7.83 miles today. Temperature: chilly. This morning (or last night while giving some young cyclist a safer route to Palo Alto), I pulled a muscle in my calve. Ride home, hot dog and garlic fries, hot tub, cold refreshing liquids, Ben Gay™ ... bag of popcorn, sleep.

Today's 8.5

Miles ... 8.5 miles riding. I rode to work in the frost on the ground frigidness. I left my bike at work and then walked from potrero hill to Pacific Heights and then to North Beach for dinner, about 4 miles. A cab back to work then ride over to BART and train to Millbrae. Ride through the ice on the road frosty chillyness to home at midnight.

Brrrr... No snow though. I put on an extra layer this morning and was still chilly as I left the station tonight. I stopped and put on my gloves and something around my neck. By the time I got home and into the house I was seriously overheated and ripping my clothes off,

I've been Tagged

I once got pulled over on my bike for speeding through a school zone -- I was younger then. Gilby has tagged me -- I suppose I will need to tag someone now, too. But, that might take some thought. Fortunately, right after I got tagged I wrote this, which reveals several things about me.

1. My brother killed himself twenty years ago.
2. I lived in a warehouse with a menagerie.
3. I studied Fine Art as a graduate student in Pullman, WA -- I am not going to get all POMO on your ass like Annie.
4. I used to fish alot with my older brother. He liked to fish in the stanislaus river.
and
5. I have never ridden a bicycle in the snow. I have gotten laid in the snow -- and you know what they say about getting laid and riding a bike.

And the bonus. My son was born the day after the Loma Prieta Earthquake. There's a huge story there which I might tell someday. Two things are worth understanding. I survived a major earthquake, and so did he. Fortunately, he doesn't remember.

So I think I want to tag the old bag, and Ruby to tell me 5 things about them I don't know.

Spare me a little bit ...

I was really trying to read Edward Abbey's Journey Home, but unfortunately it's just a bit too much about actually returning home, which is what I thought I was doing, unfortunately, you never actually go back ... so instead I am listening to the Cowboy Junkies on the IPod at volume 11.

Things are returning to normal. What's normal? Four years ago I lived in a warehouse with concrete floors, more than a few dozen orchids, a crazy bird, a woman named Jane, and three somewhat feral cats, and a Pacific tree frog. It had no heat and a makeshift kitchen and a clawfoot tub right in the middle of the living room, which we fondly referred to as the observatory. ... Jane would be out, and I would have the volume on the stereo at nine with Juliana Hatfield taking the paint off the walls ... I could pretty much park my bikes anywhere. There was a 1+ mile hike to the bay directly out my door. That still seems pretty normal to me. My brother would have shown up with beer and a couple of friends, turned the stereo up, if he could have.

Two years ago I lived in the desert. The Sonoran desert. 15 minutes from the most stunning of wilderness. Scorpions, coyotes, bobcats, javelina, tortoise and tarantula, not to mention snakes. You never really had to go anywhere to find them -- they would come and visit you -- no waiting. Stereo on and up. My brother would have been there to check out the sights and bag a few peaks with his dog, who would chew up the couch. He would have complained about the heat and made more Margaritas. The desert would have begged us to hike and ride. I left that virile sun to return home.

I made a journey home like this once before. A journey back to the place I was born. Where I grew up. I went back home after grad school, after I graduated in the desert, after I did what no other person in my family has ever done. I went back. Nothing was as I remembered it. I grew in a sleepy burb ... which grew up into a freeway coated metropolis.

So I have done it again. Gone forward into something that looks like the past, to find out that it isn't there. It's just not; the past is not here. I am miles from my home.

If I could just reach the crest of that hill
this whole day will tumble and out the night will spill
The sky is still as a spinning top,
shooting stars drop like burning words from above
If I could just connect all these dots,
the truth would tumble like a cynic vexed by love

I am many miles from my home. In the place I grew up there was my brother. "I was Walking After Midnight, Searching for You." He was there, always there. He would show up on Saturday morning with two tickets to The Day on the Green. Stop in on Thursday night looking for me to go see the Taming of the Shrew with him. Pick me up on Friday night for a trip fishing to the Eel River, or whatever. It was always something -- and he was always late, but it was often good. He was always a good place for a party to start. He was smart -- brilliant -- and a disaster. My father used to say he could "snatch defeat from the jaws of victory." I travelled across the country with him, my brother. He always said that it was great to be alive. He said that, my brother. Then he killed himself. He killed himself on Christmas Day 20 years ago. Happy fucking anniversary.

