Sunday, June 19, 2016

Deep Naming: Riding the Cyclist Identity Path


Road bike, abandoned railroad cut

What's in a name? Or more precisely, where does it come from, and what does it mean? Today I rode a 2005 Lemond road bike, half carbon, half steel, do I identify with what I ride somehow? But how fragile and superficial would that be, since if that were so, all I have to do to alter my identity is to ride one of my other bikes, or, more likely, go and buy another. Poof! New identity? It can't work that way, can it?

Or, perhaps it's where, or how I ride, or how fast? Or slow? But today, on this hot Father's Day Sunday, I rode a while on gravel trails with road tires pumped up to 100 psi, what's my identity then? If I switched to a, I guess, more appropriate mountain bike, with softer fatter tires, would that change me into someone or something else?

Maybe my identity mainly derives from where I live, somehow my essential character is inextricably linked to the character of the place? For example, do I live in a city with fast reliable rail and trolley links, or rather, one that used to have them, until they were erased by auto industry and land barons?

Back in the day, light rail senior

Or maybe, back to the bicycle, it's not how I ride, or what I ride, or where I ride, but what I look at when I get there? What catches my attention? What makes my heart skip a beat with joy? To ride all this way, in the gathering heat, with a clear mind and open heart, then to see this guy between the water and path. Took my breath away. Does that make me who I am somehow? If my whims change and instead of graceful egrets, it becomes electric "fat" bikes that causes my soul to soar, does that alter me, that easy, that fast, on a whim?

Probably the egret will always win over electric "fat" bikes, for me

If identity is so closely tied to time and place, though, and who can deny they are related, then who were the people that lived in this place 700 years ago, the small band who called Loma del Rio home? How did they identify, how did they name and know themselves, and could I from my time and place have felt kinship or connection with them, if we were to somehow meet face to face, me on my carbon and steel road bike riding past their homes, they tending their canals and small plots?


Plaque near the abandoned railroad cut

I tend to think that it can't be our stuff that defines who were are, not really. Our earthly possessions come and go so easily, and are for the most part so commercialized and throwaway, that to link ourselves to such stuff would be to commercialize and trashify our very hearts. Shouldn't we resist? If all we have is a ragged carryon and some tattered trashbags, is that who were are? And how could that be?

No one should be identified by this

I heard someone say this week, "You can tell a lot about a person by how they act in a crisis." Which sounded like an excellent hint. It doesn't directly define who a person is, but points to it, I think. Are you the sort who organizes and sets out free water on the canal for people to drink on a super-hot day, just because that speaks to who you are and how you act toward others?


Thank you, gracious anonymous water deployer. Who are you?

On Father's Day, it's not too much of a stretch for me to say that I am "Father." But I think that, ultimately, all these names we give ourselves, and that others give us, for better and often for worse, are not really who were are. In my more religious moments, it comforts me to think that we are actually named by God alone, beloved, and that probably best expresses my deepest belief, or hope. I hope that because the other names are so easily and callously given, and just as easily and callously discarded, but I want there to be something more, something deeper.

How about our jobs? Should we identify deeply with those? I've come to look at others who do, and myself when I do too much, and think, poor bastard, stop that. Today a job is nothing more than an economic transaction, for better and for worse. If your job happens to be your calling then that's different, and I don't refer to you here. I refer to most of us, who work in places where we might find out tomorrow morning that our number is up, that we are dismissed, laid off, sent packing, with a few weeks of severance and a COBRA health insurance fare-thee-well love note. If you've put your heart into that job, spent nights and weekends pouring yourself in it, then that happens (hey it's not personal, it's just business), then, you poor bastard, who are you now?

We are rough around the edges, and looking inwards, find at the core....what? I hope that if I did somehow run into those Hohokam people from 700 years ago, that we actually could learn and know each others deep names. Not what I ride, or how they dig their canals, or where they live, or where I'm from, or what odd sounds I make when I speak, but our deep names. I hook onto that thought, stand next to my bicycle in an abandoned railroad cut, and try to think ancient thoughts about a people who may have known who they really were better than we ever will.

