IN (1)

A desert expanse waits outside the room windows, but that only encourages Carson to return to his INdivan  beside the others arrayed in a fantastic digital design. The  room, unlike the dystopic images from many of your choice of twentieth century films and novels, was bright, coloured in waves of pixels and windows to the outdoors. It was not unpleasant at all, and there was choice. There were real options for those of us who had not as yet fully opted IN. 

Carson had to admit at this point that he was likely more IN than not. He hadn't paid attention to this stats lately. He recalled Petra suggesting that this was the first sign that he would go all  IN at some point. Whether or not you simply felt that it took too much energy to check, or whether it was the fatigue that comes from continually confronting the possibility of loss, not knowing how much time you were IN indicated something, she said. "It means that you've got a preference. That you're leaning toward IN. That you go OUT for a break, but you know you're going back IN. That you're always measuring the time that way." This memory was from a while back. Carson can't be specific about it. He's rummaging about in his mind for the last memory he's had of a conversation with Petra. Was that it? Smiling, he thinks that he might try google it. Of course it will be logged, to be found somewhere ing the v-base. Every room had one. He turns from the window to Petra lying on her IN-divan beside him. He wants to touch her, to awaken her. Only his respect for the freewill protocols stop him. From withIN he's can invite her OUT, but she retains full right to her bodyspace.

You'd think that since most were IN for most of the time that the scan would not take long. Still the range of vocabulary people use during an OUTmoment is quite narrow. What word could he search that would be unique to that one conversation? His memory reels. Resisting the siren call of his INdivan he stands at one of the upright datadocks and keys in 'Petra.' Ten thousand and twenty-two results, beginning with the most recent whose first frame includes Petra and the form of a woman named Naomi. Carson realizes his error immediately. Now he'll want to know more. How many OUTmoments has Petra taken since the last one they had? With whom? Was she forgetting? Why wasn't he? He refines his search prompts: 'Petra,' and 'INtime.' 

As he waits he feels the room fill with the unison susurrant breathing of the INs. This was touted as one of the marvels of going IN, that to Carson had seemed so banal at the time. One brochure header he'd read went: "go IN, get INtune!" How long ago was that? His self-mem was in decline. Bits and pieces - pastiches - unassimilable bits. A headline or an image without context. How long had he had these questions? Didn't he have a recollection of the datadocks being busy? Of having to go IN if he wanted to get data-time? Why was he the only one standing now, in the bright light of the sun? Why did the white sun seem so near? And the sand outside - had it always so fully surrounded the room?

The desolation was expansive and gorgeous. Blue sky. Tan-red sand sifting in the wind around the trunks of trees that remained a miraculous green. He thought he remembered talk of subterranean irrigation. He thought he remembered talk of the appreciation of this new aesthetic: barren-lush.

          

2011: A good year

Monkey Bread

I baked cookies and Monkey Bread tonight. We don't know why it's called Monkey Bread. In the absence of a more apt name, we use the one everyone else uses. We hope no one is offended. I'm not sure that monkeys even eat bread - though this bread is pretty good, so I doubt they could resist! 

Here's what it looks like (though I baked mine in two loaf tins).

Here's how you bake Monkey bread. 

1. Mix the dough/add the goodies.

• Monkey bread lends itself to freelancing; you don’t have to follow a recipe.
• You can start with your favorite bread recipe. To fill a bundt pan, you will need a recipe that calls for about four cups of flour. Mix as you would another bread.
• We usually add several tablespoons of sugar for a little sweeter bread. For an egg-rich bread, add an egg or two. You can also add cocoa, dry fruit, or nuts.

2. Cut the chunks.

• The easiest way to cut the dough is to roll it out on the counter to a thickness of 1/2 to 3/4 inch thick and cut the dough into squares with a sharp knife or pizza roller. The chunks should be no larger than walnuts.

3. Coat the chunks.

• There are two ways to coat the chunks: dip the chunks in butter and roll them in a sugar mixture or make a buttery slurry and dip the chunks in the slurry.
• The chunks can be rolled in a mixture of sugar and spices and finely chopped nuts.
• Jam, maple syrup, or fruit syrup can be used as the basis for a dipping slurry.
• Nuts or fruit can be added between layers if desired. If you want to top your monkey bread with nuts, place nuts in the bottom of the pan since the monkey bread will be inverted onto a platter after baking.

4. Load the pan.

• You don’t have to use a bundt pan; any pan will do though tube pans and springform pans may leak.

5. Bake the bread.

• Bake the bread at 350 degrees or as directed by the recipe. Once baked, let the monkey bread cool in the pan for about five minutes before inverting on a platter. This gives the glaze a chance to set so that it does not run everywhere when inverted.
• Serve the monkey bread warm and fresh.

Ride report

in:          -7'C wind 45ks NW

out:      -14'C wind 15ks WNW

It's what you want

Holding it there on her lap perfectly wrapped in red foil with a gold bow, it’s weird how she goes on talking like she’s got nothing for you. Outside the snow falls like lace lifting in the wind. What if I just take it? you say. She smiles back. Do you dare? Well that’s the crux of it right there isn’t it, because these days everyone has the courage of their desires. Even without understanding this you'll do it. All you can do is watch.     

Ride report:

in:     (brought in the car for new struts)

out:  -12'C wind 10 ks S

How To Train Your Dragon

Colby finally came through! After several bait and switch suggestions that we would be watching How To Train Your Dragon, we watched it tonight. It was fun. The storyline was recognizable and simple (which is a good thing if you're watching a movie with Colby!), and the animation, as far as I could tell, was well done, even beautiful at times - I particularly liked the scenes with the vast moonlit ocean in the background (though those scenes were also the corniest).

I really don't know how to review an American-made animated feature, as compared to a live-action feature, or even compared to Japanese Anime. Are the standards different? It kind of feels that way. That is, the reviews on Rotten Tomatoes (98%) and IMDB (8.2/10) are so over-the-top positive that I can't figure it out. I mean this isn't a bad movie, but it's not a great one. It's not innovative in anyway that I can see. It's pretty, and technically well-executed, but the story isn't worth much of a mention as being compelling or imaginative. 

Here's a list of some of the hacked tropes it includes: misunderstood, underdog son/hero; bombastic, unfeeling, violent, jerkface father; huge, odd-duck, mishapen sidekick (the Hagrid factor); the cute girl who finally understands; the bullies who finally understand; the creatures of the natural world misunderstood as hateful and dangerous, but actually loving ... except for that spawn of evil which lurks deep in the belly of the Earth (oh the conflictedness of it - to love the Earth or fear it - which will it be?); the "it all comes together in the end" ending. There are more. I won't mention the visually stereotypes of comfort (the warm lights of home) and dazzle (the crazy firefights) that abound here.  

There are also several missed opportunities of interesting revisions of the above tropes: a female hero? (why not?); a father and a mother that care, even if they're misguided (what the heck is going on with the lack of fully-formed two-parent families in animated films? - thank you Lion King and Coraline!); let's have all the children be less easily co-opted into the adult agenda (like Super 8). 

