proper sentence. Keep in mind, no human being was a part of that judicial process. Justice was administered by artificial intelligence. The algorithm did give me the opportunity to appeal my sentence, but made clear the appeals process could take several weeks — for a 3-day suspension.
With nearly 3-billion accounts, I understand why Facebook could never staff or pay enough humans to take on a task that bots and algorithms can do far more efficiently. I also understand that they’re working to minimize kinks in the process so innocent people don’t have their accounts suspended for using the word “execute” in a proper sentence. In truth, I really don’t have an issue with my account being suspended for those minimal infractions.
The issue I have with Facebook though, is its repeated use of the term “community standards”. This is a company who’s representative have a lied under oath before the US Congress. It’s a company which has manipulated its algorithms in ways to make the platform more addictive for everyone, including and especially children. It’s gathered information for the benefit of selling it without user knowledge. It eavesdrops as a means of targeting and redirecting its advertisers. It has knowingly created divisions among users because those divisions have been proven, by Facebook‘s own staff, to keep users engaged longer and more frequently.
In short, Facebook is a manipulative, devious, and self-serving enterprise which puts marketshare and profit ahead of all other concerns — including the mental health of children. I don’t need them preaching community standards when a part of their mission is tearing communities apart on behalf of marketshare and profits. Nearly all of what I’ve shared on Facebook, going back a generation now, has been positive in nature. I’m one of the good ones — one of the people who tries each day to make the experience positive, not just for me, but for those I interact with.
What Facebook bots and algorithms don’t take into consideration when they suspend or ban users like me, is that they’re also separating families and friendships. I’m grateful each week I can connect with friends and family around the world. That experience has helped me during difficult times. Facebook is also a business tool for me — I use it to promote my small business, and always in a positive way. My Spoke And Word Page on Facebook has been the best therapy I’ve ever had for dealing with my mental health issues.
In a world where it’s reinforced daily that we shouldn’t take things personally, I take this very personally — I’m hardwired that way. I’ve been one of Facebook‘s biggest fans. Despite their corporate nonsense, the miracle of global interconnection can’t be overstated. The influence on my life, from people I’ve connected with via that medium, has made me a more rounded person and broadened my mind in ways I could’ve never imagined to 2005.
Being suspended for an innocuous comment negatively impacted my livelihood, my personal relationships, and even my mental health. I’ll accept this, my second 3-day suspension, and I’ll likely return to my Facebook routine when it expires — maybe. That said, if I find myself suspended for an innocent comment again, I’ll walk away and never look back, even at the expense of family connections, my business, and my mental health.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This Week By The Numbers…
153 miles
6,100’ climbing
15.1 mph avg
8,700 calories
Seat Time: 10 hours 12 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Leo Sayer. Enjoy…!
Unfortunately I haven’t spent too much time on bikes this summer — not as much as I would’ve liked to. On the flipside, I’ve traveled more this summer than in the last 10-years combined.
Just closing out a 3000-mile road trip from San Diego to Mystic Connecticut. Going to do the same trip in reverse in about five weeks, and then hunker down hard to work through the winter — and to ride my ass off.
No bicycle pictures this week, but here are some nuggets from the road this past week. All photos taken with an iPhone 11, no color adjustments, with only small light and contrast adjustments. In the comments, please let me know your favorites and why, and I’ll let you know where it was taken.
This is what I think about when I don’t ride… Jhciacb
Last month was the 48th anniversary of my first visit to a weight room. I still remember the 45-pound barbell falling to my chest — my muscles too weak to do much about it. I somehow managed to extended my arms and return the bar to the top position. The man spotting me was Officer Ray Bingham of the Denver Police Department. He was part of a program to help delinquent kids like me learn to lift weights. My parents thought it might be a better outlet than vandalizing neighborhood mailboxes and cars — something I excelled at as a 12-year old.
Bingham told me to lower the bar again which I did, but it didn’t go much better the 2nd time around. Once again I returned it to the top position — my right arm doing most of the work. In addition to the bench presses, we did some leg extensions that day, some lat-pulldowns, and sit-ups. I was so sore the next day I couldn’t go to diving practice. With that soreness though, came a sense of purpose I’d not previously known.
I’d spend the next 48-years lifting weights for an hour per day, nearly every day. I built my entire life around lifting weights and eating to support my workouts. Since pre-adolescence, getting the gym and getting enough protein each day have held more real estate in my head than any other ideals. Though I never developed a world-class physique, I’ve always had more meat than most.
This past March, after some 15,000 workouts, I made a decision I would’ve thought unimaginable even six months earlier — the time has come to quit chasing meat. That is, I’ve made the decision to back off on my strength training sessions, and the dietary support of required to gain/maintain muscle mass, and enjoy a more moderate lifestyle — and this time I mean it.
I make my living teaching people my age and older that they shouldn’t worry about gaining more muscle mass. The focus, I suggest, should be on getting better at using the muscle they already have. Keep it active, keep it strong, not to worry about making more of it. I believe this is a good way to be over the age of 50. Still, when I’ve been in the weight room and as I’ve prepared each meal going back to preadolescence, my mindset has always been about increasing my muscle mass.
Age though, and the law of diminishing returns have been asserting their will against me. By my early 50s, I possessed every gram of muscle I would ever have. It’s been a gradual decline since. That’s not to say I’m getting weak and frail. I just don’t have the meat I had in my 40s and 50s. And to be clear, I still enter the weight room every day — because being strong is a good problem to have.
My workouts today are still challenging, but the intensity and the volume have decreased. The workouts are geared more toward everyday strength — the kind of strength that stays with me when I leave the weight room. In the modern age, physical autonomy is a virtue, but seems to be on the decline with many.
Though I no longer look like an action figure, I do look athletic and that’s going to have to do. Most importantly, my workouts are less stressful these days, and walking into the weight room has been less daunting and less intimidating. Perhaps for the first time in a decade, my workouts fit me like a glove.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Last week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 5
Miles: 157
Climbing: 6,800’
Mph Avg: 15.0
Calories: 9,000
Seat Time: 10 hours 26 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Stevie Wonder. Enjoy…
Over the weekend I took a two-day bike tour to the top of Palomar Mountain — and back. After riding across the Mojave in May, I promised myself I’d do at least one overnight trip each month, and this was my first.
I went with low expectations. I’ve never even been to the top of Palomar in a car, let alone a bike, and didn’t take time to scout the ride. I watched YouTube videos of area cyclists and became aware that this is the climb in San Diego bike culture.
What I couldn’t find, despite using every key search term imaginable, was information about bikepacking on Palomar — riding to the top, but with camping gear like a bicycle tourist. I was surprised and began to question whether this climb was doable with gear.