 

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Cyclist What Do You Need? 110°F Commute Edition


Water: the birds know what's up

Cyclist, what do you need when it's late afternoon, 110°F out, blazing sunshine, and a bike commute lies ahead? I imagined all the drivers passing me inside their air conditioned steel boxes asking me.

Not a ride, don't ask. Water comes to mind. Curiously, I don't carry water on my commute. It's less than 30 minutes long. I find that guzzling ice water before leaving has the dual benefit of some internal cooling from the ice, and more than enough water for the commute. But I make sure to know of some backup sources along the way, just in case: flat tire, blown knee, crash, mechanical, Other, you never know. So, in answer to the first question, I would say, ice water and knowledge of water.

Why the photo of the bird next to the painted grapefruit tree in the irrigated front yard?

No matter how hot I may feel, it always cools me down to see and hear the birds splashing in the irrigation. It may be triple digit heat, but they know what's up, and are having fun at it. The grackles, in particular, seem to be in mating season, because suddenly the males are all puffed up and vocal, and the females slightly more interested than normal (but at a safe distance, to judge the display). 


Cyclist, what else do you need?

Not a lot else. A bicycle in good working order. A workable route with the least traffic possible. A bag and a rack for carrying stuff, as there's no gentle way to say that a backpack in this heat sucks. A steadfast motivation fueled by reminders of the greatness of cycling for mind and body. Encouragement, or at least understanding, from those around exposed to my quixotic quest. A calm and focused mind prepared to react effectively when something negative or challenging occurs.

Makes sense. So, why the photo of the inner tube discarded in the gutter? 

I put that as an example of something which challenges the calm and focused mind prepared to react effectively. Because, my reaction was, what idiot cyclist did this? Which is not calm, or focused, or altruistic, or forgiving, or any of the other things that I wish to be. I gave myself the time to take a few photos of the tube to overcome and manage my negative reaction. RAIN it in: recognize, accept, investigate, non-identify, works for me.

I recognized my reaction for what it was. I accepted it and that I'm probably normal in having emotional responses to human folly. I investigated it along with my response to it: too wordy and personal to include here, but reflecting on morality, personal relationships with the environment and creation, on casual defacement of public space, on the inevitability of assholes too lazy to pack out a leaky tube, along with the absolute necessities to not refer to them as "assholes", to overcome frustration or anger at their assholery, to live in the fact that I and my reactions are not always perfect or pretty, then to forgive and forget it all in love and gentleness (he of the gutter tube and me of the mean reaction). And non-identify: this happened, this gutter tube and my reaction to it, I honor it and understand it, and it is not me.

After the photo and the RAIN, I paused a bit longer to think:  should I pick up the tube myself? Looking up the street, I saw the rare street sweeper approaching, which caused me to wonder about its effectiveness at hoovering up discarded bicycle tubes. It did; it was highly effective.

A bottle of water might have been welcome during the tube, RAIN, and photo session. I looked across the street at the birds splashing in the irrigation and 110°F, and thought: now who's right? What would the neighbors and drivers say if I dumped my bike on the sidewalk right there and joined the splashing birds? I know what they would say: that crazy cyclist finally did something sane. Like I understand the birds, they would, for a moment, understand me.

 

Saturday, June 4, 2016

The Fall and Rise of a Cyclist's Heart


Six years since "Horseshoe Falls" first appeared on this blog. On-demand fog, and regrowing trees.

It's been over six years since this installation in Scottsdale called "Horseshoe Falls" first appeared on this blog. These pillars of horseshoes cemented on top of each other are kind of one of my favorite types of things: not much to look at from a distance, nothing from the window of a car speeding along Indian School Road, but actually quite worth some moments up close and slower, from a bike or a pedestrian passing by, in different weather and at different times of day. Eventuallyone notices the button with a sign now faded, which makes fog when you press it.

