Bike to Work Week - Day Three

Time: 72 minutes, 6 seconds (Upwards of an hour, for Kiwis)

Distance: 12.89 miles

A slow descent into town via picturesque 17th Avenue, then down Adams and the brick clad Jefferson, bone-jarring even by Spokane standards. A quick stop at Spokane Art Supply, just north of REI on Monroe, then through the park to see the falls, and home.

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Some of you may wonder if I was being a bit harsh in describing the aggressive and selfish attitude of Spokane drivers when it comes to Sharing the Road. After all, haven’t we all experienced drivers who stop their car, right in the middle of an intersection, to wave a bicycle through?

Sally and I met in Gillette, Wyoming, a dusty, boisterous mining town once called the “Pronghorn Capital of the World”. Given that the entire vicinity has been turned into an open pit coal mine, it seems the Pronghorn capital has moved south to Rawlins. Gillette now touts itself the “Energy Capital of the Nation”. 

Gillette was a tough place, though apparently not as tough as Rock Springs. We knew this from the number of people who stated clearly, “We don’t want to become another Rock Springs”, which helped us decide to cross Rock Springs off of our dream vacation destination list. 

Anyway, in order to take a break from Gillette, Sally and I used to take day trips to nearby Devils Tower National Monument. Even if you aren’t familiar with northeastern Wyoming, you may have seen Devils Tower in Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Devils Tower is the hauntingly beautiful monolith that Richard Dreyfuss replicates out of mashed potatoes. 

On our first trip to Devils Tower, the cute little prairie dogs so prevalent at the Monument captivated Sally and me. They were so tame that they would come right up to you and eat out of your hand. They did a lot of this kind of eating; so much so that the Park Service warned that the practice was putting them at risk. Not only were the prairie dogs eating the wrong kinds of food, they were also losing the will to forage for grasses, broadleaf forbs, and the occasional insect. After all, would you rather forage for broadleaf forbs or be handed Cheesy Poofs? Further, as a direct consequence of their eating habits, the Devils Tower prairie dogs had taken on the appearance of soccer balls with feet, a shape not conducive to quick dives into their burrows to escape their numerous natural enemies, including hawks, eagles, ferrets, badgers, foxes, coyotes, and snakes. 

Which brings us back to bicycling in Spokane. The seemingly kind drivers who stop in the middle of traffic to wave bikes across the road may think they are being helpful. In fact, they are turning us into the wheeled equivalents of soccer ball shaped prairie dogs just waiting to be picked off by our natural enemies, including Eagles, Talons, Vipers, Cougars, and the Dodge Ram Mega Cab Dually.

Bike to Work Week - Day Two

Time: 43 minutes 51 seconds

Distance: 7.71 miles (12.4 km, for Kiwis)

Temperature: 46 degrees F (<8 degrees C, for Kiwis)

Wind: WSW @ 26 mph (22 knots)

Sally is off to Okanogan County again this week, so there was scant incentive for me to ride to her office. Instead I did my business, grocery shopping for essentials: roasted red pepper soup, honey, and beer. There are three grocery stores within a mile of our house, so shopping by bike is usually neither a challenge nor an accomplishment.  Given that and my desire for more of a ride, I chose to peddle to Huckleberry's, halfway down the hill to Spokane. As the weather was not optimum, I again wore my "breathable" pants and jacket. In addition, I took the opportunity to try out Sally's Climitts, which are fleece-lined, weatherproof covers that attach to the handlebars over brake and gear levers. 

Anyway, I had a nice ride to the store despite the wind, which made braking at stop signs unnecessary. To my delight, upon checking out at Huckleberry's I learned that they are granting an extra 5% discount on all purchases by bike riders this month. Hooray! Premium ale at discounted prices! Yes, well, soup too.

I was surprised that there weren't more bikers out and about. Perhaps they do not have "breathable" outerwear, and were thus dissuaded by the weather. Perhaps they were not as willing as am I to take their chances with the notoriously bad Spokane streets and notoriously aggressive Spokane drivers. In an effort to ensure our safety, Sally and I have added new Mirrycle Mountain Bike Mirrors  to our stock of bicycle gadgets. I am now confident that, just before my demise, I will get a good look at the car that kills me.

One of the mottos of the pro-bike community is Share the Road. It's a great idea. After all, bikes do have all the same rights and responsibilities as other vehicles on public byways. Sharing the road with a Dodge Ram Mega Cab Dually with a gross vehicle weight rating of over 5 tons certainly seems like the way to go when you're riding a 20 pound bike, especially if you're wearing "breathable" outerwear.