Anyway, as far as I'm interested in animated feature films, I will continue to pay attention to anime pieces like Princess Mononoke & Tekkonkinkreet. These movies stand alone as mature pieces of art and need not be treated with the kid gloves like most American animated features. The closest a Hollywood animated feature has come to compelling is the first 30 minutes of Wall-E, and that section of the film does it without dialogue! By the way, aren't voices done by "stars" one of the more problematic aspects of animation? Here the Viking father speaks in a Scottish brogue (Gerard Butler), while his son speaks a kind of slacker middle-Americanese (Jay Baruchel). Why?

That's enough. We had a good time with Colby. The movie entertained us. That was certainly sufficient for tonight. I'll stop with my griping already.

Ride report

in:       -10'C wind 20 ks N

out:    -11'C wind  12 ks N

Under no moon

George wakes up after a dream. It's 4:37. The night is cold and clear - stars but no moon. The temperature has fallen from above zero to minus 15. That's what they'd predicted, that's what happened. Under no moon. If I were brave now, he thinks, I'd get up and start writing. I'd write down this dream. I'd start with the large two-and-a-half-storey clapboard siding house with the veranda, and the family of five living in it. The trusting community wherein no one locks doors and the psychotic killer finds a place to wage his campaign of terror. The scene wherein the young girl, the middle daughter, cowers in the bathtub only to be found and without hesitation or soundtrack of warning sliced and hacked by the killer's strangely small sickle-shaped blade, her face and neck bearing the brunt of it, the blood minimalist in this scene as she kneels before him and then, still moaning despite the near complete removal of her face, falls forward on all fours at the killer's feet. Meanwhile the rest of the family, without George of course, has fled the house and stands in front of it, on the lawn, as though it were aflame, hugging one another, waiting. For what? The dream gives him this image as it closes, and he awakens: his wife and two daughters huddled in terror before his house while he, presumably from the front door, under cover of the veranda, exits. Who is the killer? he wonders. 

If he gets up now to write he'll make good use of the day. The dream is a gift. The exit at the end an obvious entrance into story. Into writing. You'd be reading it right now if George had heeded his own best advice. Rather though, he sighs, gets up and goes to the toilet, relieves himself, and returns to bed, the sheets damp from his sweat. Chilled now he pulls the comforter closer. He was hot, now he's cold. Beside him Rebecca awakens and says, "Can't sleep?"

"Dream," he says. "Nightmare. Stupid. A slasher."

"Ouch," she says. 

"You?" he says.

"No, just my neck. I slept funny I think."

"I should get up now," he says.

"Time?" she says, looking up. "Oh! It's almost five!"

"Yeah, I could get up."

"I can't," she says, "I should be sleeping on my back, flat. Not like this."

The radio wakes him at 8:13. He's had a second dream. This one's about being late for work. George doesn't want to think about it. He lies and waits for the ecstasies of the sports announcers, and then sits up, dresses, and heads to the kitchen to make coffee. It's Sunday, thank God. 

Ride report

Rode to Altona, then to Morris (for Steak'n'eggs at Burkes) with JS. Steven started out with us but 13 ks in his derailleur hanger broke and he called for a ride (and generously encouraged us to ride on). It was a good ride, though we'd misunderestimated the wind direction and speed - it was from the NW and so we had to ride into it for a good bit. Otherwise the temperatures were right, as was the breakfast and the company.

 

I'm trying not to eat after 8 pm

Today I failed. I had some tortilla chips just before 9. I couldn't help myself. They were so salty. So crisp. So unassuming in their nearly unseasoned state. They are, simply, my "I don't wanna eat much, but I wanna eat something" go to snack.

I solved the yen for something on my palette with a whisky tonight. That worked. Earlier I'd tried some pear flavoured green tea. That wasn't bad, but it didn't work, obviously. Read the confession above. 

Eating after 8, or worse after 10, has contributed to a long string of bad nights. I get to bed late because my gut feels leaden. So I read. Not a bad thing, but still, not sleeping. As the clock approaches 1:00 am I tell myself to stop reading. I turn off the light. I lie on my back. I wait. 

Sleep hovers somewhere up above the moon. Somewhere up and to the left of heaven. I lie on my back for maybe 3 minutes and then I turn and lie on my side - my left side, facing away from M. Another few minutes pass. Sleep begins to descend the ladder. 

I might as well be using a stone pillow. I turn a full 180' rotation to face M. Maybe spoon. It depends which way she's facing. This serves little purpose really. I know from long experience that I will not fall asleep while spooning. You can guess why. 

I sigh. I turn back onto my back. When I was recuperating from my broken kneecap I had to sleep on my back. At first this was hell, but like all things you are forced to do, you figure out how it can work and you make do. Soon you're used to it. Then you have a taste for it. 

Lying on my back is the most comfortable position for the wait, but by 1:30 I've lost faith in it too. So I'm back to my left side, facing south. My head to the east, in case you're wondering whether the energy's moving in the right direction. I think it is. Still, I've had to wait a long time for sleep to descend. 

Occasionally I roll onto my stomach. This is just a time waster. A position changer. It's interim at best. I will not sleep this way. I will sigh. I will face south. Then I will face M. I will consider spooning again. I will think maybe ... 

Of course that makes me sleepy, but not M. And she's already asleep. So this is not a fair way to solve my problem. Of course there is the issue of desire, and the work involved in cultivating it. One can't just charge in without some softening of the defenses. But I digress.

I'm convinced that my sleep troubles are gut related. Appetite-related. I don't often remember dreams, so I can't say that I dream more when I eat before I sleep. I can say that when I eat before I sleep, I sleep less.

By 2:45 it's near crisis mode. I get up. Go to the toilet. Use it. Wander back. Think about trying another bed. Ask myself why I haven't just stayed up reading. Ask myself why I can't write late at night. Ask myself whether I'm asking too many questions. Answer? Yes.

At 6:45 the radio starts in. Wow. I'm not ready for this. By 7:30 I'm up. By 7:40 I'm on my bike. By 8:05 (depending on the wind) I'm at work. I'm okay and all, but it's not ideal. I'm too fixated on the leisure of Saturday and Sunday mornings.

So I'm working on giving up eating after 8. I'm pretty sure this is going to solve the problem. I hate getting old. You have to start (more?) good habits. 

Ride report

in:      -15'C wind 25ks NW

out:   -13'C wind 15ks WNW

Discretion?

In two recent situations, I believe I exercised it.

1st - Between Movember and Nomomo two of us (sitting in a bar of course, still fully moustachioed and under a little bit of influence) dared each other to go to work looking like this, for one day:

I didn't do it. The better part of valour and all that. 

2nd - A week ago our good Winnipeg (and France and just all 'round good) friends offered to barter/sell us the first piece of handmade antique furniture (they're prolific and discerning collectors) they ever purchased - an 1860s pine cupboard and hutch from Quebec. We said yes, and here it is, taking its place in our kitchen (which saves me the trouble of building something half-assed and less than half as good!)!

  

Two wise decisions in a week! I'm on a roll!

Ride report

in:      -9'C wind 15ks SW

out:   -10'C wind 20ks W

Waiting for the Barbarians

South African writer J.M. Coetzee (pronounced kuut - see) wrote Waiting for the Barbarians in 1980 at the height of Apartheid. In 1983 he would write The Life and Times of Michael K which would win the Man Booker prize, and in 1999 he'd win that prize again for Disgrace. In 2003 Coetzee was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature.