Some common terms from cyclists who’ve documented their climbs of Palomar not carrying gear included hell, torture, pain, and never again. What would an extra 25-pounds do to my experience…? I dunno 🤷🏼♂️.
From my house, it’s just 40-miles to the top — a distance I ride regularly. And most of that ride was easy, with roughly 2000’ of gradual climbing to get to the base of the mountain. The 16-mile ascent though, took me nearly 4-hours. By comparison, the ascent the following morning took just under 30-minutes.
I booked a space at Observatory Campground, just a few miles from the observatory itself. I figured once I got my tent set up, I’d leave my gear, do a little hiking, and take some pictures. A funny thing happened on the way up…
It was the hardest physical challenge of my life. Just-3 miles into the climb, I decided I couldn’t do it — I quit. I took out my phone and called the Lazy H Inn, a country motel just a few miles from where I stopped. I was going to ask if they had a room for the night. Then I thought about my friend Andy, who in support of my ride, ran to the highest point in his community in northern England earlier in the day. I hung up my phone and continued my ride. For 13-miles I just kept repeating Andy‘s name. It was slow going and it was hard, but I wasn’t going to quit. I was also reminded of my friend Tim a few weeks back crossing the Mojave… “We’ll be fine…”
About 3-miles from the summit, my legs began cramping. With my experience in fitness, I knew how to minimize cramps. For the last few miles, I’d ride roughly a half-mile, stop, stretch, do some deep squats, and rest for about 10-minutes. That was the protocol to the top. I finished all my liquids in those last few miles.
When I arrived at the convenience store just beyond the summit, it seemed fitting that the attendant was closing the door as my bike entered the parking lot. I was less than 50-feet away when she flipped the sign in the window to CLOSED. So much for Powerade. When I arrived at my campsite, before setting up my tent or unpacking my gear, I went to the water spigot and drank two bottles and did a little more stretching. The cramps soon subsided.
The campsite was a fun 5-mile descent from the summit, which felt good after climbing all afternoon. When I reached for my phone to text my love ones I’d made it, there was no service. I asked a fellow camper if he knew where the nearest service might be. He said the closest service was in the parking lot of the convenience store I’d just left. I didn’t want anyone worried about me so I got back on my bike, rode to the convenience store, and sent several texts letting people know I was okay.
Back at the campsite, I setup my tent and sleeping roll. The other thing I failed to take into consideration, along with a lack of cellular service, was the profound infestation of flies and mosquitoes that have claimed Palomar. I didn’t count mosquito bites, but the fly bites hurt worse. I took caution to keep the door to my tent closed except when entering and leaving. Without bug spray, the tent would be my salvation.
Of course with no cell service, there was no music, no YouTube, and no movies. Just writing and thinking — two of my favorite things. Since I needed one more frustration, along with the bugs and the lack of Internet to complete the trifecta, the campsite beside me had 6 matching sky blue tents — all filled with pre-teen girls from an area church. So help me God, everyone of them was named Morgan. After getting settled, I was tempted to face Mecca, bow, and pray for a while. I chose to just sit quietly for a moment and give thanks to God instead.
Exhausted from the afternoon, I took a short hike as the sun was setting, but made it less than a half-mile before I turned around and climbed in my tent for the night. Dinner was two Annie’s vegetarian burritos and a Larry & Larry vegan cookie. From the window of my tent, I watched the moon pass through some pines and decided to turn the light out.
Photos below are from earlier in the week…
The church girls beside me giggled into the night, and the White Trash Family Robinson arrived at the campsite on the opposite side a little after 10pm. They listened to Foreigner and shotgunned beers as they set up camp. When I woke Sunday morning, there were actually three recliners beside their campfire — they simply took their living room for a drive.
At 5am I began stowing my gear. I was on the road by 5:45. Descending Palomar was spectacular. The morning light highlighted the views through every hairpin turn and overlook. From the time I left the summit, I didn’t take a single kick for 16-miles — it was a total freeride. I rode slow through the orchards and groves of the Pauma Valley with a sense of pride from what I’d accomplished. I was home by 10am.
Honestly, I’m not sure I’ll do this again. I’m glad I did it — and glad that I didn’t quit. The ride was the epitome of Type A fun — the kind of fun that’s made up of exhaustion and determination, and doesn’t actually become fun until it’s over. Okay, I’ll probably do it again or something similar, but I’m definitely going to pack lighter.
This is what I think about when I ride it… Jhciacb
Last week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 6
Miles: 171
Climbing: 14,000’
Mph Avg: 12.6
Calories: 13,000
Seat Time: 13 hours 38 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. Oh, and there’s this from The Inmates. Enjoy…
At some point during each ride, I find myself contemplating the trials and tragedies of others. Not for amusement, but out of humility. I think about those in my periphery — friends, family, and acquaintances, as well as those I’ve crossed paths with via social media.
As I stand out of my saddle and pedal up steep grades or glide down the other sides hoping to pass cars ahead of me, I chew on the adversity of others more than I think about my own. By comparison, I often think, I don’t even know what adversity is. This the exercise within my exercise — an excellent daily reminder of how blessed my life is.
Completing the adversity of others is a grounding reminder that many I know have interruptions in their own blessings, and that sometimes those interruptions are severe. I love them and I always pray for them.
It’s been a decade since Gretchen died. She was in her late-40s, a client and friend who I occasionally hiked with. One afternoon, while walking across a restaurant floor on her way to the restroom, Gretchen suffered a heart attack. The EMTs revived her, but she passed away the next morning. Only minutes before, she had texted another friend that she was having one of the best days of her life. There hasn’t been a week go by since, that I have not thought about that, at least a little bit.
A few years later, the 13-year-old daughter of another friend passed away suddenly, on her way to a family outing with her parents and two brothers. That loss has crossed my mind a few times a day ever since. Though I never knew Clara, the suddenness of her loss impacted me as much as any.
Several years ago a friend in Colorado allowed a tree to get between she and a fantastic downhill run she was having that day. She spent several weeks in the hospital, suffered multiple broken bones, a short term head injury, and some permanent scarring on the right side of her face. The scarring is minimal, she is skiing again regularly, and she has since finished college. She refers to the scars on her face as “The signature of good fortune“.
Because I ride past his house daily, I think of Dave. He was a client who was complaining about shoulder problems about a few years back. He was concerned our workouts were causing the pain he was having under his upper right arm. After a doctors visit and a couple of referrals, is shoulder pain turned out not to be workout related. The pain was coming from his lymph nodes, the result of lung cancer that he was unaware of. After a couple years of fighting it, the cancer won.
Those are just a few examples of adversities that have touched me, but have clearly touched those connected to them far more. With each passing year there’s always one or two more. At some point, there might be so many adversities that I’ll be able to think of little else.
