Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Building Readership
Hey, Readers! Thank you for your time and your encouraging comments! Could I ask another favor? Please sign up as a follower at the link on the right, and share a link to my post with your friends!
Man's Best Feathered Friends
It’s time we talk about chickens.
The first six months of this year have been a time of rich personal growth. I have learned much about relationships, emotion, and hygiene. I have come to better appreciate the simple things in life, like fresh eggs.
And I owe it all to my contraband chickens.
Let me first state to any Monmouth city law enforcement officer who may be reading, by way of disclaimer, that any and all references to chickens in my back yard are purely fictional! And I don’t have any reason to even care what the city ordinance says on the topic! Because . . . why would I? Although I did find out, after my nine lovely ladies were all settled in their coop, that the guy who puts up the city ordinances on the city website was like ten years behind and that chickens have been banned for years and that gun-blazing police are rampaging from neighborhood to neighborhood evicting helpless hens to a future certain to include poultry seasoning!
(Add lemon peel and chipotle sauce and bake at 450 degrees for 15 minutes).
We have nine birds which we got as chicks, named Cacciatori, Tetrazini, Marsala, Drumstick, Teriyaki, Buffalo Wings, Nibblers, Pot Pie, and Shake’N’Bake.
My ride-share buddy, Tom, has been bragging about his chickens for years. We ate some of his over-priced, farm-fresh eggs and loved them. Then we decided, as a family, that we should raise chickens ourselves.
That particular family meeting came several weeks after we had the chicks living in our garage. I was teasing Wendy that the chickens could be her Mother’s Day present. The rest of the conversation went something like this:
Wendy: not my present – you’re the one who wanted the chickens, not me.
John: Very funny! We only have chickens because you and the kids wanted them.
Wendy: Na-ahh!
(dramatic pause)
John and Wendy: You mean . . . you didn’t . . . OH NOOOOOO!
So here we were, the accidental chicken farmers. In retrospect, I am sure it was me that had the subconscious need for chickens. At the time it was probably just a craving for another unfinished project, because I was running low.
It started out to be purely a business arrangement, with no emotional connection or lifetime commitment. Their occupation is to produce eggs and garden manure. I am their employer and landlord. They work for chicken feed.
But as I fed them, shoveled their poop, built a luxurious home for them and protected them from ferocious predators (Pumpkin and Charlie), I came to understand that there is much more that chickens can do for me.
They are my emotional counterparts.
You see, chickens seem to have a dual nature: one part stupid bird, and the other part human male. It’s hard to explain but when I stare into a chicken’s eyes, I feel understood.
Chickens themselves have only three discernable emotions:
First: What’s that thing? Can I eat it?
Second: Run away! Yes, I know I’m climbing on your head – it’s as far as I can run!
Third: Ouch! Wow! Ouch! Today’s egg is on it’s waaay!
This is simplicity any man can appreciate.
With the first two points alone, they could be my soul mates! And I could also mention that they sympathize with men who cry . . . or . . . so I hear. Chickens are not criers, (see the list of three emotions above) but if you happen to be an emotional man, and you catch yourself choking up in front of a chicken, it’s OK. She will listen. She will understand. Let the tears flow. She will still respect you. . . . I’m told.
And the third point? It seems too much to ask that something so small and helpless would make my breakfast every day, but they do it, and they do it gladly.
So you see, my Fictional! chickens have found a solid home in my heart. They are useful, economical, helpful and loyal.
After two or three years, they’ll stop laying and become senior citizen hens. When that happens, as their names suggest, these loving, listening friends will be plucked, skinned, quartered, and tossed into the freezer, to be enjoyed as a family entree.
As I said: Lifetime Commitment.
The first six months of this year have been a time of rich personal growth. I have learned much about relationships, emotion, and hygiene. I have come to better appreciate the simple things in life, like fresh eggs.
And I owe it all to my contraband chickens.
Let me first state to any Monmouth city law enforcement officer who may be reading, by way of disclaimer, that any and all references to chickens in my back yard are purely fictional! And I don’t have any reason to even care what the city ordinance says on the topic! Because . . . why would I? Although I did find out, after my nine lovely ladies were all settled in their coop, that the guy who puts up the city ordinances on the city website was like ten years behind and that chickens have been banned for years and that gun-blazing police are rampaging from neighborhood to neighborhood evicting helpless hens to a future certain to include poultry seasoning!