Waiting tells the story of the aging Magistrate of an outpost on the edge of an unnamed civilization. Besides description of the landscape (it is an arid, inhospitable land) there is little offered to locate the reader. If you know, as I did, that Coetzee is South African, you assume that the action takes place on that continent. There's nothing wrong with making that assumption, except that it narrows the range of a novel that seems deliberately sparse on names, perhaps in order to widen its scope into a near allegory.   

Those in power at the centre of this Empire are convinced that a barbarian threat is imminent. They send an emissary, Colonel Joll, with some troops, to the Magistrate's outpost to scour the land for barbarians or those sympathetic to them, and interrogate them by any means. A logical and sympathetic man, the Magistrate doesn't see evidence of a barbarian threat. Early on he tells Joll this, which puts him under suspicion. 

When the troops return from an excursion with barbarian prisoners, Joll subjects them to brutal interrogation and torture. To help manage his own complicity in this the Magistrate takes in an adolescent barbarian girl whose feet have been broken during questioning. Though they share a bed and he bathes her intimately while she lives with him, he is reluctant, even unable, to consummate the relationship. Not until he goes on an excursion into barbarian lands to return her to her family is he able and willing to love her completely. Then, he lets her go back to her own people.

This has to mean something. An aging man of the Empire sympathizes with a young barbarian girl but cannot "enter into" her experience until outside of Empire and in her land. This all seems a bit rich. In fact, if it weren't for his horror at the politics of the Empire, we'd have to declare our hero, the Magistrate, a dirty old man who takes advantage of a situation. 

Even though his conscience seems to trouble him, he never regrets the primal, sexual nature of his relationship with this young girl, and to me this muddies the focus of the novel. When he returns to the outpost to resume his duties he finds that Joll has put an ambitious and vicious young officer in charge and the Magistrate is jailed for traitorous activities. 

The scandal of the Magistrate arises from his sympathy for the barbarians, especially his fraternization with the young girl. Although the Magistrates actions work symbolically, on a "real world" level they are problematic. Why use a cliche-ridden, and abhorrent to many, sexualized relationship as the central illustration of how civilization and barbarity must reconcile - or how what is civilized and what is barbarous are only constructs defined by Empire. Sure it all works, but it's just so unseemly and hard to defend. 

Coetzee however, explores this sort of relationship in Disgrace too. Here again the relationship causes the aging male's fall from grace. My question is simply this: though he sounds the right notes in portraying the moral ethical boundaries of sexuality, does the sexual conquest of a young female by an aging male really warrant this much attention? It may be the stuff of the aging male fantasy, but it's hard-going to suggest that this fantasy has merit on its own, much less as the focus for a parable on how relations between human groups fail. 

Further, this male-oriented point of view is already pervasive and problematic. For at least half of the readers out there, it's solidly "eyes roll back in the head and sigh" material. These readers (and you know who you are) will likely struggle with the sexual nature of the story simply because it's been told and told and told and, it's beside the point. Writers should explore large themes like the clash between civilizations, but perhaps not in a novel about an aging man who finds comfort and understanding in the body of a young female member of the underclass. 

Finally, didactic art is, at best, difficult to pull off. At worst it's a sermon disguised as a story. At best it's art with a message. There's craft in it, to be sure, but one always wonders why the writer didn't just publish an essay instead. 

Ride report

in:      -15'C wind 25 ks SW

out:   -10'C wind 25 ks WSW

       

Super 8

I hadn't heard about Spielberg's latest until a student started insisting that I had to see this movie. Based on this recommendation alone, I found it, and settled down to watch it with a few loved ones. Well it had me from the first strains of ELO, and then when The Knack started up, and then The Cars, and then they were driving that 2-door Buick Skylark - which reminded me of my friend's Chevy Malibu - I was completely transported back to my adolescence, and the friends and innocence of that time just before you're not innocent anymore - those moments when you're just becoming aware of one another as having motives beyond fun and building stuff and then tearing it down again. My friends and I didn't make movies (like the kids in the movie), but we tore banana-seat bikes apart and made them into proto-bmx things to ride around town on, late into the nights. We made model cars and trains and raced things, and watched Star Wars and Indiana Jones and Jaws and loved to shoot things and light them on fire. And we were just starting to think that girls might be interesting as friends of a different kind.

So when the train wrecks gloriously, stupendously, right in front of them when they're doing what they most want to do, and there's a girl there too, it's just rapturous! It's that small apocalypse that you escape to tell about - and it gets better in the telling. Except, in Super 8, it gets better and then worse too in the telling. Unaccountably, ominously, foreshadowingly, Cloverfieldishly worse. J.J. Abrams produces this movie, as he did Star Trek, and Cloverfield. The monster here might as well have hopped frames from Cloverfield to the train car from which it escapes here. 

Which bring me to this thing that successful directors do - they re-iterate (some call it homage) the work of other auteurs, and their own work as well. Auteurs do this sort of thing - you can see an Atwood or a McCarthy novel coming from a mile away - and it's mostly okay. I appreciate it that I can buy a Dylan album, and settle into the comfortable "re-runishness" of it. Shakespeare constantly pirated his own best lines. I find comfort in knowing what Ian McEwan will supply in a novel. The good ones however, like Tarantino in Inglourious Basterds, do more than just revisit the old riffs, they make something new, something fresh, something magnificently unexpected.    

I liked ET and I as soon as the kids in this movie start riding their bikes across open fields, the camera staying low to expand the horizon that overlooks a sleepy midwestern town, I started to expect that this was what Spielberg was re-serving. Which was fine. I love the "sharp fresh kids versus the blunt jaded adults" trope. It's a reminder to stay young and to act less (hopefully a lot less) like the narrow-scoped dopes that run the air force, the police force, or the school (at least they're dopes in the movies). There is a modicum of freshness here. The young male hero's dad isn't quite the dope we might expect. Neither is the biology teacher that seems responsible for initiating the whole shebang. Otherwise though, the adults deliver their stupid, unaware, uninteresting lines, and the kids wisely dodge them.

No, Spielberg's got nothing new to offer here: not in the relationships between the kids, nor between the kids and the adults, nor between the civilians and army guys. Further, he's got nothing new to offer to the alien-intelligence meets human-xenophia situation either. Not since District 9 (well okay, Cloverfield wasn't bad either) has anyone really tried hard to re-fresh this plot. Spielberg and Abrams, for all the money, technology, and ingenuity (got writers anyone?) at their disposal could do nothing more imaginative than an upscale, more spectacular, ET phone home. 

Where are the good sci-fi writers when this kind of film gets proposed? What could LeGuin do with these resources? I know I know, Spielberg and Hollywood don't really want to make us fundamentally uncomfortable at the end of a show that features adorably innocent, truth-seeking teens. Good point. So I'll just have to accept that after all that cash, and all those technical resources were thrown at the screen, what stuck were the first twenty minutes or so with its shazamic late 70s rock, its youthful imagination, its blossoming love, and its orgasmic train wreck. After that  this train gets back on that pretty narrow successful train-track feel-good formula. It mails it in. It's a nice to get a care-package now and then, but these cookies are stale.