The joke in my family is this…
I don’t have to get an annual physical. I just get my blood work done when I visit the emergency room each year. Though I do land in the emergency room frequently, I’ve been quite fortunate that nothing putting me there has caused me much difficulty. There have been setbacks, but nothing that approaches the term adversity.
Maybe it’s because I ride by markers each day where cyclists have been struck by cars. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen more than a handful of gurneys being loaded into ambulances driving away from the remains of mangled motorcycles, bikes, and cars. Most likely though, it’s because I know the risks involved with daily cycling, that I think about the adversity of others and the impact it has had on their families and friends.
As much as anything, these daily thoughts remind me of just how good my life is, and how I should strive to protect and appreciate it.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 6
Miles: 183
Climbing: 8,100’
Mph Avg: 14.7
Calories: 10,300
Seat Time: 12 hours 26 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Spooky Tooth. Enjoy…
There’s something about a bicycle — you experience travel at a human scale. You see, smell, hear, and feel your surroundings just like walking or hiking. Cycling takes place though, at a pace where you can actually go somewhere.
Last week my friends Ashley, Tim, and I rode our bikes along Route 66 from Victorville California to Seligman Arizona. We did this over five days. Below are some of the highlights.
Day One: Shuttling The Car…
We met in Seligman Arizona which would be the final destination of our tour. I drove from Fallbrook while Tim and Ashley arrived from Phippsburg Colorado. We spent the night at The Historic Route 66 Motel in Seligman. Our rooms were comfortable, clean, and decorated with plenty of Route 66 shtick.
After checking into our motel, we walked around Seligman and met a few locals. We also met Pancho, who may have been a ridgeback/bulldog mix. Pancho was both friendly and photogenic. There’s not much in Seligman — just a crossroads of Route 66 and I-40. It’s s also a staging area for trains. It was charming though, and I’d like to go back and spend a couple nights there sometime.
We ended the evening with dinner at the Roadkill Café. The food was excellent, and as you’d expect at a restaurant on Route 66, the walls were adorned with remnants of mid-century America, including a Rickenbacker 6-string which Tim couldn’t ignore.
Day Two: Barstow To Victorville And Back — 52 miles
The following morning we left Tim and Ashley’s car in Seligman and headed to Victorville in my car with our bikes — but we never made it. Driving west from Seligman we decided to start in Barstow. We took a motel room in Barstow, staged our car, and took a day ride from Barstow to Victorville and back. It was a way to get in a few extra miles and get warmed up for the rest of the week.
A couple things I already knew about the desert, but was reminded of during our ride from Barstow to Victorville and back…
– The desert is hot
– The desert is dirty
– Desert communities which thrived 40 or 50 years ago have been largely abandoned
– People in the desert make cool shit out of junk
– The desert is where meth comes from
In-between the two towns though, the landscape was magnificent. I’m fascinated by desert horizons, shapes, contrasting hues, and where the jagged earth meets the faded blue sky in a beautiful conclusion.
We rode strong and had no issues that day. We stopped 25-miles out of Barstow at The Bottle Forest. We didn’t learn too much about it, but it appears to have been there for a while. Someone has crafted dozens of trees by welding small steel stems to vertical steel poles. The branches are adorned with old glass bottles, electrical line insulators, and antiques such as typewriters, musical instruments, cash registers, and more. There was a young couple having the prom pictures taken there. We thought that was cool.
Day 3: Barstow To Ludlow — 53 miles
This would be a short day, just 53 miles. We had a slow start out of Barstow. Roughly a mile in we had to make an adjustment to the trailer Tim and Ashley pulled behind their tandem bike. The adjustment took just a couple of minutes, but finding somebody to open the tool cachet at Walmart for the vice-grips we needed took nearly 45-minutes. Every Walmart is a Walmart, but the Walmart in the Barstow is the Walmartiest Walmart in the world. Every stereotype in the book.
Back on our bikes and just a few miles further down the road there we found ourselves at the front gate of the Marine Logistics Base in Barstow. Apparently Route 66 cuts through the base but civilians aren’t allowed on. They detoured us onto I-40 or a few miles before we could reconnect with Route 66.
From there we had a flat stretch with a tailwind that carried us at 19 mph for roughly 10-miles. We slowed a little from some shallow climbing for 30-miles or so. The riding day ended by descending into Ludlow a little after 1:30pm.
Temperature along the way was 103°. Riding wasn’t too difficult, but we definitely felt the heat. We stopped a couple of times along the way to take some photographs of railroad car graffiti, the basalt infused Martian landscape, and to drink water under the shade — but there was no shade.
After checking into our motel, we had lunch at the Ludlow Café. There we met two bicycle tourists, Eric and Alicia. They’re riding from coastal Orange County to Trenton New Jersey. Eric‘s mom passed away last year and he’s delivering some of her ashes to Trenton, where she’s from. It was fun to connect with them. We talked about bikes, routes, and just got acquainted a bit. I wished them well on their endeavor and tried to not let on that I was jealous.
We had a good night sleeping at the motel, and left early the following morning for Needles.
Day 4: Ludlow To Needles — 110 miles
This would be our longest stretch 110-miles and coincidentally in 110° heat. We got off to an early start, leaving Ludlow just before sunup. To our surprise, and not too far down the road, was a barricade that stretched the width of the road.
ROAD CLOSED
Our next section of Rout 66 was closed to traffic. Wait, what… 🤷🏼♂️ We came to ride Route 66.
We decided to take our chances and go around the barricade. Within a couple miles there was another barricade — we went around that one also. We just kept heading east, mile after mile, going around intermittent barricades. To that point, the road looked fine and we couldn’t understand why it was closed.
Maybe 10-miles in we began noticing portions of the road were washed out beside each barricade. We passed a half-dozen or so sections where large chunks of the road were washed out. There was always enough pavement though, to cross our bikes over safely. There was one section of road that was completely washed out so we carried our bikes around through the dried wash.
Long story less long…
We got to ride a 62-mile stretch of Route 66 with virtually no automobile traffic, except the occasional engineering vehicle in the area to assess the washed out portions of road. We road side-by-side and for much of it, and on the left-hand side of the road. We joked that we were taking the English Route 66.
I can’t stress enough what a gift that was — 62-miles of the nation’s most historic highway with no automobile traffic. Might have been the most fun I’ve ever had on a bike. I can’t imagine they’ll have the road fixed anytime soon, so I may go back later this summer and ride that stretch again.
The town of Fenner California is little more than a Chevron station with $8.49 per gallon gas. We stopped there to replenish our water bottles, take in some air-conditioning, and eat a little ice cream. There we met up with Eric and Alicia again. We enjoyed a little refrigeration time with them, rehydrating, and slamming calories. I drank four Vitamin Waters in less than 5-minutes and got so chilled that I went outside to warm up again.