In spite of my town's reputation for trucks and SUV's, the problem of biking in Spokane isn't the large size of the vehicles on the streets, but rather the diminutive brain capacities of their drivers. It is in their honor that I reveal, for the first time, the Spokane Truck and Auto Driver's Guide to Sharing the Road:

1. If I'm on a street, it's mine.

2. If I've ever been on a street, it's mine.

3. If I can crowd you off of a street, it's mine.

4. If a street reminds me of the street I used to live on, it's mine.

5. If I decide to take another route, it's mine.

6. If you're going faster than I am, the street is mine.

7. If your stopped at an intersection, the street is mine.

8. If I need the bike lane for parking purposes, it's mine.

I write this with apologies to the individual(s) who first coined these as Toddler Property Laws. Though tongue in cheek, I did note that one concerned Spokane citizen wrote a letter to the editor this week worried that all the money that would normally be spent on street maintenance is going to be diverted to promoting bike riding. 

How much bike promoting can a city do with $1.75 ?

Bike to Work Week - Day One

Time: 1 hour, 2 minutes, and 45 seconds

Distance: 11.23 miles

As much as I enjoy riding my bike, I was reluctant to register for Bike to Work Week. After all, I arrive at my "workplace" simply by waking up in the morning. Given that fact, rather than asking the guys at Wheel Sport what kind of tires they would recommend for hardwood floors, I decided to participate by riding to Sally's office this morning. En route I stopped by Four Seasons Coffee to buy a pound of fresh coffee beans. Mmmm, worth the effort.

I left the house dressed for the rain that was in the forecast, and indeed returned home dripping wet, but not from precipitation. I was drenched in the perspiration that results from mixing physical exertion, unexpected sunshine, and an impermeable layer of plastic clothing. This brings us to the Question of the Day: What does the word "breathable" mean when used to describe outdoor wear? 

At the time of purchase, my rain pants boasted a tag labeling them as "breathable". They have 10 inch zippers at the cuffs, so I guess that qualifies them as "breathable", sorta like pulling a plastic bag over your head after carefully constructing a single vent with a hole punch. "Oooh look! Breathable!" 

(Note to our younger readers: Do not try this at home.)

There have been times in my life when I would have welcomed more effective rain gear. There was the Canadian canoe adventure with my high school physics teacher where it rained, non-stop, for 8 days. There were times in Michigan's Upper Peninsula when we were sure the Northern Pike were in a feeding frenzy, if only we could have withstood the copious quantities of rain dumping from the sky. There were countless hours at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, watching safety trucks drive around the track in the rain, "drying it off" for the unfulfilled promise of on-time start. If only I had possessed then, what I do now: "breathable" rain gear. 

In truth, my rain gear worked. I didn't get wet in the rain today, and I am still breathing.

Tomorrow's post: "Share the Road, Spokane Style"

Time Binding

Sally and I watched Ratatouille on Saturday evening. I don't want to spoil the movie for any who haven't seen it previously, so go rent it, put it in your Netflix queue, or whatever. I'll wait....

* * * *

Done? OK. I love the wonderful scene in the film where the malevolent food critic, Anton Ego, comes to the protagonist's restaurant, Gusteau's, with the intention of writing one more bad review, destroying the restaurant. Our heroes, Remy and Linguini, serve Ego a simple peasant dish, ratatouille. As Ego takes the first bite, his mind travels across time and space. He is a child in a country cottage again, being served ratatouille by his mother. The resulting, remarkable transformation results not only in a glowing restaurant review, but in Ego being transformed as well.

This scene is a great example of an aspect of time binding. Time binding refers to the ability to link time in our minds, and to understand the relationship between the past, present and future. I specifically associate time binding with words, events, or objects that result in our moving out of the awareness of chronological time, linking us with other times and places in and beyond our lives.

For example, the scent of rain on hot asphalt brings back memories of childhood. The aroma of baking bread can transport us to grandma's house as if the intervening years have disappeared. Forgotten boxes in the attic serve as time machines, reminding us of places, people, and times in our lives long passed. This phenomenon, time binding, is what Anton Ego's transformation in Ratatouille so wonderfully illustrates.

Yesterday, on a beautiful, sunny spring morning, Sally and I lived out a time binding experience. As we worked in the yard and garden, we decided that it was a good day to scatter Sally's dad's ashes. We brought a portion of Joe's ashes to Spokane from Grand Junction, Colorado, following the memorial service for Sally's mother in February with just this intent. 

Joe loved his fruit trees, and we loved their fruit, including the wonderful sweet apricots from the "family tree". Two strong, young apricot trees raised from seeds from that hearty stock stand in our backyard. A recent addition, a Montmorency Cherry tree, now graces our budding orchard. We anticipate tart pie cherries just like those grown by Joe in Grand Junction.