Ride report(s)

It's worth noting that I rode from Altona to St. Joseph and then home yesterday (about 29 ks). It was about -10'C and the wind was from the North. I rode gravel and dirt roads, and this reminds me of my absolute love for my cross bike. There are so many more options for rides.

Today

in:      -25'C wind 10ks N

out:   -14'C wind 10ks N

It was an ABES night ...

... for a change. For the evidence head on over to here. Hahahaha! Funny, eh? No, seriously, head on over to here (but wait until this evening, when it's been updated).

There is no mo mo.
There is only now.

Ride report
in:      -9'C wind 16 ks S
out:   -6'C wind 20 ks S

No mo mo

On November 15th it looked like this:

Today it looked like this:

Well that's something, I guess. Truth be told, I want to be rid of the schnirr. It always feels a bit moist underneath it, and it just itches and scratches and aggravates. I don't think the skin on my face and the hair it produces are out of the closet compatible. My skin tolerates it, but after a couple of days it just screams "get this ingrown stiff-necked heretic out of here" and I oblige. 

I still haven't taken the knife to it. If not tonight, then tomorrow night, but soon there must be no mo mo.

Ride report

in:      -8'C wind 20 ks S

out:   -4'C wind 15 ks NNE

 

Doing good

This can only be a beginning. I'm going to continue it sometime. Honest. I've been impatient. I confess it. Who wants to wait? I've been waiting long enough. Putting it off really. Putting it off so long that all I've managed are small spurts of it, which is more dabbling than engaging. I have a long way to go, and I've really just started down the path.

I'm mixing my metaphors. Spurts. Paths. Enough of that. I am so slow to believe. I know, if you know me, you know that I have a gullible side - a "want to believe it" side - that keeps me going. But in truth I don't really believe in myself, or in the goodness I apparently hope for. 

I say apparently because when I rave on about how things could be or should be better, I recognize a kind of fundamentalism of hope. It's in my genes I think. One philosopher (I recall who - John Gray?) says that "hope" is pernicious and the root of religion and foolishness because it distracts us from the toil and crap of today; it averts our eyes upward to some vista that may as well be a mirage.

Rather, one must examine the crap, pay attention to the labour at hand. This is such an obvious maxim. Live in the now. Do what you do now, well, and confront it when it's bad. Stop then, and proceed to the next good thing to do. Seek only to know enough to tell good from bad, and then to do it (the good that is).

And what is good? What does one draw on to determine that? I had a dream last night. I'd fallen behind again. We'd been called in to work. It was an email message that I had seen but not opened. When I finally did open it, I was already late. So I rush out the door. Better late than never I think. Even though it's on my Christmas holidays that's the sort of power my boss has over me. It's a whole staff affair, and it's some kind of a trust-building activity day. I get there just in time to help a group of them try to lift and roll (or were we trying to bounce it?) a large tractor tire the size of the ones that are used on four-wheel-drives. The goal is to move it from one line to another one, but the tire starts out in a kind of a ditch, so we have to roll it up the ditch hill first. It's heavy. It's hard. The tire wants to roll back down. 

Sisyphus. This is the first sign of bad. Engaging a contrived task that threatens to become repetitive, alone or with others, that has no inherent meaning or purpose. We roll the tire not because it needs to be moved, but because the authority has asked us to, and because we trust that authority and each other to be looking out for our best interests. But we suspect they're not. We suspect they're looking out for their own best interests. We suspect that we are putting off our own best interests in an attempt to garner their favour, and the favour of those around us. This is bad. 

I know this means I'm defining good in the negative. That is, if I can figure out what is bad, then I'm halfway to determining what is good. Well, halfway certain is better than not certain at all. I'll take that much for now. It's taken me a while to see that just persevering in doing bad stuff, isn't good. Just because perseverance is virtuous doesn't mean that practicing it is always taking you down the path to goodness. I've spent a lot of time and energy being mad at others for working hard at foolish tasks, and even hating my own foolishness in engaging such tasks. So now I must engage in the task of undoing this habit of mind, this way of being, that is founded in any hope that someone else will see the merit of my effort as worthy, rather than the merit of the task. Which is to say that I have to stop worrying about my effort being measured, and worry more about doing good things, right now, for myself. 

Oh that sounds selfish. See? My religion bears down on me again. 

Ride report

in:      -1'C wind 8 ks S

out:   -4'C wind 2 ks W

Three things from the weekend

Sunday: 10 Myths About Introverts describes me. Pretty much exactly.

Saturday: Watched Everything Must Go. 

I love watching Will Ferrell being serious. He's still funny, it's just a different kind of funny. He's not trying  to be funny, he's just funny to watch. And he can act. Although I don't think he's as engaging in this performance as he is in Stranger Than Fiction, he's working harder here. The cast isn't powerful  and overwhelming in this film, as compared to STF (where he was working with Emma Thompson, Dustin Hoffman, and Maggie Gyllenhaal) so he's got to carry things on his own. He does. I liked the movie, but since it's based (loosely) on a Raymond Carver story - Why Don't You Dance? - I had that thing in my head too, and I ended up thinking too much about the opportunities the movie missed. 

I'd have hoped that since this production was about as close to an independent release as you can get in Hollywood it might also allow itself to get closer to edgy. That's what Carver's stories do - play on the edge: the guy drinks a lot of whisky, not a lot of Pabst Blue Ribbon; the guy himself sets up his furniture on the front lawn in the same way that it was set up in his house, he's not been kicked out with all of it by his wife (that's been done in a few movies before); the young couple shows up and he plays them records and they dance together and he with them, he doesn't meet an underprivileged kid with whom he plays catch, and who he grooms into a salesman, nor does he meet a tender-hearted young mom-to-be who nurtures him back to health. These re-visions are not better than the source material. 

In fact maybe they only noted the source material to avert a possible complaint, and then went about there merry business disregarding the story (except for the furniture on the lawn bit). Maybe the screenplay based on Carver's story should have been written by Tom Waits (or at least by Charlie Kaufman). Maybe then it would've hung onto the grit and the rough. Then we'd have to do a little good work ourselves to see what good has come of it for the fired, down-on-his-luck lost American-dreamer. Do we always need to be told that there's a "diamond" in there?          

Friday: Won $70 at poker (2 games, subtract $20 for the fee to play). Won the first game, came in second in the second.

Curling season win #2

Tonight was a good night! A win against win of the best teams in the draw, and two free beers to fortify the ride home! I'm gonna sleep well tonight!

Ride report

in:     -1'C wind 15ks S

out:  2'C wind 15 ks S

Make it strange

The Errol Morris Op-Ed doc explaining the apparently sinister and inexplicable "umbrella man" of the Kennedy assassination makes the point, again, that truth may well be stranger than fiction.

Well that's a cheap shot at fiction. The nub of the matter is that if we scrutinize any moment in which numerous people are going about their routines, or breaking out of them, we will find oddities that, if we are looking for devils, will look devilish.

That's a fair and reasonable. When we observe things, we change them - some psychology study said so. And so what about fiction, and truth, and strangeness? 

There isn't enough time to get into it right now. No matter what I do, I always end up here at about 11:35 pm scrambling something together for this consumptive blog-monster. That's true. It's not strange. It's completely predictable. Almost reliable, except that I'm not. 