Overall the day rode well. We had a tailwind for much of the day. Most of the climbing was gradual and the heat didn’t get to us until the last 20-miles or so. We stepped into the hotel in Needles tired but not defeated — we had just ridden across the Mojave desert in the peak of the day, and had fun doing it. After checking in we headed straight to the Chinese restaurant across the parking lot. Riding long distances in the desert heat will make you crave strange things. For the last few miles of the day, I just wanted to drink a bottle of blue cheese salad dressing, but settled for vegetables with tofu.
Thinking about our mileage that day, and missing Stroodle, I got to thinking if there’s such a thing as dog mileage — like dog years. I wondered if our 110-mile journey would’ve been more like 200-miles to him. You know, little legs and all.
Day 5: Needles To Kingman — 63 miles
We rode only 63-miles from Needles to Kingman, but climbed in excess of 5,000 feet by way of Oatman — some of the steepest climbing I’ve ever done. The temperature was 105°. If I counted correctly, I drank (10) bottles of water or Gatorade that day.
Oatman is an interesting town, small, touristy, and not much there really. Virtually every shop we walked into, the first words the shopkeeper spoke were…
“Ten-dollar minimum for debit cards…“
Oatman had a half-dozen burros walking around, soliciting food from tourists willing to pay five dollars for a handful of grass pellets. One shopkeeper, assuming we had no idea what we were doing, assured us that we had a difficult climb ahead. We made jokes at his mom’s expense the rest of the day.
The flipside of climbing through and above Oatman was a fun decent for about 6-miles — just coasting and taking in the scenery. Because it was a steep climb it was also a steep descent. Those 6-miles were more fun than any amusement park ride I’ve ever been on.
We did well for most of the day, even through the hard climbing. After our descent though, and a short roadside stop for fluids and food, the heat got the better of me. We had a 10-mile flat stretch into Kingman where I was feeling a little bit nauseous and loopy. At the end of that was a shallow climb and I was toast.
After checking into the motel, Tim and I jumped into the pool. I confided I was considering staying behind for a day. I was hot and exhausted. Tim understood and supported whatever decision I made. After a swim and an excellent Mexican dinner at La Catrina (highly recommend if you’re ever in Kingman), I decided to push on, which I knew I would. Maybe I just needed to hear myself speak my weakness. Yeah, that’s it.
I kept thinking of the Steven Wright joke…
“Anywhere is walking distance if you’ve got the time…”
So too with the bicycle, and I had the time.
Day 6: Kingman To Seligman — 83 miles
Riding from Kingman to Seligman is uphill most of the way. The climbing wasn’t steep, just slow going. We stopped mid-day on the Hualapai Reservation in Peach Springs Arizona. Lunch was at the Hualapai Lodge. Something about bicycle touring makes every restaurant meal the best meal ever. I ordered a basket of onion rings and began eating them before our waitress set them down. They were the best onion rings I’ve ever had, and the tater-tots I stole from Tim where every bit as good.
Perhaps an hour out of Kingman we began to see something we hadn’t seen much of during week — trees and brush. And as we gained elevation, the trees and brush increased. That would be a good thing because halfway between Peach Springs and Seligman, the bracket connecting the trailer to Tim and Ashley‘s bike broke and the trailer came loose.
If this had happened earlier in the week it would have posed a far greater problem. However, we were just a few hours from our final destination. With a car waiting at our motel in Seligman, Tim hid the trailer behind some brush and we continued on. He and Ashley would backtrack and retrieve it after checking into our motel.
With Tim and Ashley no longer towing their trailer, and with me still hauling my gear, they broke away. I finished the last 25-miles of our trip on my own — which gave me a little time to think about my mom. Mom lived much of her adult life in rural Arizona so it was a perfect place to reflect. Perhaps it was because I was thinking about my mom, or the fact that the trip was almost over, but I suddenly found myself crying as I pedaled into an unforgiving wind.
The final stretch into Seligman was brutal. Saddle-sore from a week of riding, I couldn’t stay on my seat. I pedaled standing up for the last 15-miles of the trip. As I drew closer to Kingman, the wind was as bad as it was all week. I was done — in every possible way.
When I arrived in Seligman, Tim and Ashley had already checked into the motel and were in their car ready to retrieve their trailer. I collapsed on the hotel bed for a few minutes, took a shower, I made a few phone calls to let people know I had arrived.
We had just completed the hardest part of Route 66 to ride by bicycle, and had done so in 100° heat every day. It was the most challenging physical endeavor of my life. At dinner that night, back at the Roadkill Café, we were already talking about our next our next adventure. No conclusions were made, other than deciding it needs to be a few days longer.
Straight up, Tim is the most durable cyclist I’ve ever met. Nothing bothered him. The sentence Ashley and I heard from him over and over last week was…
“We’ll be fine, we’ll be fine…“
Tim’s reassurance got us through the few tense moments we had. He was a fantastic leader.
Ashley is recovering from cancer for the second time. I’ll repeat that — for the second time…! Her final radiation treatment was in March. That’s a level of bravery I’ll never know — to ride a bike across the Mojave on the hottest week of the year while still in recovery. I was humbled by that every day.
For me, I didn’t bring much to the table other than a lot of ‘your mom’ jokes along the way. Every endeavor needs its comic relief and I did my best to do my part.
What’s the point of doing anything, I thought, if I can’t fill my social media feeds with pictures and words from the trip…? Each evening, after we settled into our motels and ate, I’d edit pictures and journal the day behind us. Tim and Ashley journaled the old fashion way, with a pen and notebook.
I ride a bike roughly 350 days per year. Each morning when I wake up, before I pet my dog or turn on the coffee pot, I ask myself, what’s it going to be today…? Where will I ride and how soon can I get out…? Waking up in Seligman Thursday morning was the first time in six years I had no desire to get on a bike. The urge will come back though, and I’ll likely have been on a bike before you read this.
Lastly, and I can’t stress this enough…
Adventure isn’t something that just happens. Adventure is a choice — it’s opening one’s self up to vulnerabilities and allowing their creative side to navigate around, through, and beyond them. Adventure might be the purest form of creativity I’ve ever known.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
The Tour By The Numbers…
361 miles
14,000’ climbing
12.5 mph avg
21,300 calories
Seat Time: 31 hours 12 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Link Wray. Enjoy…!
I’ve seen things on social media which suggest that, as I watched my mother age, I’d be more likely to remember her as she was when she was young. Or at the very least, I’ll remember her as she was when I was young. When I consider this, after having had her with me for her last 6-years, I don’t see it that way. I’ve mostly forgotten my mother in her youth — the mother of my youth.
As she aged, and as her physical and cognitive abilities lessened, the images of my mother in her youth faded over time, giving way to the more indelible imprints of my mother as she was in her decline. This is not a bad thing. Five years from now or even 20, I’m sure I won’t think too much of or remember too well the mother of my youth, but I’ll always remember my aged mom.