PUSH BUTTON FOR HORSESHOE FOUNTAIN. Still the greatest. Unfaded version.

Over the years of riding by, and stopping by, I've seen changes here. On August 24, 2010, a freak wind blew through Scottsdale and Phoenix, knocking down fences and trees, including many of the trees which once shaded Horseshoe Falls.  I passed by a few days later, and was shocked to see the shade gone, the sun beating down on the rusty metal pillars. My heart sank: I have a thing for trees, particularly native ones, particularly native ones that offer shade, perfume, bee food, and if needed/wanted, people food. I once ground up mesquite bean pods and made bread and cookies, and they were deliciously different.

Eventually, though, some of the shade trees at Horseshoe Falls were replanted, and are now reaching a size where they will offer shade again (see photo 1 above). 

I'm not saying that wind blowing down trees is the worst thing, or that trees replanted and showing signs of vitality and growth six years later is the best thing, but rather that these small things are set against the backdrop of normal life, which flows on with its own powerful joys and inevitable sorrows which, I think, have the ability to amplify, and be amplified by, the minor but distinct sadness of blown down trees, or by the trivial but poignant button you can press to make fog roll over your bicycle and stacks of rusty horseshoes.

In that amplified moment I can be there. Whatever is happening in my life can be both appreciated and put into some kind of perspective in that pause. I like to stay just a moment to listen to the sound of fog hissing out while taking a few mindful breaths. The cyclist's heart falls, and rises, while both the delightful and the disturbing along the route alter with the passage of time, in their own ways, to their own schedules. At a medium or slow pace on my bike, though, riding along trying to be fully in touch with what's around me, I detect these artifacts of time passing, try to understand, appreciate, and when possible, live into them. Sometimes, to harvest their beans and make cookies from them.

Pedestrian / Cyclist bridge reflected in Tempe Center for the Arts

The new dam has been installed at Tempe Town Lake, and the water refilled. Old news, but another change in the landscape I've been riding through for years. 

New dam. Not made of rubber like old one, less likely to POP! when it his 117 today.

I set out on my Saturday Tri-city Tour (TCT) earlier than normal, OK much earlier than normal, since I usually just wait until late afternoon when my natural bicycling biorhythm just seems more ready to ride. But with today's impending heat, I thought I would give an early-ish ride a chance. It was good to get out before the asphalt starts bubbling, I admit. I'm not ready to chase the sunrise yet, but perhaps early is better in the summer. 

With the advent of summer, I've renewed effort to try out and improve various simple and cheap ways to replace electrolytes. Even on today's relatively not-that-hot ride, I still drank three bottles of water. I'm working on a much more detailed price-based analysis for the blog, but I can predict already where it's going: you don't really need to spend several hard-earned dollars on flavored sugar and salt products to rehydrate effectively. All you really need, physiologically speaking, is a dash of salt and possibly a dash of "no-salt", depending on your personal sweat characteristics. For me, if I don't replace those two along with plentiful water, I expect bad muscle cramps later. Your mileage may vary, of course. But this is another way the cyclist's heart rises and falls: after a hot summer ride, I can feel that my heart has been taxed, tried, pushed a bit. Enough water, and salt, and sugars, makes it right again.

Of course, on the bike, the heart mostly rises. There's enough stuff out there to cause it to fall, and sometimes even to break, but there's always on the ride the positive balance which prevails. I was feeling on this day's almost-hot ride that the heat helps my muscles and bones feel comfortable and smooth. Maybe that's why I like spinning away the hot days so much. At the end of the TCT today, I didn't want it to end. I was ready to ride more. A pinch of salt, and a strategically located water fountain to refill the bottles, keeps the ride going. Hola, summer. Let's do this. The other advantage of doing a ride first thing in the morning: there's always the option of another ride later in the afternoon, should the heart desire.