And I'd use this situation in a piece of fiction because it might be interesting, and because it's easy to believe that it's true, and because fiction isn't supposed be strange, it's supposed to be plausible and, wait for it, insightful. The point of most fiction, from Stephen King's horror to Ursula K. Le Guin's speculations, is to say something about the "human condition." (I put that phrase in quotation marks because I need to tell you that while it should be ubiquitous, and in many ways is rather than cliched, you can't be sure of much these days. But in some circles you can't say "It's about the human condition." without a significant incidence of eye-rolling.) 

What is "strange" anyway? Purely a matter of point of view isn't it? We don't need too many examples to recognize that the major factor in anyone's declaring an event or a person as "strange" is their perspective on the subject. 

What is "true?" A matter of point of view too? Likely. That and consensus I imagine. If a large group of us agree on an account or an explanation, we come to allow ourselves the luxury of certainty and we declare the thing as true. Ahhh. Now we don't have to think about that thing anymore. We've got it filed. If anyone asks, we can refer them to our neatly stored reality.    

What is "fiction?" When someone has the audacity, or imagination, to go back to one of those files, open it, reread it, and suggest another interpretation of the person or the event, he's created a fiction, another version of the truth. Sometimes these story-bound suggestions go further afield than others - read Philip K. Dick sometime - and sometimes they read like, well, like it's not been imaginative enough, that the interpretation is more like a paraphrase than anything - think about the trouble James Frey (A Million Little Pieces) got into when he (or his editor) walked this line.

So what is fiction? It's that truth we've all already agreed upon being made strange again so we can re-see it, re-imagine it, re-consider it, even re-tell it. Truth is not stranger than fiction. Fiction is truth made strange again. 

Ride report
in:        -3'C wind 20 ks S
out:     -5'C wind 15 ks S

Layout and decline

Clever title eh? I learned today, from a trusted friend, that a person in the city was asking $2500 to complete a task I've done 15 times (and am now doing my 16th and final time) as a volunteer over the past few years. Well I guess I'm either a tool, or a really generous guy. 

I don't feel generous these days. Behind maybe. A bit bitter to be sure. Not generous though. It says a lot (and not very good things) about me that I'm still doing this, despite my misgivings. My generous spirit is in sharp decline. I've given more than I should have, and now I'm in a tailspin. 

It's going to be positive though. I'm going to come out of this having to figure out how to use the time I'm going to take back, to develop something more lasting - myself. If this all sounds kind of hokey and 21st century whine-o-rama so be it. I'm due. It's in the design. 

Ride report

in:     -11'C wind 12 ks S

out:   -10'C wind 15 ks S

       

Pictures of children (fiction)

He buys the scooter and has it delivered. It's perfect. Italian and cream and tan and parked outside on the front walk. Leaning there, nonchalant on its stand, it makes even Winnipeg under the elms look like residential Paris.   

Still, the shine is off. Neither of them wants to admit it, least of all he. There is always a way to avoid it, though in her eyes the signal flickers. If however, you don't keep your eyes open wide when you greet her with a kiss, you'll never notice. 

The question is whether he understands his need to continue, or how this, his most recent effort, might only be an attempt, yet again, not to lose. Does he understand the question? We do, but Vincent's awareness has become, in some way, our question too.

For instance, he's just read the latest New Yorker, to which he subscribes on his ipad, and on it he's chuckled at the cartoons (which he reads first, always), in particular at the one with the caption: "We realize it's a win-win, Jenkins - we're trying to figure out a way to make it a win-lose." 

The men around the boardroom table get it. So does Vincent, but not in the way that will be helpful for him, and for us. Meredith might get it too, but she would never read The New Yorker on her ipad. She'd want to know what Babble or dooce would say.

Wistful, she'd enter the blogger's world hoping for pictures of children. The one of the two girls standing at the front door, backpacked and bundled for the trip to school. Herein lies our first clue. It's obvious really. Embarrassingly so. 

Like riding through a culvert

Riding home at 10 pm, into an East wind of about 30 ks, with a heavy snowfall happening as well, is a bit like riding in through a large culvert with a flashlight. You're working hard to keep your eyes focussed five to ten feet in front of your front wheel. You don't notice what your legs are doing, unless you drift off of the hardpack and onto the soft gravel that gets humped up on the sides and middle of the road. Then you notice that you have to pump harder, and keep from oversteering. You just ease your way back to the good path. 

In a heavy snowfall, with a bit of wind, it's like riding through a storm of christmas mini-lights. You know that there's a lot of possibility for light, but not a lot of focus. You want to look up a bit to see the whole road and get a little perspective, but that doesn't always help. You know you're going to ride where you look, so you've got to look at the right place. 

I walked out of the school today geared up for the first bona fide winter ride of the season. The wind would be in my face for three miles. The snow was coming down good and steady. It was about -15'. Perfect. In a few weeks this will be no big deal. For today it's worthy of a smile and moment to tell myself to take it easy and concentrate. I blow out and I start riding.

On rides like this I can only guess what gear I'm actually in. I can't look down to check. I'm grateful that the bike's working well. I'm grateful that I'm moving pretty easily into the wind. I'm grateful when the ride takes less than 25 minutes on a day like this. Later in the winter, when it's twice as cold (is that how to say it?), it could take another 10 minutes. Maybe more. 

For today the only place that I wish I was better prepared would have been my ears. The wind got in a bit. Tomorrow I'll wear a headband over my skullcap, just to make sure. 

Ride report

in:       -8'C wind 10ks NW

out:    -15'C wind 30ks E (snow)

There's too much at stake

So I'll get right to it. I'm done for the day. 

Ride report

in:      -8'C wind 15ks W (first substantial snowfall too)

out:   -11'C wind 20ks NW

By that time (fiction)

The rocking of the boat is significant enough to alert Mr. Sawatzky, but it's too late. This trope weighs heavy on the-boy-in-the-striped-shirt, named Paul, who, at this time in his quest to do what Jesus would do, has waited. Rather than being a harbinger in action, he has chosen to wait, to watch, to know what will happen, to be implicated in it, to suffer within it. The frantic pulling of the starter cord, the futile mechanical noises and the clenching of a jaw. These things comfort him. He hides them in his heart. Surely he hopes to reach the shore once more, but the simple satisfaction of knowing his fate has calmed him. 

In the news later in the week no one will know that the boy understood what would happen before it did, well before it did in fact, or that he chose the paradox of silence in the face of destruction, even the possibility of his own. If we all could know of his silence and inaction we might see tragedy. Catharsis. We might see reason and cause. More than sympathy, we could realize that had the right person acted at the right time, disaster could have been, would have been, averted. The scientific view of things could have won the day, though there would be no fanfare or self-congratulation. Only the young hero thanked by the heedless, now grateful, father.

But what would this do for you really? Assuage your fears of a numb and nameless universe? Certainly Paul, the-boy-in-the-striped-shirt, finds no gain in once again being right and helping others avoid destiny. Where's the betterment for anyone in these scenarios? Shouldn't we let the chips fall? Shouldn't we nod and wince at the train-wreck, the highway mishap, the slipped disk and subsequent back spasm. It happens. It should happen. It must happen. The universe wills it. 