When I think of her then, as she was when she was young compared to how I saw her these past 6-years, it’s been a tale of two women. The mother of my youth could hike, swim, stay up late, and prepare a holiday feast for 12 in less than 3-hours, but there was yet to be that earned dignity which defined her at the end.
As her steps became unsteady, as her voice began to quiver and as her hands more resembled parched road maps with coffee stains on them, the wisdom, the experience, and survivalism that came with those added up to the dignity I’ll choose to remember her with.
This is a good reminder that, as bright and capable as I may feel today, I’ve yet to pay my real dues. The dues I speak of are not the dues of career, of parenthood, or of middle-age responsibilities — I’ve done all that and so did my mom.
The real dues my mother paid — those she paid in her final years, are the most important dues of all. Those were the dues of having it all — and of having it all slowly slip away. Yet each day, despite her physical and cognitive decline, she woke with the intentions of living, loving, and being there for anyone who needed her. I’m not sure it’s in me to be that unbridled.
I’m grateful that I’ll remember my mother as person who fell asleep on the sofa each day by 3pm, who heated up a Stouffer’s corn soufflé for dinner rather than attempt to make one from scratch, who often called me by my brother’s name, and who asked me the same damned questions and offered the same stories again and again.
That person — the mother who graced this house with dignity etched onto her aging face and skin, is the mother that reminds me daily, even in the vacuum of her absence, I’ll be more like her in the not too distant future than the me I am today.
And it’s that mother, not the mother of my youth, who reminds me it’s a fool’s task to pursue perpetual youth, and that the only dignity which matters is the dignity that comes only from letting go of youth and letting go of all those things that, as time proves to us all, never mattered much to begin with.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 6
Miles: 232
Climbing: 10,500’
Mph Avg: 14.0
Calories: 13,000
Seat Time: 16 hours 36 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Spoon. Enjoy…!
The picture below hung in the upstairs hallway of my childhood home. My father purchased it before I was born, so it’s been a part of my life from my earliest days.
When I was smaller, it was over my head, both in placement and intellectually. As a toddler, I’d have to strain my neck just to look at it. In time though, I’d grow taller and my eyes would better connect with the cultures of the world. I was fascinated by the people, their varying skin tones, the different clothes they wore, and the religions they represented. I would read the message over and over again…
“Do unto others as you have them do unto you…”
Even as a child this seemed like a good way to be.
When I was tall enough, I’d remove the picture from the wall and prop it up on a table in my bedroom. I’d just stare at it — getting lost in the people and the stories they represented. The picture opened my mind to the possibilities of belief. I’d always make sure to put it back exactly as I found it though, so my parents wouldn’t know I was regularly removing it.
When my parents separated, Rockwell’s Golden Rule went with my father. Dad displayed it wherever he lived, from Montana, to New Jersey, to Las Vegas where he eventually retired. When my father passed away, the painting ended up in my hands, where it remains to this day — and I still stop to take it in daily.
Fast forward several decades…
The year I turned 40, my brother suggested I read The Religions Of Man by Huston Smith (1958, now called The World’s Religions). To this day, it remains the seminal text for introducing religion to first-year college students.
The book, like the Rockwell’s panting, captivated me. Smith’s book expanded the possibilities of belief. Every time I opened World’s Religions, and every time I’d start a new chapter, I’d flash back to Rockwell’s Golden Rule — it was a way to connect that painting with the rich history of religious observance from every corner of the world.
Each time I completed a chapter of The World’s Religions, I felt a visceral bond with the religion which had been covered. When I put the book down, I felt that I had a little bit of every religion in me. On completing the book, I dubbed myself a freelance person of faith.
Through dozens more books over the next twenty years, covering every religion from Shinto, to Sikhism, to Judaism, to Zoroastrianism, and beyond, I’d always feel better connected with the religion I was studying, and very often felt it was the perfect theology for me at that time, but remained committed to my religion of one.
More recently, the last couple years, my emphasis has been on learning about Islam, which is quite infectious the deeper one dives into it. Islam is, by far, the least understood of all the Abrahamic faiths, at least in the western world. I’ll suggest that the prejudice against Islam, especially in the United States, is far greater and more intense than any prejudice against Judaism and Christianity — to the point where it’s shameful. A story for another essay.
Anyway, I was looking at the picture below yesterday, and realized that my fascination — my love of religion began with a painting which hung in the hallway of my childhood home. And with a Christian mother and a Jewish father who, despite their many differences, never said a negative word about the religion each other was raised in. We should all be so graceful in matters of faith.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 4
Miles: 154
Climbing: 7,800’
Mph Avg: 13.8
Calories: 8,500
Seat Time: 11 hours 11 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from The Grief Brothers. Enjoy…
In 1970, when the original Earth Day took place, Mrs. Vogel was my 2nd grade teacher. She said something to our class that day, as we sat cross-legged in the grass outside the classroom door, that forever shaped my sensibilities when in matters of planetary stewardship…
“You wouldn’t throw trash at your mother, so why would anyone throw trash at Mother Earth…?”
Perhaps it went over the heads of the other kids, but that sentence grasped me. Mrs. Vogel was one of the few teachers I still think about. She was a hippie, as much as she could be in that profession in 1970. She was also an artist, an activist, and I don’t think she cared too much for rules. She often conducted class barefoot. Fifty years later, as I walk around my studio each day without shoes, I can’t help but feel Mrs. Vogel’s influence. On Earth Day, I always think of her.
I saw a lot of nods to Earth Day on social media last week — many of the usual suggestions…
– Eat less meat
– Recycle more
– Use less water
– Conserve household energy
– Drive less, and do so in more efficient vehicles
– Travel less
– Use less paper
– Eliminate single-use plastics
– Vote for politicians who champion fighting the climate crisis
These are important ideas, and if we all practiced them, it might benefit our ecology over time. I have my own thoughts though, on some other ideas that might have a more immediate impact on climate change. The bad news is, aside from me not being an ecologist or climatologist, is that few people I speak with seem willing to entertain these.
One:
No reasonable conversation about climate change should exclude the use of nuclear energy, if only as a 100-year (or so) bridge until the use of sustainable renewable energy is mastered and maximized.
Two:
Accept that we can live without most printed materials. This would include books, newspapers, work and legal documents, magazines, pamphlets, brochures, and correspondence, etc. Virtually everything printed today begins in digital format. Since the digital infrastructure is already in place to transmit any would-be printed material electronically, the printing of most materials, regardless of justification, isn’t necessary. Yes, even our precious books.
The amount of energy required to produce and transport our printed materials is greater than most people realize. It’s been suggested by some climate scientists that replacing all printed materials with digital copies could, by itself, create a measurable slowing of CO2 levels within a couple of decades.