(Add lemon peel and chipotle sauce and bake at 450 degrees for 15 minutes).
We have nine birds which we got as chicks, named Cacciatori, Tetrazini, Marsala, Drumstick, Teriyaki, Buffalo Wings, Nibblers, Pot Pie, and Shake’N’Bake.
My ride-share buddy, Tom, has been bragging about his chickens for years. We ate some of his over-priced, farm-fresh eggs and loved them. Then we decided, as a family, that we should raise chickens ourselves.
That particular family meeting came several weeks after we had the chicks living in our garage. I was teasing Wendy that the chickens could be her Mother’s Day present. The rest of the conversation went something like this:
Wendy: not my present – you’re the one who wanted the chickens, not me.
John: Very funny! We only have chickens because you and the kids wanted them.
Wendy: Na-ahh!
(dramatic pause)
John and Wendy: You mean . . . you didn’t . . . OH NOOOOOO!
So here we were, the accidental chicken farmers. In retrospect, I am sure it was me that had the subconscious need for chickens. At the time it was probably just a craving for another unfinished project, because I was running low.
It started out to be purely a business arrangement, with no emotional connection or lifetime commitment. Their occupation is to produce eggs and garden manure. I am their employer and landlord. They work for chicken feed.
But as I fed them, shoveled their poop, built a luxurious home for them and protected them from ferocious predators (Pumpkin and Charlie), I came to understand that there is much more that chickens can do for me.
They are my emotional counterparts.
You see, chickens seem to have a dual nature: one part stupid bird, and the other part human male. It’s hard to explain but when I stare into a chicken’s eyes, I feel understood.
Chickens themselves have only three discernable emotions:
First: What’s that thing? Can I eat it?
Second: Run away! Yes, I know I’m climbing on your head – it’s as far as I can run!
Third: Ouch! Wow! Ouch! Today’s egg is on it’s waaay!
This is simplicity any man can appreciate.
With the first two points alone, they could be my soul mates! And I could also mention that they sympathize with men who cry . . . or . . . so I hear. Chickens are not criers, (see the list of three emotions above) but if you happen to be an emotional man, and you catch yourself choking up in front of a chicken, it’s OK. She will listen. She will understand. Let the tears flow. She will still respect you. . . . I’m told.
And the third point? It seems too much to ask that something so small and helpless would make my breakfast every day, but they do it, and they do it gladly.
So you see, my Fictional! chickens have found a solid home in my heart. They are useful, economical, helpful and loyal.
After two or three years, they’ll stop laying and become senior citizen hens. When that happens, as their names suggest, these loving, listening friends will be plucked, skinned, quartered, and tossed into the freezer, to be enjoyed as a family entree.
As I said: Lifetime Commitment.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Driving Mrs Boyack
This week our family traveled from Oregon to Utah and back – almost 2000 miles – to a family reunion. Wendy drove about 1800 of those miles, while I acted as co-pilot, checking distances and refilling her water bottle.
Obviously I have no Chauvinistic hang-up with having to be the driver on family outings “because I’m the man”. Wendy and I did have disagreements about this in the early years of our marriage. I like to drive and she likes to drive – nothing wrong there, it’s something we have in common. It’s just that there are some stylistic differences between her driving and mine.
Wendy’s driving style is to drive a safe speed, notice everything, put no excessive strain on the engine, and provide a smooth ride for her passengers. Mine is to get to the intended destination without physically making contact with other vehicles or embedding small animals of more than 50 lbs mass into the grill.
Wendy’s observation skills are amazing, to say the least. She notices wildlife near the road, such as deer, pheasants, and mice. She notices billboards and landmarks, and she notices wrecks and dangerous objects from miles away.
But mostly she notices police.
She notices police driving, or especially parked in sneaky locations behind shrubs or on overpasses. She sees them whether they are in patrol cars or unmarked cars, on a motorcycle or out of uniform watching their child play soccer. When Wendy sees the police while driving, everyone knows because she’ll stomp the brakes to slow down from five mph under the speed limit to ten mph under, and she’ll yell, “Everybody DOWN!”