It only takes a few hours for the searchers to rumble down to the bridge where the truck is parked, note it, launch their boats and head up and down stream at once. At the downstream rapid would-be rescuer James Friesen, familiar with the river, lands his boat and walks the shoreline. Fifty yards later he picks a child's sneaker, blue with two gold stripes, still wet. Ten yards farther he picks up a fishing rod. Sure now, but heartsick, he approaches a monstrous cottonwood sweeper looming over the fan of the current on the outside of a bend that turns the river back East. Its overreaching  inert forking limbs have caught something larger. James wills it to move, to sound out as he approaches and calls out, to return his call with a plea for help, but the life in that small down-turned body bears its witness in silence.        

Ride report

in:       -3 wind 10ks W

out:     -1 wind 25ks WNW

Post haste

After a day at the mill, the meat grinder, the salt mine, the chocolate factory, the farm, I headed over to the curling rink for the second game of the season. What could be better, really, than sliding rocks on ice so that they hit one another, and after two hours of that, heading up to the club for drinks and laughs. 

When I got home I ducked in on my facebook page only to read a status update from a former student: "Screw studying, let's go on facebook:D" Well I had to click my way out of there as fast as I could. This my friends, may be what it's all coming to. You might hope for better. You might say that we are the "god species" and we can't help but get it right eventually. You might even think that facebook can help. 

But I don't think so. I'll give myself the luxury of hoping that I may work harder to unleash myself from this electronic tether to spend more time riding my bike and sliding rocks on the ice, but as a group humans are too much like water - they follow the paths of least resistance. In the spirit of more resistance I say, "Screw the internet, I'm going to read a book in bed :D" 

Ride report

in:        -3'C wind 20ks W

out:      -1'C wind 25ks NW

Email woes

Apparently there's software out there that can determine the tone of an email you've written;-) Oh Lordy Lord Lord!! :D What I wouldn't have given to have that handy bit of ones and zeroes to flag my negative tone this morning>:-( Dag-nabit !-o 

If I really was the dirty scoundrel that I made myself out to be with the first two sentences of my response to a missive suggesting some misbehaviour on my part, I might have avoided the subsequent conversation, and the avoidance in the hallway tactic, and the general malaise that overcomes some of us when we've been rankled, and we've replied unkindly in kind |-( Oh if only I had a tighter grip on my intonations ;() What's a dude to do? %-)

Alas I do repent me of my misemailthropic nature. Perhaps there's a niche opening for a technology that encourages a return to cursive and HP inspired owls, or carrier pigeons, or the tristero =) Or the vacuum/air tubes of 1984, lest we be relegated by a rogue fly and a Brazil-level typographical error |D

Buttle!!!

Ride report

in:       -4'C wind 5ks SSE

out:    -2'C wind Calm (facing W)

A few firsts

Cross season

This Sunday, at St. Malo, I rode in final race of my first complete (well nearly, I missed one race) cyclocross season. It will not be the last, as I cannot think of a Fall activity that could give me more hope and anticipation for the future. A big thanks to my bike for being there, to JS and ABES for a series generally well-placed jabs that finally shamed me into this marvelous thing, to Albert for being over 50 and still being great, to M and the big Gd for graciously giving me those Sundays, to M (again), G&J, & S&R for showing up at a bunch of the races to make it a family thing (now if you guys would just get some bikes and join me in the pain and pleasure!), to the MCA and all of the clubs (esp FGBC)  that organized the races, and to Dr. John Wiens for fixing my kneecap a few years back when there was some question about my riding future. Here's the final picture of the season (thanks again to JS).

Snow

There was a "dusting" of snow on the ground this morning, and the roads were lightly layered in a crisp icy pebble that didn't hold up once the sun came out. The winter commuting season begins.

Floor hockey

As a wind-up to our successful soccer season, the team engaged in an intense game (the first of the year for me) that was about as much fun in a gym as I've ever had! (When "last goal wins" was declared we played like maniacs for more than 10 crazy minutes before we won! Oh the glory!)

After 399 posts, I'm unlinked

I've unlinked this blog from my workplace website. I don't know about this first. It's kind of like heading out on my own. And it's getting free of something. The fact is that though it's good to write with limits that are imposed from outside oneself (in this case it was the wideness of the audience), but a recent complaint from a work-related audience member about my word choice has me thinking that the limit may be more strict than I'm prepared to accept. Anyway, don't expect a sudden unhinging and flapping in the wind. It'll take me some time to decide what this change will mean. 

400th post

This is it.

Ride report

in:         -3'C wind 25ks W

out:       A ride at 10:30 from Adam!

WWYD

Having nothing to say can be freeing.

Ride report

in:      2'C wind 10 ks SSE

out:   6'C wind 8 ks S

 

First curling game of the season

Well another fine (I have more faith that it will be great then I do that the Euro will survive until this time next year.) curling season has begun. Though we lost today, at least we lost on the last rock of the eighth end. The short version play by play would run like this. We pulled ahead early, leading 3 to 1 by the fourth end. Then gave up four, and then one, to fall back 6 to 3 by the sixth. Then we took four back to head into the final end up 7 to 6 (and telling ourselves that we'd either have to win, or make sure they took two - not that an extra end is that bad, but the beers upstairs were calling!). We gave up two, by about half an inch, on the last rock of the game. A respectable loss against a worthy opponent. 

The upstairs talk ranged from geotherm heat systems (good but no panacea), to the new Altona brand (not good, not even approaching a panacea, and pretty expensive to boot (Thanks TKennerd! Seems there's no media niche safe from the retired sports wankers of any league!)), to the benefits of a heated garage (good, and a panacea) even if you were not asked about the height of your garage ceiling and ordered a door to fit the opening, for which you've just been told that the hardware will not work, because you do not have enough interior clearance. Sigh.

Yes, if you're looking for a 7 x 9 r16 steel garage door, I have one available for a reasonable price. Now excuse me while I order another door and reduce the opening to 6'6" x 9 so that the hardware will work. By Christmas the door will be on and the garage will be warm. I hope.

Ride report

in:      4'C wind NW 15ks

out:   8'C wind W 15 ks

I had an idea

But then I was reading an article in the paper on an issue that means a lot to me. So I read the article and then, vexed, sat down at this machine, typed in the reporter's email into the address line and proceeded to tell the reporter my story. Having finished it (although I did not give all the details) I hovered over the send button, and then moved right and clicked save now. 

What's the point I say to myself? Even though I addressed it to the reporter, and asked that it not be considered for print, what might come of speaking your mind on an issue on which you do in fact have hard experience and evidence? I don't know anymore about standing up and speaking even if your voice shakes. I don't know anymore about trying to make a difference in some systemic way. I don't know about occupying this or that place or institution. I don't have the energy to stand in the fray and fight for what I think is right. 

Have I ever had that energy? I don't know. But I'm going to sleep on it before I press send. I used to care a bit about things to do with the institutional church. I'd attend conferences and occasionally approach the mic during discussions on one issue or another. I'd say something about it. I'd feel that I had contributed. I might even have a further discussion about it in the lobby over coffee later. Now I look back with a little smile and wonder what change I thought I might actually effect. 