Three:
Eat less. If we ate only the calories we need each day to break even with our energy expenditure, it might be the most significant personal adjustment we could make to offset climate change — even ahead of driving less, using less household energy, and recycling. Virtually every calorie we eat that we don’t require increases the strain on the global food system and subsequently the environment.
Eating only what we need, and not throwing away food unnecessarily, would bolster food supply, take stress off the transportation system, and ease the agricultural system. Notwithstanding that it might make us all healthier and function better as individuals, families, and societies.
I get it — it’s difficult to consider any of these, let alone put them into practice. Most everyone reading this believe that hardbound books and newspapers are staples of an informed and intelligent culture. And most believe that there’s nothing wrong with an extra helping of mashed potatoes with dinner or to snack as we see fit. Yet these ideas, put into play on the sooner side, might help thwart climate change as well as many of the measures that are so often talked about.
But none of this really matters. Because the most important thing we can do to combat climate change is something we are increasingly unwilling to do — to prioritize bridging the gaps between political and cultural divisions. No significant steps in addressing climate change can be initiated from a divided populous and the dysfunctional Congress elected by that populous. At the most basic level, we need to grow up, quit pointing fingers, and get to work.
I know it’s unlikely that more than a few hundred people will read this, and less likely that it will impact anyone who does. That said, I think these ideas are worth considering because they would have the most immediate and unprecedented impact on our changing ecology. Food for thought — so to say. And a nod to Mrs. Vogel.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 3
Miles: 173
Climbing: 10,500’
Mph Avg: 14.1
Calories: 9,500
Seat Time: 12 hours 12 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Peter Rowan. Enjoy…
For over a decade, my sidekick and I walked side-by-side at the Los Juilgeros Preserve — a 25-acre nature preserve just a mile from downtown Fallbrook. It’s a place where he enjoyed hunting for sniffs. Walking off leash from an early age, he had the freedom to roam and follow his nose, but never went too far from dad — and I never took my eyes off of him.
A few years back, around the time he turned 16, what we referred to as the Big Preserve was a little too big, and we took our walks to what we called the Little Preserve — a smaller but similar landscape, and our walks were reduced to less than a mile. And that’s where we’ve been walking for the last few years.
We don’t walk the Little Preserve anymore either. His steps are slower, his bones getting frail, and he tires easy. These days, we drive to the local school district office, which has a small park in front that’s dog friendly. I put him down, let him hunt for some sniffs, do his thing, and often he’ll lay in the sun for 5 or 10-minutes before we head home.
He still gets excited when I head to the front door, and ultimately I think that’s what it’s about — to leave the house, get in the car, and just go somewhere. When I think about it, it’s not too different than when I would take my mom to the airpark each day for lunch — just a reason to get out and see that the world is still there.
Missing the days of our longer walks, and missing the natural surroundings they took place in, I’ve been taking Stroodle once again to the Little Preserve. He doesn’t walk the trail anymore. I carry him like a little football tucked into my right arm. I carry him a few hundred yards, put him down, let him get a few sniffs, and if he’s so inclined, lay in the sun. Then I scoop him up, walk a few hundred more yards, and repeat the process until we’ve completed the 3/4 mile trail.
He’s almost 19 years old. I know this can’t go on. Each day when I wake up the first words out of my mouth are “thank you for another day“. I then ask him for one more year, but I know that’s not realistic.
It’s funny though — as old and slow as he can be when I take him for our walks, when I put on my overshirt, grab the car key, and open the front door, he jumps from the sofa like a puppy, spins a couple times, and beams with excitement. He’s my little old man and my kid, simultaneously.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 6
Miles: 179
Climbing: 8,000’
Mph Avg: 14.6
Calories: 10,000
Seat Time: 12 hours 11 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from John Cruz (exquisite Zimmy cover)
In a few weeks I’ll be meeting up in Victorville California with my friends Tim and Ashley. Tim and I met in 1984 at a Coast Guard recruiting office in Northglenn Colorado. Tim and I went through boot camp together, got sent back a few weeks in boot camp together, and graduated from boot camp together. Tim is as good a person as I’ve ever known, and Ashley, his wife, is too good for him.
From Victorville, we’re going to ride our bikes to Kingman Arizona. Tim and Ashley will be on a tandem bike and I’ll be on a bike yet to be determined — or yet to be purchased, depending how things unfold in the coming weeks.
It’ll be a good opportunity to decompress and gather my thoughts on the heels of my mother’s passing. I’m not sure what changes lay ahead for me after six years of caregiving, but there will certainly be a few. Riding across the Mojave will be a good time to entertain and process any would-be changes in my future.
Our agenda for the ride looks like this…
Day 1: Victorville to Barstow 30 miles
Day 2: Barstow to Ludlow 50 miles
Day 3: Ludlow to Needles 110 miles
Day: 4 Needles to Kingman 60 miles
Day 5 (optional): Kingman to Seligman 90 miles
We’ll have a truck pre-positioned in either Kingman or Seligman. From there, we’ll load up the bikes and head back to Victorville. I’m looking forward to this. I need this.
There’s not a lot of talking when you ride cross country. Maybe there’s time to tell a story here and there or crack a joke along the way. The good conversations don’t happen until the day’s ride is through. Tacos are ordered, beer gets opened, and you talk about the day’s ride, memories from the past, and those yet to come.
Maybe we’ll sleep well, maybe not. We hope to stay in a couple hotels along the way, but we’re prepared for roadside camping if the illustrious Ludlow Inn has no vacancy. No matter, we’ll wake up each morning and go. There’s no better feeling than hitting the road early on a two-lane desert highway. There’s just the rhythm of the legs, the emptiness of the mind, and all that pretty stuff that will surround us.
I explained to somebody the other day that everything I ever wanted to get out of surfing I’ve found in cycling…
Solitude
Excitement
Immersion into the environment
Escape
Challenge
Physical and mental satisfaction
I’m not sure if I’ll be blogging or even plugged in much when we’re on the road — certainly not on the day we ride from Ludlow to Needles. I’ll take a few hundred pictures along the way though, and share them on our return. Tim, who still shoots on film, is a much better photographer than me. I’m sure he’ll come up with some gems.
If all goes well, we’ll be doing a second trip from Denver to Casa de Cohen at Lake McConaughey in July. More on that later.
Though I haven’t been too active on this platform recently, I’m still writing every morning on my Spoke And Word Facebook page. If you’re interested in my daily shtick, and you should be, please check it out. Perhaps I’ll get back to writing here more in the coming weeks.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 7
Miles: 174
Climbing: 7,700’
Mph Avg: 15.0
Calories: 9,800
Seat Time: 11 hours 41 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from The Rave Ups. By the way, this is the first studio album by the core lineup of The Rave Ups in 30 years. It’s fantastic. Enjoy…!