This is because the kids might be doing absolutely anything illegal or dangerous, such as sitting in a seatbelt not approved for small children, or touching their sister.
Still, the reason I generally let Wendy drive is not because she’s the better driver, it’s because I’m the better passenger. If the car takes a sudden lurch or gets a little close to another vehicle while I’m the passenger, I just look at it like an amusement park ride. When it’s over, we’re all safe, and we can go get a corn dog.
As my passenger, Wendy’s take on the experience probably aligns nicely with her view of airplane crashes – I haven’t asked her, but I’m judging by the screaming, the hyperventilation, and the grip she places on the entry handle.
You know, if she would just close her eyes, it would probably be a lot more comfortable for her.
She also insists on giving me a lot of directions, such as “Stay within the lines, please!” or “Watch the road, would you!” Sometimes her directions are self-contradicting, like “turn right at the next light”, and “Do NOT turn right across three lanes of traffic!”
In the last few years I have had the opportunity to have my co-workers as passengers, and, as it turns out, Wendy’s view of my driving is not unique.
Mike told me “I can understand using the shoulder to go around a car turning left – and I can even understand doing that at 60 mph, but not when there is another car using the shoulder!”
Tom says, “Stop far enough behind the other vehicle that you can still see its tires, please!”
They both claim to get muscle strain from involuntary attempts to hit the brakes.
Officer Cummins of the OHP has a different view of my driving. He hasn’t seen me driving while thumbing through my notebook looking for phone numbers, or using both hands to scratch that itch under my left shoulder blade. He simply thinks I should slow down.
He and I chat about it every few weeks on Highway 99 between Rickreall and Amity. He’s a good man, in his 30’s, with a wife and two children. He loves his job, and recently bought a wood smoker.
I admit it, Wendy is a very good driver, and I'm needing improvement. So in the interest of marital harmony, and general laziness, I let Wendy drive about 28 hours of barren Western landscape.
In addition to my copilot duties I played Sudoku on my blackberry and learned how to solve the Rubiks cube. I also worked on my observation skills, so that I can one day become as good a driver as Wendy. I’m getting better! I even noticed a lady having a baby on the freeway – with three patrol cars, lights flashing, and feet up against the side windows.
. . . After Wendy pointed it out.
Obviously I have no Chauvinistic hang-up with having to be the driver on family outings “because I’m the man”. Wendy and I did have disagreements about this in the early years of our marriage. I like to drive and she likes to drive – nothing wrong there, it’s something we have in common. It’s just that there are some stylistic differences between her driving and mine.
Wendy’s driving style is to drive a safe speed, notice everything, put no excessive strain on the engine, and provide a smooth ride for her passengers. Mine is to get to the intended destination without physically making contact with other vehicles or embedding small animals of more than 50 lbs mass into the grill.
Wendy’s observation skills are amazing, to say the least. She notices wildlife near the road, such as deer, pheasants, and mice. She notices billboards and landmarks, and she notices wrecks and dangerous objects from miles away.
But mostly she notices police.
She notices police driving, or especially parked in sneaky locations behind shrubs or on overpasses. She sees them whether they are in patrol cars or unmarked cars, on a motorcycle or out of uniform watching their child play soccer. When Wendy sees the police while driving, everyone knows because she’ll stomp the brakes to slow down from five mph under the speed limit to ten mph under, and she’ll yell, “Everybody DOWN!”
This is because the kids might be doing absolutely anything illegal or dangerous, such as sitting in a seatbelt not approved for small children, or touching their sister.
Still, the reason I generally let Wendy drive is not because she’s the better driver, it’s because I’m the better passenger. If the car takes a sudden lurch or gets a little close to another vehicle while I’m the passenger, I just look at it like an amusement park ride. When it’s over, we’re all safe, and we can go get a corn dog.
As my passenger, Wendy’s take on the experience probably aligns nicely with her view of airplane crashes – I haven’t asked her, but I’m judging by the screaming, the hyperventilation, and the grip she places on the entry handle.
You know, if she would just close her eyes, it would probably be a lot more comfortable for her.
She also insists on giving me a lot of directions, such as “Stay within the lines, please!” or “Watch the road, would you!” Sometimes her directions are self-contradicting, like “turn right at the next light”, and “Do NOT turn right across three lanes of traffic!”