In yesterday's glorious sunshine, Sally and I cleared away a ring of wood mulch from around each of these trees, and sprinkled some of Joe's ashes around each, adding our tears in the process. We remembered Joe, his outward manner so often tart and sour, his inner sweetness so available to those willing to invest a bit of themselves in finding it.

Time binding. A Disney movie illustrates it as a flight of mind to a childhood cottage. Philosophers and theologians describe it as the movement from chronos to kairos. On this weekend, Sally and I shared it in the placement of a few ashes, and the anticipation of luscious fruit. Time binding. The old hymn had it this way:

When we are called to part, it gives us inward pain; 

but we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.

Joseph Forsythe McMillin (1914-2003)

Time Travel

I was awake a bit before 5 this morning. It was on account of the cat, but since this post is about time travel rather than alien beings, I'll say no more about that.

Anyway, since I was up, I thought I'd check to see if my son, Evan, was online. Given the modern miracle of instant messaging, I was able to text Evan the question this morning, "Are you still awake tomorrow?", to which he could have replied, "Yes, what are you doing up so early yesterday?". 

You see, Evan is spending an academic year in Wellington, New Zealand. Due to the difference in hemisphere, the academic year in New Zealand is from March through November, and May is the onset of autumn. Confused? We're just getting started....

Wellington is five hours behind Spokane on the clock at present, but one day ahead on the calendar. I say "at present", because Wellington was but three hours behind Spokane in clock time when Evan arrived in New Zealand in February. Then we shifted to Daylight Savings Time in March, and he shifted off of it in April, bringing us to the five hour difference.

The calendar difference between Wellington and Spokane is the result of our being on opposite sides of the International Date Line. Until Evan's trip I had but the scarcest awareness of its reality, and no understanding of its history. The former started to sink in when we noted on Evan's itinerary that he flew out of Los Angeles on January 31st, and landed in Auckland on February 2nd. Were he asked by some prosecutor where he was on February 1st, 2009, he could rightly answer that he had experienced no such day.

Apparently written speculation about the International Date Line goes back to at least the 14th century, where a Jewish Talmudic commentary refers to the beginning of day six hours east of Jerusalem. Later, Magellan's voyage took his ship and crew across the International Date Line from east to west. This was experienced as the "loss" of a day, for whereas the chronicler of the voyage had tracked the passage of days for three years, and knew that the date of the ship's arrival in the Cape Verde Islands was Wednesday, July 9, 1522, a Portuguese resident of the islands claimed that it was Thursday, July 10th. This was initially determined to be the result of cultural differences between the Spanish and the Portuguese, not unlike the experience of flying back to Indiana and feeling that the calendar has been turned back twenty years.

Magellan was not the last of the great explorers to experience the International Date Line. Sir Francis Drake's crew lost a day sailing westward around the world in 1577-1580. And of course, Evan Bredeweg missed out on February 1st.

I can't help but wonder what it feels like to make this crossing, which I hope to accomplish in November. If one were at sea level, instead of 35,000 feet, would there be any sensation of time's passage? Would there be a blurring of vision or strange musical interlude as in science fiction movies? I imagine the crossing to feel like going over a high spot on a country road, or the apex of a roller coaster rise. I imagine Magellan's crew and Drake's crew sailing merrily back and forth, north-south along the Date Line squealing and laughing until grog came out of their noses. But that's just me.

We'll see how our crossing feels in November. For now I'm left calculating what Evan is doing tomorrow, glad that he will think of us and maybe give us a call yesterday. And I'm happy that love and caring are realities that extend beyond place and time. Come to think of it, we knew that even before the 14th century.

When Dad Changed the Future

We were in our accustomed places around the dinner table, with Dad seated at the end facing the kitchen. Mom scurried back and forth from the oven to the table, placing serving plates and bowls of food before us. The dinner menu rarely varied much, comprising beef, potatoes, and either canned peas or corn, the choice of which had been made thirty minutes earlier. The tossed salad was also the same every night, consisting of iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, cucumber, and "mango", a southern Indiana idiom for green pepper. The salad dressing was Dad's special combination of Mullen's, Catalina, and 1890 brands of bottled french dressing, dispensed from a clear plastic squeeze bottle. Given the ritual constancy of our family dinner, who could have predicted that Dad would alter the future that evening?

The dinner started off as usual, with Dad waxing eloquent about some topic or another. He was a preacher, both by profession and at heart, and customarily employed the chair on the east end of the table as his pulpit. On this night, though, Dad illustrated his point with a simple action. He picked up the dinner knife from the right side of his plate and sat it down on the left, next to his fork. His intended point was simple and direct: "I've changed the future."