When I sat down to write this morning, I was torn. I got seven bike rides in last week and had plenty to think about as I traversed the hills, vineyards, and the chaparral of San Diego’s North County. Still, it was a week of rolling contrasts
Though much of my riding time was spent thinking about the beauty of my surroundings, I also spent time thinking about mothers giving birth in subways 10,000 miles from here. I thought about cancer patients held up in bank vaults without their necessary drugs — a lack of water and electricity notwithstanding. I thought about soldiers willing to aim artillery at buildings containing sick people, children, and the aged. Most of my riding time though, was consumed with thoughts of my mother.
In the early morning of March 6, Willie Etta Cohen passed away. She’d been in a nursing facility for the last five weeks of her life. Through most of that, I was hopeful she’d return home, even if for hospice, so she could pass in her comfortable bed — in the place she called home for the last six years.
By late February though, her sleeping increased, her appetite vanquished, and her eyes stayed closed most of the time. I knew she wouldn’t be coming home. I’d work each morning and spend my afternoons at her bedside until visiting hours expired. She’d sleep for most of that time, occasionally waking for smalltalk, to hold hands, and sometimes just stare at each other with that familiar love that doesn’t require words. She was weak though, and fading.
Monday afternoon, February 28, I had difficulty waking her when I arrived. Her breathing was slightly labored, and the shape of her face had changed from days prior. The lines of her cheekbones stood out — a sign of not eating for several days prior. She’d wake up for a moment here and there, I’d tell her I love her, kiss on the cheek, and let her know it was okay to go back to sleep. She looked peaceful.
The following day I returned and she was no different. Again, I sat by her bed, reminding her that all of her grandchildren loved her very much — mentioning each grandchild by name. I told her that her sisters loved her, that her nieces and nephews loved her, that all of her friends loved her, and that her two sons loved her. When I left Tuesday evening, I felt it might be for the last time.
After work on Wednesday, March 2, while driving to her facility, a doctor called to let me know her breathing was labored and he felt she was in pain. He wanted to administer morphine. I gave him permission, explaining that I would be there in just a few minutes. He said, candidly, that’s probably a good thing.
When I arrived, she was in a deep sleep — the morphine had already been given. I sat by her bedside, took her hand, and I thanked her for every day she’d ever given me, every sacrifice she’d ever made, and every ounce of love. I didn’t expect her to make it through the evening. When visiting hours expired, the nurse told me I could stay. Her breathing seemed less labored and I had a sense she’d make it through the night. I whispered in her ear that I’d be back the following day.
Two more days came and went like that. Her breathing would get labored, morphine would be administered, and she’d find a deep sleep. At that point, her cloudy eyes had no life. She would never speak again. It was clear she’d already gone and only her body remained. There was no sign of a person inside. Like I did the night before, I thanked her for every day she’d given me, kissed her on the cheek, and walked away thinking she’d pass during the night.
Early on Saturday morning, March 5, a nurse called and suggested I come up. When I asked how much time he thought she had, he told me he couldn’t say, but followed that up with…
“I’m making this phone call for a reason…“
I arrived just after 8am. She was no different than she’d been the previous evening. All that stood between her and God was the clock on the wall. I remained with her until after dark when, once again, I made the decision to return home. This time though, I knew I was going to say goodbye for the last time.
Again I thanked her for every day she’d ever given me. I thanked he for every apple-cinnamon coffeecake she left on the cutting board for my brother and I after school. I thanked her for all the snickerdoodle cookies, the chicken in Madeira cream sauce I always got on my birthday, the spaghetti and sausage that she made better than anyone. Lastly, I thanked her for believing in me at times when nobody else would.
I ran my fingers through her fine hair, kissed her cheek one final time, and whispered I love you in her right ear. I swallowed the largest lump I’ve ever felt in my throat, turned, and walked away. Some time between 3am and 4am Sunday morning her body let go.
I know this was long, and if you’ve made it this far I thank you for taking the time. What I really want to share with you is this…
In those last five days, my mother’s life evaporated. Her eyes were cloudy, her skin was pale, and pardon me for being blunt, but she looked deceased but still breathing. In a way I can’t explain though, she never looked more beautiful to me than in those final days.
I know my mother was young once, that she was middle-aged, and in time would grow to be an older person. In the end though, my mother got to be a baby again — something most people never get to. That’s as complete a lifecycle is one could ask for. And on the last day of her life, she was beautiful.
This is what I think about what when I ride — and I probably always will… Jhciacb
What a decade so far. What a year. What a week. What a day we have ahead…
I work from home and in bare feet most days. My pantry and my refrigerator are full. My activities, which are many, take place at my whim. With the exception of an aching molar and a lack of discipline when it comes to eating cookies, I have little to complain about.
The color of my skin is consistent with not getting hassled in the public square. I have a sound mind — I guess, and at the push of a button I can change the temperature of my living room like it’s some kind of magic. I’m as far as one could possibly be from being defined as a refugee.
Though I don’t expect that I ever will be a refugee, it’s always in the back of my mind — what if…? I’ve asked myself that for many years now…
What if…? What if…? What if…?
I’m not that far from refugee status, all things considered. I don’t have a bunch in the bank. The global hate machine is making more noise than it has in decades, while many in position to curb its aggression remain strangely silent. The potential for economic disaster due to cyber terrorism, biological terrorism, or chemical terrorism have never been greater — traditional warfare notwithstanding. And even if we are able to keep those at bay, we’re long overdue for a good plague. Whoops…
Nearly every day since I saw the movie Red Dawn nearly 40 years ago, I think of Harry Dean Stanton holding fast to the wire that separated he and his sons. I often wonder if I’ll be on that wrong side of that barbed-wire someday.
I might ride a bike in a few minutes. I might not. I’ll certainly eat something good today and will take it for granted — probably something a Ukrainian refugee might not see again for years, if ever. I’ll probably nap while my housekeeper scrubs the toilets, and I’ll do some bookkeeping to keep my coin coffers full.
I’ll certainly witness some hate, most likely online, on television, and possibly some in-person hate — that’s always fun. And I contemplate as I dictate this, how I might respond to the hate I witness today — will I confront it or just ignore it like so many others do…? I dunno 🤷🏼♂️.
I have no idea what it’s like to be a refugee. Nor do I have any idea what it’s like to be a perpetrator of hate. I understand though, today more than ever, that refugees and perpetrators of hate exist in profound opposition to one another, worldwide. I’ll pray for all them. Of course not all refugees are victims of hate. Some are victims of greed. Refugees though, are never to blame for their predicament.
What if…? What if…? What if…?