In the last few years I have had the opportunity to have my co-workers as passengers, and, as it turns out, Wendy’s view of my driving is not unique.
Mike told me “I can understand using the shoulder to go around a car turning left – and I can even understand doing that at 60 mph, but not when there is another car using the shoulder!”
Tom says, “Stop far enough behind the other vehicle that you can still see its tires, please!”
They both claim to get muscle strain from involuntary attempts to hit the brakes.
Officer Cummins of the OHP has a different view of my driving. He hasn’t seen me driving while thumbing through my notebook looking for phone numbers, or using both hands to scratch that itch under my left shoulder blade. He simply thinks I should slow down.
He and I chat about it every few weeks on Highway 99 between Rickreall and Amity. He’s a good man, in his 30’s, with a wife and two children. He loves his job, and recently bought a wood smoker.
I admit it, Wendy is a very good driver, and I'm needing improvement. So in the interest of marital harmony, and general laziness, I let Wendy drive about 28 hours of barren Western landscape.
In addition to my copilot duties I played Sudoku on my blackberry and learned how to solve the Rubiks cube. I also worked on my observation skills, so that I can one day become as good a driver as Wendy. I’m getting better! I even noticed a lady having a baby on the freeway – with three patrol cars, lights flashing, and feet up against the side windows.
. . . After Wendy pointed it out.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I rolled up a log
Saturday Wendy was driving home from Bend with the kids. Chad was in a silly mood, and was perhaps driving the driver a wee bit insane, so she called me and said, "Chad wants to talk to you. Here you go!"
I played along. "Howdy Chad!"
"Hi, Dad! What did you do today?"
I told him "I wrote a blog."
Cell phones are a little indistinct sometimes, and they were in a bad cell zone. He said, "I can't hear you. What?"
"I wrote a BLOG!" I yelled.
"You rolled up a log? What are you talking about?"
He must have laughed for five minutes. I waited patiently, and eventually he said, "OK - what else did you do today?"
"I rode my bike to the grocery store."
"Dad! You Rock! You rode your bike through the grocery store? That's awesome!"
This was becoming a fun game. In fact, we might be on the verge of patenting a new game for the hearing impaired.
Actually, someone made this into a game already. It's called "Mad Gab", and I am the champion at it. When someone verbalizes, "Stub Her Neigh Same Yule," I easily translate to, "Stubborn as a mule" and win the round. On the other hand, if they actually say "Stubborn as a mule", I am just as likely to hear, "It's a rubber vestibule." Chad may have this hereditary defect.
This kind of thing seems to happen to me often.
Once, when Wendy was not feeling well, she said, "My stomach hurts. My thighs are greasy." Only, the thighs weren't her own, they belonged to the chickens we ate for dinner an hour earlier.
On another occasion I asked, "Need anything from the store?"
She was happy I asked. "Bring me some Carmex."
"What kind of corn mix?"
Less happy now.
It happened quite frequently when I lived in Japan, where they have a national shortage of sylables. Once my host family was already in the middle of dinner when I arrived home, with only a few minutes until an appintment came. The host mother asked me, "kuru made tabetara?" meaning "why don't you eat until they come?" But I heard, "kuruma de tabetara?" meaning, "why don't you eat in the car?"
I was a little offended.
This (dis?) aility may have come to me as a child when my family begain reciting the story "Ladle Rat Rotten Hut."
Wants pawn term, dare worsted ladle gull, hoe left wetter murder honor itch offer lodge, dock florist.
Ladies and gentlemen, don't adjust your sets. You read that correctly. It makes perfect sense when you know how to translate it. It is the story of "Little Red Riding Hood" and this is the first sentence: "Once upon a time, there was a little girl, who lived with her mother on the edge of a large, dark forest."
You're getting the hang of this now, arent you?
Here's what I think. Any future hearing loss I experience will be accompanied by an equally offsetting entertainment value, and kids will come from all over to talk with me.
"Hey, kid - I see you bought a new Toyota."
"That's right, Mister Boyack, and I hear you had a really amazing coupe."
"Yes, I did, after the Ex Lax took effect."
So after all, communication is a four part exercise. The intended message, the actual spoken words, the actual heard words, and the interpreted meaning.
If any one of those goes wrong, you can have a lot of fun.
I played along. "Howdy Chad!"