As accustomed as my brothers and I were to Dad's impromptu homilies, that simple, silly gesture got our attention. It also drew our ire. Knowing ourselves to be wise beyond our years, we were not likely to be drawn in by the sleight of hand of street magicians or the siren calls of carnival barkers. "Oh, come on! All you did was move your knife!" We returned our attention to our plates, wary that our rivals around the table would finish before us and claim seconds.

"Every action we take changes the world," Dad said, "even those as seemingly insignificant as moving the silverware." We remained unswayed, despite Dad's earnest oratory, and left the table triumphant. Dad's argument that evening fell on deaf ears.

Years later, studying under cosmologist Brian Swimme, I wrote a paper about the so-called, "time cone". Though the concept is not easily summarized in a blog post, the visual image I would place before you is of an hourglass, placed on its side. There is no sand in the glass... it is time which is flowing. One end of the glass represents the future, and the other the past. The narrow center of the glass is the here and now. But here is the surprising thing about the time cone: Rather than the future flowing through the here and now into the past, the current is reversed! It is the past which flows into every present moment. And it is from the here and now that the future, until now indeterminate, bursts into possibility.

It was in the course of my work on the time cone paper that I first recalled Dad's subtle knife switch so long before. For the first time I understood the point he had tried to make. The past becomes real when we remember it and act in response. The future is an unwritten book, awaiting our decisions and actions to make it possible.

No one image has had such an impact on my thought and life as has this simple notion. Every moment is filled with promise. Each second is pregnant with possibility. Even actions as simple and random as switching the flatware from one side of the plate to the other can embody consequences for the future. 

Given my clear memory of it, it turns out that Dad's supper sermon didn't fall on deaf ears. I am left wondering whether his point that evening merely reflected reality, or altered it. I suspect that it changed me somehow. And wasn't that the point?

Damn. He did change the future.

In grateful memory of Harry W. Bredeweg (1917-1981).

Good Things in Threes

Since my last post, Sally and I traveled from Spokane to the Tri-Cities in southeastern Washington. Our eldest, Megan, has just purchased her first home, and we were happy to help her relocate from her apartment of three years to her new digs. The new house, a three bedroom tri-level, is in a lovely valley at the foot of an orchard covered hillside on Kennewick's south side. We spent the better part of three days helping her pack up and clean out, though in truth, she wound up doing almost all of the cleaning.

Three of Megan's friends, Kyri, Jen and Kristin, came by at various times to help us pack, move, and unpack again. Though Sally and I have moved numerous times and have assisted our three kids in multiple moves as well, I think this was the first time we moved within the same town. This new reality called for a different way of packing. Instead of carefully wrapping individual items to protect them from breakage, we modeled our activities on looting: Our object was to get her stuff out of the apartment and down the street as quickly as possible. As I crammed the entire contents of Megan's master bathroom into one large box, I recalled stories of packers employed by moving companies putting EVERYTHING into boxes, including half-filled wastebaskets and dirty ash trays. 

Megan rented a medium-sized U-Haul truck on Friday and Saturday, with the idea of moving her stuff and then picking up some furniture items that some friends had offered. I confess that I thought she had gotten too large a truck, and told her so, but her wisdom was soon borne out. Sally and I loaded the truck once with boxes and furniture. Jen helped us load more large items and boxes for the second trip. A third trip was required to gather the additional furniture donated to Megan by her friends. By Saturday evening I was thankful Megan had rented such a large truck.

Once at the new house we confronted some irritating realtor related realities. In addition to a weird, three-button garage door remote that engaged every time it touched a finger, pocket, or purse, Megan had been given a set of house keys, three of which fit the front door latch and deadbolt. To our vexation, it turned out that we had no keys for the remaining entrances, and the remaining keys on her ring seemed to fit nothing. Unconvincingly playing the locksmith, I changed three doorknobs and three deadbolts so that Megan could access each of the three doors. We also had three new keys made at Lowe's so she could give one to Kristin, give one to Sally and me, and keep extras for herself.

Thanks to good friends, a sound truck, and some helpful people at Lowe's, we had Megan into her new place by Saturday night. Sally and I drove home to Spokane where our cat, Taj Mahal (aka Mr. Cat), and dogs Juni and Cayenne were eagerly awaiting us. Though we felt a bit guilty that we weren't able to help Megan finish cleaning the apartment, we went to bed with sore muscles and full hearts, proud of what Megan is doing, and that all three of our kids are doing so well.