  

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Listening to Old Songs Might Get Dangerous


Post written to the accompaniment of Bob Dylan, Biograph

I saw this crew out riding on a mild and warm Phoenix morning, and while my jealously followed them down the street, as they were headed to coffee while I was headed to work, seeing them started a chain of thoughts which wound through my day, ending with the title of this post.

Today was a day of ups and downs, of hugs and gut punches, of thrills and chills and spills, of the two regularly scheduled bike rides there and back, too little rest and too much stress, perfect riding weather blowing hard into my face, a good home-cooked meal eaten with my family around the table laughing about the ups and downs of our days, of the DTWS finale viewed by some of the members of my household, while others of us retired to our corners with our books and our libraries of favorite songs.

You hit the random song button and you never know what you're gonna get. Tonight I got Bob Dylan and a flood of random memories. Good ones, ones that I didn't know I still had. I tuned into the seldom-visited ones, that one long and spontaneous bike ride to the beach, running through a fall night, a party in someone's basement, a chain of them that keeps going as long as I want to. A few other bike rides.

I thought about those guys on their group ride, and wondered if, for them, one ride blends into the next. Reflecting on my commutes, are there some out of hundreds that stand out? Let's see. Yes, the day it started raining hard out of a clear brilliant sunny sky. Another day it rained so hard and got so dark and windy I couldn't see but I kept going. I suppose one or two of the dust storms. The sad morning I came upon a cat who had just been hit by a car at the same time that another cyclist stopped. She picked up the still-warm cat and stroked its body. The cat was clearly gone, and there were a few moments when we weren't sure what to do, until we saw the owner walking towards us in his bathrobe. He took the lifeless furball from her, and we rode off in our appointed opposite directions. The day the driver ran the four-way stop and almost took me out. Many others, I suppose, if I think about it. 

How about you, group rider guys, do some rides stand out like that? I suppose that they do, that the mind grasps onto the trivial yet significant events of our passing days, stores them away, somehow, waiting to be triggered by an inquiring blogger, or some old song, floats them up to remind us of the amassed chain of those memories that makes up something of who we've become. 

I have an early ride tomorrow morning. Not with a group, for coffee, but early in to work, to hit some deadlines. Got one more Bob Dylan song to listen to tonight before turning in: Tangled Up in Blue just came on as I'm typing this. That will do, certainly. A good way to remind myself, as the day's events dim into sleep and the memory-making and association-creation pauses, that listening to old songs might get dangerous.
  

Monday, May 23, 2016

Bike Storage in a Small Space: Go Vertical


Four bikes hung vertically, inside 44" of horizontal space

I have a space set aside for bike storage, which also encloses some metal shelves that hold most of the parts and stuff. Fitting the bikes into the space is not the challenge, not in itself. It's possible to fit more than this just by stacking them into a great pile, for example. But the goal is to store them reasonably orderly, so they don't scratch themselves all up, and, more importantly, so that I don't have to dig through to get one particular one out.

The way that I had them previously required me to take most of them out of the space if I wanted to get to the one in the back, or hanging on the wall. What I was looking for, though, was a way to fit all the bikes into the space in an orderly way that also permitted easy access to any of them. Especially so that the girls could get at their bikes without relying on me. When I saw the Rubbermaid Fast Track and the vertical bike hook, I knew it had potential.

Tape measure in hand, I went back there and began to try to figure out how many I could hang vertically on the wall inside the 44" between the steel shelves and the mountain bike hanging on the wall. The handlebars seemed to be the limiting factor, until I realized that hanging the bikes up-down-up-down meant I could probably fit four in the allotted space. That would be enough, if they all actually fit. I found in the past that bicycles, with their slightly odd shape and protruding parts, sometimes defy simple measuring and planning, with a pedal sticking here, a brake lever sticking there, you can't quite be sure until you try. So I did.