"Hi, Dad! What did you do today?"
I told him "I wrote a blog."
Cell phones are a little indistinct sometimes, and they were in a bad cell zone. He said, "I can't hear you. What?"
"I wrote a BLOG!" I yelled.
"You rolled up a log? What are you talking about?"
He must have laughed for five minutes. I waited patiently, and eventually he said, "OK - what else did you do today?"
"I rode my bike to the grocery store."
"Dad! You Rock! You rode your bike through the grocery store? That's awesome!"
This was becoming a fun game. In fact, we might be on the verge of patenting a new game for the hearing impaired.
Actually, someone made this into a game already. It's called "Mad Gab", and I am the champion at it. When someone verbalizes, "Stub Her Neigh Same Yule," I easily translate to, "Stubborn as a mule" and win the round. On the other hand, if they actually say "Stubborn as a mule", I am just as likely to hear, "It's a rubber vestibule." Chad may have this hereditary defect.
This kind of thing seems to happen to me often.
Once, when Wendy was not feeling well, she said, "My stomach hurts. My thighs are greasy." Only, the thighs weren't her own, they belonged to the chickens we ate for dinner an hour earlier.
On another occasion I asked, "Need anything from the store?"
She was happy I asked. "Bring me some Carmex."
"What kind of corn mix?"
Less happy now.
It happened quite frequently when I lived in Japan, where they have a national shortage of sylables. Once my host family was already in the middle of dinner when I arrived home, with only a few minutes until an appintment came. The host mother asked me, "kuru made tabetara?" meaning "why don't you eat until they come?" But I heard, "kuruma de tabetara?" meaning, "why don't you eat in the car?"
I was a little offended.
This (dis?) aility may have come to me as a child when my family begain reciting the story "Ladle Rat Rotten Hut."
Wants pawn term, dare worsted ladle gull, hoe left wetter murder honor itch offer lodge, dock florist.
Ladies and gentlemen, don't adjust your sets. You read that correctly. It makes perfect sense when you know how to translate it. It is the story of "Little Red Riding Hood" and this is the first sentence: "Once upon a time, there was a little girl, who lived with her mother on the edge of a large, dark forest."
You're getting the hang of this now, arent you?
Here's what I think. Any future hearing loss I experience will be accompanied by an equally offsetting entertainment value, and kids will come from all over to talk with me.
"Hey, kid - I see you bought a new Toyota."
"That's right, Mister Boyack, and I hear you had a really amazing coupe."
"Yes, I did, after the Ex Lax took effect."
So after all, communication is a four part exercise. The intended message, the actual spoken words, the actual heard words, and the interpreted meaning.
If any one of those goes wrong, you can have a lot of fun.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Fighting Evil in Sunday Primary
In my church there is no paid ministry, and we are asked to to a variety of jobs. Here's a few that I have done:
Today Sister Nelson used an object lesson that involved a whole garlic. When she told the kids what it was, one eight-year old girl pipes up, "Garlic scares away vampires!".
And then, in a completely unscripted moment, a ten-year old boy on the back row smiled, revealing two rows of platic green vampire teeth, complete with fangs.
I love primary!
- President of the Elder's Quorum (a men's group - actually the younger half of the congregation even though it's called Elder)
- Counselor to a Bishop - something like an assistant pastor
- Young Men's Advisor - working with 16 to 18 year old boys once, and 12-13 year olds another time.
- Choir director - self explanitory
Today Sister Nelson used an object lesson that involved a whole garlic. When she told the kids what it was, one eight-year old girl pipes up, "Garlic scares away vampires!".
And then, in a completely unscripted moment, a ten-year old boy on the back row smiled, revealing two rows of platic green vampire teeth, complete with fangs.
I love primary!
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Bicycling Adventure
Each year the Young Men’s organization in my LDS ward organizes the “high-adventure activity”, which is some extra-challenging expedition to a river, a beach, or a mountain. This is a speculative endeavor because we do things that normally only “fit” people do, like biking, canoeing or backpacking, but with our actual bodies, which are more suited to specialized functions such as punching keys on a keyboard or remote control, or for the young guys, a game controller thingy. But, for this one week each year, we scale mountains, ride rapids, or glide down highways wearing only Styrofoam.