I don't know about crusades and preaching and letting yourself be heard anymore. Sure I'll still hold forth and say regrettable things in the staff-room or the bar or at the dinner table where my ambition and damage is, of necessity, more limited in scope. I still end up wincing, or apologizing, or regretting things I've said about as many times as I feel vindicated. It's all a vestige of that evangelical zeal and certainty that seems to have been a part of the natural and nurturing gift of my parents. I say "have been" in the hopes that I have passed less of it along to my own children. Less or none at all of this sort of legacy would be a fine result. To that end I believe I'll let the saved email molder in my drafts folder.

Ride report

in:      5'C wind 10 ks NW

out:   9'C wind 18 ks NW

       

Halloween at the barn

Tonight eleven people came by for treats: nine kids and two adults. The kids came before eight, and the adults came after nine. These two pals were intrepidly cruising the southern MB villages and towns seeking out the ideal Halloween situation. They found it. Gretna! There, according to the account, the kids were out on the streets unaccompanied, walking from house to house seeking comfort food. There the whole place "just felt right" as the lights in the houses were on, and people were welcoming little and large people alike into there vestibules and bestowing sweets upon them with care and well-wishes. 

While this all sounds wonderful, my experience of Halloween as a youngster was always one of dread. You see I was never allowed to go "begging." The closest I got to the experience was when mom and dad finally decided not to turn off the lights and go to church to escape the greedy begging trickers and treaters, but to at least give away some chocolate - is my first memory of this handing out a Mojo per person, or was it a stick of Juicy Fruit? Whatever the case, I know that we were not a generous sort of place those first few nights that I was allowed to hand out the treats to the heathen rabble. I do recall that in the last year or two my mom must have been somewhat embarrassed about the meagerness of our offerings, or that I put up a bit of a fuss about it, that we finally stepped-up to the mini-Oh Henry's. Again, my memory is foggy, and my brother may correct me - which I would welcome. 

You see, having broken them down, my younger brother was allowed to, or simply went at it without asking, beg. At least that's my self-pitying memory of it. Whatever the case, to this day my gut reaction to Halloween is one of dread, though I know it to be a great time of community and catharsis and comedy and candy! That's the way my kids experienced it, and that's the way it should be. We should let that inner rabble out to rouse once a year at least. Probably we ought to do this three or four times a year. We'd be better off for it, though we wouldn't always have to give out free candy when we do it. On the other hand why not?

Ride report

in:       3'C wind 10ks SE

out:    9'C wind 10ks SSW

   

Halloween at the Camp

The last "regular" race of the season was at Camp Assiniboia today. The pictures (courtesy of Cheryl and Johnny and Albert) will say more than I can, or should. Except that I hearkened back to my Boys Brigade years, and dressed up appropriately. (Don't ask where I got the shirt and pants - very authentic! I even fastened a green military beret to my helmet!). (singing) "On Stockaders, marching forward, on to victory ..."

   

WWJD

The problem with being like Jesus, or just channeling his spirit here on earth is that there's so much pressure to be right. Not that you have to be correct about everything, but your intentions, those have to be right. By definition as soon as they're off, you can no longer be Jesus incarnate. That's just the way this kind of thing works. So Paul's sitting in the prow of that aluminum fishing vessel, if indeed it makes sense to call that stubby-nosed bow a prow, and he's watching things unfold as he thought they might. They're drifting. The other three are entirely engrossed in fishing. Indeed, they are fishing out of the water a slimy two-foot jackfish that the older brother has hooked. They are completely into this endeavour. To the three of them the world is conflated to this fish, that hook, their net, and the gunwale over which they work.

As he watches the riverbank he notes that they likely have drifted farther downstream than the last time the father started the engine, turned the boat around and nosed it back upstream to the spot where they'd put in. He notes that, relative to the shore, the boat and the water appear to be moving faster. He turns around to look for an explanation as to what he imagines to be an increase in the sound of the river, and notes a disturbance in the water. At least he thinks it's a disturbance. He knows that if he was Jesus he would know for certain whether it was a disturbance or not, and whether or not the disturbance in the water was enough to be alarmed about. It's a reminder to him that he is not, in fact, Jesus, but just trying to see the world that way.

Given this realization his confidence wavers, which serves to exaggerate his fear of what he now fully believes awaits them downstream. What would Jesus do? Should he fall asleep in the front of the boat and wait to be awakened? Should he step overboard and walk to shore (believing that the rippling water will firmly support him as his running shoe touches it - a kind of water to wood miracle)? Should he suggest that they throw their lines over the other side of the boat? Being like Jesus gave him understanding and invincibility, but doubting being like Jesus gives him nothing but questions.


Ride report
in:      2'C wind 10ks S
out:   7'C wind 15 ks SSW

       

I get nervous

This is an observation. I've noticed it most lately when I'm racing cyclocross. I tell myself that I just need to stay calm and not worry about how well I do, but once we've started and I'm out there riding, especially during the first half of the race, I feel the nerves and worry. I worry about whether I'll run out of gas and not be able to finish. I worry that if I pass the riders in front of me, when I know that I can if I want to, that I won't be able to stay in front of them, or that I'll make a mistake. I worry about flatting. I worry about ramming my balls when I remount and doing serious damage (Seriously, who wants that?). But I know that all of this stuff distracts me from the race itself, and from riding as well as I can. 

Dave U says to me, at Cross-Tastic on Sunday, that he told a friend who rides in the A race that since he's finishing at about the same place in every race, he needs to do something different. "You know, just go as hard as you can out there and if you bonk you bonk. At least then you know that you went as hard as you could." 

Well I can see the sense in that. It's also intimidating to me, because then I'm going to worry that I'll bonk early, and end up DNFing or getting lapped/finishing way back. I know that I'm over-thinking it. I'm pretty sure that if I went hard, I'd still finish, and I'd probably finish better than I have so far this season. Then again, I've been pretty wasted by the end of most races, so I'm not sure how much better I can finish. Anyway, the question I have is, how much physical energy does being nervous and worrying about how well you'll do actually take out of me when I'm racing? Does it actually make my body less efficient? My hunch is that it does - if not physically, it must mentally. 

The other way I see this, for myself, is that I've never really liked participating in organized competitive sport. Sure I am a competitive individual and always want to go hard, but that's different than having a "killer instinct" and being able to "play to win." Most times I feel myself playing to "not lose," or to "not suck." Actually I'm often a "when the going get's tough just try to keep going" kind of player. I don't really set the bar high enough or, I'm okay with setting the bar a little lower. At least that's what I hear myself saying when I'm out there racing: "just finish well" or "don't do anything stupid." 

I think I could push harder if I could stop worrying about all this fear of failure stuff. I'm hoping that more racing will help to fix that. The more I race, the more normal it'll feel and the less I'll think about it. If I can just enjoy the exhilaration of being pushed by competition I'll compete better too. Having coached for the last few years I much better understand the value of competition and the necessity of an opponent to help you play better. The better the competition, the better you play. This seems to be a general rule. So I'm loving the race, and learning to embrace the effort needed to compete hard right to the end.

Ride report

in:       2'C wind calm

out:    8'C wind calm

   

Another Cross-asm

This Sunday the race was at Whittier Park, and was named Cross-Tastic. Not an overstatement. Not an overstatement at all. The course demanded much, a sweet much-ness. There were four barriers that required a dismount: First a muck pit down by the red, then a few logs and a series of steps up the bank, then two standard cx barriers, and finally a fiendish series of step up a hill, skitter down the same hill, and then step up the same hillside (pictured below).