The Rubbermaid Fast Track was easy to hang on the block wall. The first hole I drilled was going into the block slowly, frustratingly slowly, when I realized that the bit was worn out. So I grabbed a fresh masonry bit, which sped up the hole-making considerably. Mounting and leveling the rack with one set of hands, on the fly, was interesting, and went OK. The problem I've run into before with making permanent 1/4" holes in masonry for anchors is that the rough surface undoes all efforts at aligning the bit with the marks that you make, even if you punch a starter. I'm sure there's a right way to do it, but I never get the kind of precision I would like with just marking. Instead, I end up doing something like drill the center hole, mount the rack on it using it as a registration for the other holes, then re-mark the holes on either end, then rely on the slop factor of the plastic anchors along with any extra room provided by the mounting holes to permit all six screws to go in somewhat effectively. It worked. It wasn't too ugly. No stripped screws or re-dos. That rack's not going anywhere.

Just in case, I did position the steel security cable such that it could catch and hold the bikes if the rack pulled out. I don't think it will, but I like having a backup.

The Rubbermaid vertical bike hooks are nice because they are easily and infinitely moveable along the track to let me make the most out of the available space. They also seem stout. I realize that a 2x4 and those screw-in hooks could accomplish something similar, although I like the way this looks, and I appreciate the versatility and easy adjustment of position.

I probably should have come up with the vertical hanging solution a long time ago. I think part of the delay was a reluctance which arose from some kind of concern about the hooks hurting the wheels. Then I read the thing that explained that the force of a bike hanging from the wheel alone is significantly less than the force I put on the wheel when I ride it. Can't believe I didn't realize that sooner. Worry has a way of concealing the obvious truth which would undo it, I guess.

The Rubbermaid Fast Track is a handy system, with lots of different options for mounting a variety of stuff. If/when I execute the garage or shed project, I could see using it on the walls for organization. It's flexible and handy. I didn't really set out to write a review, but in case this reads like one, be advised that I purchased this myself, and received no incentives to write it.

 


Friday, April 29, 2016

Where Once Stood a House


Demolition instructions: please spare the tree

The speed with which one of these machines reduces a homestead to a lot of level bare dirt is stunning. On the one hand, I think of all the memories and home scenes that must have taken place in the home that once was, how all the attachments of those memories to specific physical attributes of the former house were busted up into random-shaped refuse and hauled off in trucks covered in dust. On the other hand, it's an exercise in breathtaking tidying and minimalism which makes a mockery of spending hours sorting through papers in one filing cabinet, say, or hours spent flipping through old CDs deciding which ones to store, rip, discard, or donate. In one go, lasting only a few days, where once stood a house with all its accumulations and ordered disorder, now is just an empty, flat, bare lot, pure and full of potential, wiped of everything.

I pass this spot on my daily bike commute. Houses all around have met a similar transformation, mainly to be replaced with new ones more densely packed. The developer equation is so pristine: if sales price is greater than purchase price plus construction price, then do it again and again. You can translate that to a minimalist dejunking tidying relation: if simple pristine order of worthy/important/joy-triggering items post-tidying is more valuable to you than holding tightly onto a bunch of stuff you don't need simply because you have feelings of clinging to it indefinitely in case it may be useful someday, donate it or discard it all.  The goal is probably not to get down to bare dirt, but if sheer capitalist drive can accomplish the photo above in a day or two, I can discard what's unimportant, unneeded, unwanted, and unjoyfilled in a short period of time as well. 

My desk now resembles this bare lot: down to monitor, speakers, keyboard, mouse, and inside logically organized drawers with plenty of empty space. That's it. It's a start.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Scottsdale Garbage


You can tell a lot about a culture by its garbage

The decommissioning and tear-down of some floating art along the Scottsdale Waterfront resulted in this unusual garbage. It's notable, sitting next to the bike lane, and not something that you see every day.

The others gathered together, herded into a group, awaiting their fate