The “High Adventure” is always adventurous, even though we are church-goers who attempt these feats without the aid of alcohol, because it involves males from ages 14 to 60, which is well before the age when the frontal lobe in human males matures and responsible judgment is possible.
Last August, for example, we canoed 100 miles of the treacherous Willamette River, which in the summer is not known for dangerous currents. However, two male priesthood brethren found, within sixty minutes of putting our boats in the water on the very first day, the only rapid anywhere on this river, and, given the choice of two forks in the river, naturally chose the one that would dump their bodies into the churning water and fold their canoe around a tree.
I thought this was pretty funny, and I confess I ribbed those guys a little. Meanwhile my son Chad and I carefully and responsibly piloted our canoe safely for the first day, until that got pretty boring. On the second day I paid attention to my fishing lines long enough to tip the canoe over. After that I was back to being responsible for the remainder of the journey, because I had lost my fishing poles and there was nothing better to do.
So here we are one year later, and the Adventure this year is a five-day, 150-mile bicycle trip on the San Juan islands, which are somewhere in the ocean of Washington state. It is a long-standing tradition, and the group has gone there every third year for the last fifteen years.
This will be my first time, however. I am told we will carry all our gear on the bikes, travelling mountainous coastal roads, ferrying from island to island, and camping in picturesque sites.
I’m also told I better get my fat old body in shape or I will suffer painfully and publicly.
I don’t want to put my son through that, so I bought a bike and have been doing a little cycling this spring. I will be much more prepared than I was when Wendy’s family did their first bike trip fifteen years ago, during which the bicycle seat willfully and repeatedly assaulted me in the most tender and sensitive places.
Last week my family camped at the coast and I brought the bike along so I could get a little more practice. Fifteen miles from the campground to the beach should be a good practice. The family went ahead in the Suburban. I passed up several “last call” opportunities where Wendy called, volunteering to come back and pick me up, saying things like “are you sure, this hill is two miles straight up?”
I bravely told her not to worry, and prepared to mount up. Apparently I forgot to pack my helmet, so I put on a hat to protect me from sunburn. Then my belly and I mounted the bike and headed out of the campground.
I was pretty much exhausted by the time I reached highway 101, less than one mile from the campground. It had been too many weeks. The road was hilly, and the wind was blowing against me.
When I reached the base of the first hill, it was time to pull off for a snack. This was going to be slow going. I surveyed the hill while I munched on unsalted nuts and dried fruits (very healthy, don’t you think? I won’t tell you how often I eat that way). Hmm. Steep hill, breezy day, narrow road, fast traffic, no helmet. What could possibly go wrong?
Then up I went. I was riding right into the wind, as well as uphill, which I thought was a little unfair. My hat was flipping around in the breeze and I thought I might lose it. It’s a manly chapeau in the style of “fishing hat”, with a brim that is identical all the way around all 360 degrees. Same hat I wore on last year’s canoe trip, actually. Good sun protection, but quite the sail in this wind.
So I pulled the hat down tight in front, and took on the challenge. I ascended that hill one inch at a time, one revolution at a time.
Occasionally I saw pairs of bicyclists in shiny Lycra suits, zipping down the hill southward. I had a sweatshirt, denim pants, and office shoes. They had rear-view mirrors mounted on the helmets. My bike has a rear-view mirror mounted on the handlebar, which is really cool. They had matching helmets and gloves. I had a fishing hat, and my right hand was going numb. They were carrying nothing, but I was carrying my belly.
They cast a glance my direction, and I’m sure gave me due respect as I lumbered up the hill in the lowest gear, with my big saddlebags, which they could not have known were totally empty.
Sissies.
Then, that blessed moment. After two miles of climbing, I reached the top of the first breezy hill with the hat safely secured. It was time to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I pulled the hat down again, and upshifted as the road leveled out and began descending.
As my speed built, the hat was talking to me: wippa wappa, flippa flappa. Wow – this is going to be fast. I’m not even to the steep part yet. I really don’t want to lose this hat.
I utilized my rear-view mirror to check out the traffic situation behind me. Going uphill, when the cars were passing me at 50 mph to my one mph, it was easy to stay at the edge of the road and cycle over pinecones and sticks. If I’m going to be going fast down this hill, I don’t want to be riding through that garbage.