Once again the pictures (thanks to Cheryl K) will speak as well. 

In addition, you can get a bike's eye view of what it was like to ride the course, via this video courtesy of Karlee Gendron and her bike. Pretty great!

I was so hot and bothered when I got home that I took my shoes into the shower with me, to reward them for their good work, and to get them good and clean. 

Ride report

in:      6'C wind 10ks SW

out:    9'C wind 10ks SW

South winds

After days, no weeks, of North winds, today it shifted and came in from the South. I hear it first on the weather news, and then when I step out to ride to work I'm immediately aware of the change. It's moist and trending warm. That is, even though it's still below freezing outside, you can feel that the warmth is coming. Do you know what I mean? I'm not sure how to quantify this because all of these conditions could be the same - below freezing, Fall, 15 k wind - and if the wind is from the North, the air would bite shrewdly. But if the wind comes from the South, the same conditions usually feel hopeful. At least at this time of the year.

Some weather guy from central Canada (of course) predicted, two weeks ago, that winter would come hard and fast and that it would be colder than average, with a smidge less snow. What does he know? El Nino? La Nina? Okay maybe these have some influence on things, but if my memory serves me close to correct, it was about 20 years ago that these weather guys started suggesting that these Latin-named currents were altering our weather, and that once we knew which current was in play, we'd know whether the weather would be more extreme in some way, or more moderate. Whatever. I'd like to have the hard data presented in the cold (or warming) light of day, without managing the numbers by scaling graphs to make the differences more pronounced. 

Winter's going to be winter, whenever it wants to be. Some winters hold the snow back until around Christmas, or even later. Most winters wait for Halloween. The last few have waited until after Remembrance Day. I like those the best. But there's really no use in predicting these long term trends. I prefer the more obvious short term observations. If the wind comes out of the South, things will get warmer, and often wetter too. If the wind is from the Northeast things will get colder, and likely wetter. If the wind comes out of the North, brrrr. If the wind comes out of the West, hold on because it'll likely blow hard. 

I love the wind. I hate it too. But I like it more than not. It lets you know what's coming. 

Ride report

in:       -3'C wind 15k S

out:    10'C wind 20k S

It's late

They smile at one another. It's awkward, but not the kind of awkward they'll regret later, the kind of awkward that they'll look back on remembering that conversation. The weight of it. The momentum. In a few years they'll look back on it from separate places. This moment will become that common bond that will, in fact, become their undoing. 

For now though they've just had drinks and they both want to go to bed. For now the only inkling of distress is in this man's far-flung reverie of another life. For now she shrugs, brushes her teeth, splashes water on her face and scans the mirror for blackheads, and uncertainty. It will be all right, she'll think. We'll go to bed and we'll make love and fix it, he'll say as he sits on the toilet. We'll wake up. We'll continue. 

This is what they both will think. And in the end they'll be right, which will surprise them.

Ride report

in:     -3'C wind 15ks NW

out:   6'C wind calm

   

More crossness

I got back on the steed this past Sunday to race Southern Cross. I'll let these pics do the talking. They are courtesy of Woodcock Cycle Works, except for the spectacular sand splat (which is not me, though I did have a similar incident during a warm-up lap - fortunately no cameras were prepared for it), which was masterfully shot by Sierra Blake. 

Cross racing is a good time. A good time indeed. I placed 12th in the B-race, just 11 seconds behind Johnny S. One day I'll catch him. One day.

Ride report

in:      -2'C wind 15ks NW

out:   3'C wind 20ks NW

  

A prophet in his own town

Paul thinks he may be Jesus. At least for this day, and at this time, with these things happening on this river, in this boat. He thinks of those stories of Jesus in boats on the water. When he calmed the storm, when he walked on the water, when he told them to fish on the other side of the boat. He rehearses what he might have to do if things go wrong, which he' s sure they will.

It's happened before when he's had this feeling. He and his friends are walking down the Main Street in the small Canadian town they live in after school. They notice the friend of an older brother of a boy whose Dad owns a car dealership in town driving a racing style Japanese motorcycle with nearly one thousand cubic centimetres of piston displacement. The boy whose Dad owns the car dealership says to the others how powerful the motorcycle is, that it's just as fast as the ones they actually race with in Europe. Paul watches the teenager on the bike scream by, engine whining, gears shifting, so that the front wheel lifts and the biker rides the back wheel. After watching the it pass Paul says, "That guy's going to crash," and thus it comes to pass, with all of the boys watching, that the bike's front wheel indeed dips, rises again, then dips and falls to touch the pavement. The rider has turned the wheel off of straight such that it grabs the pavement and wrenches the whole bike over to the left. The back wheel whips out to the right and slides along blacktop until the rubber catches and grips and by force of momentum the bike lifts up again into the air, tumbles once with the rider still on it, before the forces of nature rip him free of it and he rolls, then slides along the grit and fine gravel that accumulates along curbs on the edges of streets. The bike bounces along and at last scrapes to a stop too.

"Whoa!" says the boy whose father owns a car dealership, "did you really just say that that was going to happen?" The other boys generally smile and laugh and congratulate Paul, who squints at the scene unfolding up the street.

"It's going to be okay," he says and smiles. "It's just a lesson the guy needed to learn about how not to ride." With that Paul becomes a celebrity of prediction - a prophet in his own town. The boys spread his story around town and tell of other close calls like it that he's predicted. They tell the stories with such conviction that Paul starts to think before he speaks.

Ride report

in:        4'C wind 25ks NW

out:     6'C wind 35ks WNW

Not even if he was hungry

Out on the river the boy with the striped shirt begins to consider another facet of his Christliness. The boat drifts downstream, the motor idles and occasionally engages, at the behest of the vigilant father in order to steer around corners or avoid sandbars. The boy in the striped shirt is grudging in this observation. It won't be carelessness that causes this disaster. There will be little room for schadenfreude or "I-told-you-sos" here. So he waits and watches and he does not fish.

"C'mon Paul," says his friend, the older brother. "It's not hard. It's fun!" Paul only imagines that time that he watched his older brother catch a fish and he had to try to hold it for him, while he prised the the hook out of its mouth. The slime of the scales and the sharp edges of the gills stay in his memory. He can feel them on his fingers just thinking about it. He can't imagine anything, even hunger, that would cause him to want to put himself in a position where he was the one catching the fish and asking for help to pry the hook out of that gasping maw. For an eleven year old he dwells more on discomfort and trouble than courage and adventure. 

As if on cue the rod the younger brother holds dips and he yells and the father smiles and leans forward, picking up the net in one hand and touching the bending rod with the other. "Take the line in slow," he says. They all watch as the boy listens and slowly reels in the taut line until the jackfish appears at the side of the boat to be netted and lifted into it. Together father and son unhook the fish and set it free again. Paul watches. Though his anxiousness recedes, he cannot see the point in this, much less the fun. What would Jesus do, Paul thinks, if he was a fish?

Ride report

in:        5'C wind 20ks NW

out:   10'C wind 15ks NNW