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 6
Miles: 145
Climbing: 6,100’
Mph Avg: 15.3
Calories: 8,300
Seat Time: 9 hours 28 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Donna The Buffalo. Enjoy…
Please forgive me. It’s been a busy week and a half, and writing this blog has been a low priority.
Last Saturday, my mother suffered a stroke-like symptoms and spent several days in the hospital. A stroke was eliminated, and the likely culprit of those symptoms was a UTI, a brain that is slowly shrinking, and some medication‘s that weren’t well suited to the moment.
Mom is now in a skilled nursing facility in Temecula. I’m hopeful after a couple of weeks of rehab and getting her medications corrected, she’ll return home. Hands folded and fingers crossed.
I hope to be back with something new next week, but we’ll see how it goes. In the meantime here are some of the pictures I’ve taken since my last post.
When I ride each day, I’m peppered by the thoughts of others. Movie lines, song lyrics, and conversations with friends keep me occupied with every mile. Some of these have been recirculating for years. There are also quotes from authors and critical thinkers I’ve read through the years. One thought that’s been making regular appearances these last few months is this nugget…
“Every generation of prosperity has it paid for by the generation or generations prior…” Jared Diamond, from Upheaval (2019).
I’m beginning to wonder if we’re a generation going through turmoil to pave the way for a generation down the road to have things better. I pretend it doesn’t get to me, but the cultural polarization we’re experiencing weighs heavy on me — every day. At times it’s so depressing I wish nothing but the worst for humanity, so we can get it over with and yield back the planet to those critters who don’t reason and have done nothing to screw things up.
If you had told me six years ago the best therapies to keep away the sadness and depression that our polarizing social behavior causes me would be photography, cycling, and spending hours a day writing, I would’ve said you pronounced alcohol wrong. But mindless observation, capture, and the documentation of my thoughts have become my medicines of choice. Oh, and some prayer and meditation to hold it all together. Collectively, these are my escape package.
It’s to the point where I spend every non-working moment medicating myself with exercise and creativity, so I can forget about the ugliness of the world and the people in the world who create that ugliness. I just want it to stop. Every time I turn on the television or pick up my phone, I’m reminded of my mother and father screaming at each other when I was a child, and I’d hide under my bed to feel safe.
Anyway, I don’t really have much to say this week. I know my photographs aren’t world class and my words are amateurish and not well edited. But it’s all I’ve got to lean on these days — it’s what keeps me going.
Oh, and I do want to say something about the folks in Washington DC too — the ones we’ve elected to help govern our country…
I wish they’d shut their mouths and do their jobs. I’m sick and tired of elected politicians opening their yaps and lying or distorting truths for the express purpose of pandering to their base, raising money, and getting reelected. They are literally killing people in the process, destroying lives, and making the country weaker for their own gain.
How hard is it to do what’s right…? I do it every fucking day of my life. If there’s an afterlife for our elected politicians, at least the ones that are in Washington today, I hope it involves getting eternally sodomized by Satan himself, with a salt-encrusted toilet plunger wrapped in barbed wire. Having a D or an R alongside their name no longer carries any weight with me. And don’t get me started on those who sit before a camera each evening lying and bending truths for the express purpose of an increased ratings share and a bigger paycheck.
If that offends you. I’ll ask your forgiveness. I’m certain I’ll be in a better state of being next week. But even I have my limits. What I’ve seen come out of Washington DC these last few weeks makes me want to cheer for the volcanoes, the hurricanes, the earthquakes, and even the fires.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
This week by the numbers…
Bikes Ridden: 6
Miles: 141
Climbing: 6,100’
Mph Avg: 16.1
Calories: 8,100
Seat Time: 08 hours 43 minutes
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from The Mint Juleps with Ladysmith Black Mambazo . Enjoy…
Panda is a long-haired Chihuahua. She weighs 3.5 pounds, and is roughly 8 inches long. Panda, along with her sister, Posey, belong to Trudy. Trudy is currently out of town. In her absence, I’m charged with the welfare of Posey and Panda.
After my workday ended yesterday, and prior to getting out on my bike, I kicked back in my recliner to take a short nap. I’m an older person now, and naps are what old people do. With Pandora set to the bossanova channel, and having pulled the shades down in my living room, I took inventory of all the critters in the house before dozing off — all were accounted for…
Mischa ✔️
Nilla ✔️
Stroodle ✔️
Panda ✔️
Posey ✔️
Posey — the accomplice Panda — the stowaway Mischa — the ringleaderStroodle — Sheik YurbutiNilla — the distraction 
The critters were in various locations, but all within eyeshot of my recliner, and earshot of my voice, if needed.
Soon, my eyelids were closed, the fuzzy numbness of a midday slumber took over my body, and I drifted off to rest. It was a peaceful nap. I woke refreshed, though a bit groggy. As I gathered my senses, and re-inventoried the mammals, I realized the gang of five had been reduced to four — no Panda.
Shit.
Realizing Panda was missing, but confident she didn’t release herself on her own recognizance, I searched my house, room by room, and cranny by cranny. Panda was nowhere to be found. Unable to locate her, I began to panic. I checked closets, the bathtub, the laundry room, under the beds, behind the trash cans, behind the sofa, even my fitness studio. No Panda.
My panic increased.
If you’ve never seen me panic, it’s not a site for kids. I began yelling Panda’s name in a loud voice, hoping she’d come running. Nothing. I began asking the other animals — Mischa, Nilla, Stroodle, and Posey, one at a time, if they had seen Panda. Notwithstanding that none of them have ever demonstrated a proficiency with hearing or speaking the English language, each responded with a quizzical stare and a head tilt. I threw my hands in the air and returned to my panic-driven search of the house. No Panda.
Though I thought it impossible that she let herself outside, I checked the back yard — just in case. I looked in the chicken house, under the avocado and citrus trees, behind the guesthouse, and behind the trashcans. No Panda.
I returned to the house to continue my search, checking any place I thought Panda would fit. I even checked inside the lower kitchen cabinets — no Panda. As I was about to head out the door to check the front yard, I heard a noise coming from the base of my recliner. I saw a small white paw extended from under the footrest, which had been retracted when I woke from my nap. Panda was trapped under the recliner.
I immediately extended the footrest out, and Panda emerged from behind it, uninjured, and honestly, seeming somewhat entertained by the whole thing. She wagged her tail, and just stared at me. I was grateful she was accounted for, and uninjured from her attempt to stowaway under the recliner.
Huge sigh of relief.
Last evening, I spent most of my riding time trying to figure out where I went wrong, and how to avoid this in the future. All’s well that ends well, I suppose, but I think next time I nap, I’m going to tie a water noodle around Panda’s body — so she won’t fit under the recliner.
This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb
Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for riding along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Sonny Landreth and Derek Trucks. Enjoy…!
The Spoke And Word™ 