All was clear, so I pulled out into the middle of the lane, where cars would be most likely to see me early and wait for a safe place to pass. Luckily the curvy road had warning signs keeping the cars to under 45 mph. I would slow the traffic down a little, but not much.
My speed was building, as was my adrenaline. These curves were a little daunting. I gripped the handles tightly, and felt all the muscles tightening from my fingertips to my eyebrows. This was scary in an exciting sort of way, like an amusement park ride or an intense thriller movie. I have no problems as long as the two wheels stay under me.
I was in top gear, but not applying any effort to the downhill ride.. The hat was now rattling like a flag in a hurricane: wippity wappity flippity flappity.
Here comes another pair of matching sissies southbound up the hill. And look at me, just relaxing. OK John, time to dig in and get some exercise along with the thrill ride. I hunker down to lower my wind profile and put some force on the pedals.
Wippity wappity FLAP!
Suddenly everything went dark. My hat was now silent. Instead of flapping in the breeze, its brim was now wrapped around my face like I’m a blindfolded kid getting ready to whack a piñata.
Straining my eyeballs downward, I could see through a slight opening next to my nose. I could only see the pavement directly below my bicycle.
At 40 miles per hour, cars in front and back, I had a death grip on the handlebars and no visibility to the front. However, I could, in my rear-view mirror, see the semi truck behind me.
I’m the piñata, actually. Did I mention I wasn’t wearing a helmet?
I peeled my left fingers off the handlebar and quickly pushed up my hat. Thank Heaven! The cars ahead of me were pulling away, and as a nice added benefit, I was still on the right side of the road. And I now had one eyeball free of the face-sucking hat.
Now I was John the Pirate Bicycler. The brim of my hat was down on the right, up on the left. Without any depth-perception, I carefully applied the brakes and pulled gently into the sticks and pinecones. The trucks and cars sped up and passed me by.
Wow!
I took off the hat and breathed for a moment. Two eyes are twice as good.
I looked at the remaining hill, and the traffic. I considered the breeze and the sun. I folded the front brim of the hat inside, pulled it back on my head, and my belly and me got back on the road.
I love that hat.
The “High Adventure” is always adventurous, even though we are church-goers who attempt these feats without the aid of alcohol, because it involves males from ages 14 to 60, which is well before the age when the frontal lobe in human males matures and responsible judgment is possible.
Last August, for example, we canoed 100 miles of the treacherous Willamette River, which in the summer is not known for dangerous currents. However, two male priesthood brethren found, within sixty minutes of putting our boats in the water on the very first day, the only rapid anywhere on this river, and, given the choice of two forks in the river, naturally chose the one that would dump their bodies into the churning water and fold their canoe around a tree.
I thought this was pretty funny, and I confess I ribbed those guys a little. Meanwhile my son Chad and I carefully and responsibly piloted our canoe safely for the first day, until that got pretty boring. On the second day I paid attention to my fishing lines long enough to tip the canoe over. After that I was back to being responsible for the remainder of the journey, because I had lost my fishing poles and there was nothing better to do.
So here we are one year later, and the Adventure this year is a five-day, 150-mile bicycle trip on the San Juan islands, which are somewhere in the ocean of Washington state. It is a long-standing tradition, and the group has gone there every third year for the last fifteen years.
This will be my first time, however. I am told we will carry all our gear on the bikes, travelling mountainous coastal roads, ferrying from island to island, and camping in picturesque sites.
I’m also told I better get my fat old body in shape or I will suffer painfully and publicly.
I don’t want to put my son through that, so I bought a bike and have been doing a little cycling this spring. I will be much more prepared than I was when Wendy’s family did their first bike trip fifteen years ago, during which the bicycle seat willfully and repeatedly assaulted me in the most tender and sensitive places.
Last week my family camped at the coast and I brought the bike along so I could get a little more practice. Fifteen miles from the campground to the beach should be a good practice. The family went ahead in the Suburban. I passed up several “last call” opportunities where Wendy called, volunteering to come back and pick me up, saying things like “are you sure, this hill is two miles straight up?”
I bravely told her not to worry, and prepared to mount up. Apparently I forgot to pack my helmet, so I put on a hat to protect me from sunburn. Then my belly and I mounted the bike and headed out of the campground.
I was pretty much exhausted by the time I reached highway 101, less than one mile from the campground. It had been too many weeks. The road was hilly, and the wind was blowing against me.
When I reached the base of the first hill, it was time to pull off for a snack. This was going to be slow going. I surveyed the hill while I munched on unsalted nuts and dried fruits (very healthy, don’t you think? I won’t tell you how often I eat that way). Hmm. Steep hill, breezy day, narrow road, fast traffic, no helmet. What could possibly go wrong?
Then up I went. I was riding right into the wind, as well as uphill, which I thought was a little unfair. My hat was flipping around in the breeze and I thought I might lose it. It’s a manly chapeau in the style of “fishing hat”, with a brim that is identical all the way around all 360 degrees. Same hat I wore on last year’s canoe trip, actually. Good sun protection, but quite the sail in this wind.
So I pulled the hat down tight in front, and took on the challenge. I ascended that hill one inch at a time, one revolution at a time.
Occasionally I saw pairs of bicyclists in shiny Lycra suits, zipping down the hill southward. I had a sweatshirt, denim pants, and office shoes. They had rear-view mirrors mounted on the helmets. My bike has a rear-view mirror mounted on the handlebar, which is really cool. They had matching helmets and gloves. I had a fishing hat, and my right hand was going numb. They were carrying nothing, but I was carrying my belly.
They cast a glance my direction, and I’m sure gave me due respect as I lumbered up the hill in the lowest gear, with my big saddlebags, which they could not have known were totally empty.
Sissies.
Then, that blessed moment. After two miles of climbing, I reached the top of the first breezy hill with the hat safely secured. It was time to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I pulled the hat down again, and upshifted as the road leveled out and began descending.
As my speed built, the hat was talking to me: wippa wappa, flippa flappa. Wow – this is going to be fast. I’m not even to the steep part yet. I really don’t want to lose this hat.
I utilized my rear-view mirror to check out the traffic situation behind me. Going uphill, when the cars were passing me at 50 mph to my one mph, it was easy to stay at the edge of the road and cycle over pinecones and sticks. If I’m going to be going fast down this hill, I don’t want to be riding through that garbage.
All was clear, so I pulled out into the middle of the lane, where cars would be most likely to see me early and wait for a safe place to pass. Luckily the curvy road had warning signs keeping the cars to under 45 mph. I would slow the traffic down a little, but not much.
My speed was building, as was my adrenaline. These curves were a little daunting. I gripped the handles tightly, and felt all the muscles tightening from my fingertips to my eyebrows. This was scary in an exciting sort of way, like an amusement park ride or an intense thriller movie. I have no problems as long as the two wheels stay under me.
I was in top gear, but not applying any effort to the downhill ride.. The hat was now rattling like a flag in a hurricane: wippity wappity flippity flappity.
Here comes another pair of matching sissies southbound up the hill. And look at me, just relaxing. OK John, time to dig in and get some exercise along with the thrill ride. I hunker down to lower my wind profile and put some force on the pedals.
Wippity wappity FLAP!
Suddenly everything went dark. My hat was now silent. Instead of flapping in the breeze, its brim was now wrapped around my face like I’m a blindfolded kid getting ready to whack a piñata.
Straining my eyeballs downward, I could see through a slight opening next to my nose. I could only see the pavement directly below my bicycle.
At 40 miles per hour, cars in front and back, I had a death grip on the handlebars and no visibility to the front. However, I could, in my rear-view mirror, see the semi truck behind me.
I’m the piñata, actually. Did I mention I wasn’t wearing a helmet?
I peeled my left fingers off the handlebar and quickly pushed up my hat. Thank Heaven! The cars ahead of me were pulling away, and as a nice added benefit, I was still on the right side of the road. And I now had one eyeball free of the face-sucking hat.
Now I was John the Pirate Bicycler. The brim of my hat was down on the right, up on the left. Without any depth-perception, I carefully applied the brakes and pulled gently into the sticks and pinecones. The trucks and cars sped up and passed me by.
Wow!
I took off the hat and breathed for a moment. Two eyes are twice as good.
I looked at the remaining hill, and the traffic. I considered the breeze and the sun. I folded the front brim of the hat inside, pulled it back on my head, and my belly and me got back on the road.
I love that hat.
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