On the Ipod is 'Misguided Angel.' Brother, you speak to me of passion, You said never settle for nothing less ... There comes a time when you live to break away. Baby there are things that we cling to all our life. ... Misguided Angel hanging over me. Hard like a Gabriel, pure white as ivory, soul like a lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead.

When I was writing the introduction to my thesis I talked about my brother. Early in my life he inspired me to want to be a Painter, an Artist. When I was about 5 he painted a painting of hot air ballons ... and I decided to be like him -- to be an Artist. I talked about his inspiring me. My whole life changed that day. It's too bad he was never here to see what he had done. When I was in Pullman Washington -- he would have been there. To party! -- and to cheer me on. He would have shown up unannounced with his Pentax, and say I was in the area ... We would have smoked some hash and ...

JUST WANT TO SEE
(Michael Timmins)

I don't want to be no patch on no quilt
(I just want to see...)
Tear-stained stitching linking memories to guilt
(I just want to see...)
I don't want to be no hair on no wall
(I just want to see...)
Blood-stained note saying fuck you all
(I just want to see what kills me)

Tommy, are you ready we better head to town
J.D.'s box is waiting to be lowered down
and you know how he hates to be kept waiting 'round

I don't want to be no chalk line drawing
(I just want to see...)
Toe-tagged question mark, until identifying
(I just want to see...)
I don't want to fuse with no economy seat
(I just want to see...)
fuel some fireball at 30,000 feet
(I just want to see what kills me)

Tommy, did you catch his face
before they closed the lid?
I swear I saw him wink once and flash me that old grin
Oh, you know, that would be just like him

I don't want to face no hollow-eyed ending
(I just want to see...)
Loved ones buried, empty days of waiting
(I just want to see what kills me)

Tommy, darling, come to bed
we'll try and sleep away this sadness
These memories, too, are bound to die
so our dreams will have to serve us
Tomorrow may be the day that our love betrays us

Do you think it's too late to volunteer to work on the suicide hotline on Christmas morning?

Sheer Madness

This is madness. Please spread condoms to Africa to prevent the spread of aids. Not this voodoo. I can't imagine why the New York Times thinks this is news.

You'll have to sign in. If not it says that circumcision reduces the chance of infection with HIV by about 50% for men (let's not even bother to talk about the women who have unprotected sex with these men). Those odds can be beat I think.

Happy Days!

Make your own Razz!

My Kitchen Would Like Some Attention

Oh, well. The sink flooded the other day and slowed the pace of blogging all to hell. Made a mess of things out into the hall and I woke with security in my kitchen. SO I have fans all drying me out and things look like they might get back to normal sometime after the new year.

The upside:

It's easier to park the bikes on the concrete floor in the living room.

The heater is on, so it looks like I might stop feeling cold before March.

I rode 55+ miles last week because I was so comfortable in my place.

I got to sleep on a cat last night at my friends house.

I don't have to lock the door because so many people are going in and out every day.

I won't need to worry about whether I will have enough money to run the Colorado again this year.

There appears not to be a really large amount of damage (fingers crossed).

Drawing with a Pencil

So here I am -- in San Francisco -- far from the adventures I have known in my recent past, close to all the adventures of my childhood, reading, as it were, the future and current adventures of Jill. I have to admit I am more than a bit jealous.

I have boots, and a bike, and a truck. I can walk, hike, ride, camp, bike, but can't manage to get away, so I stay here. I miss the new Jane, the "happy hiking buddy™", and the Superstition Ridgeline. I can go there. If I can just get away.

I can't. In my youth, I was stuck here too. I dreamed of tigers and safaris and ostriches, and places far away, rain forests. I wrote read National Geographic on the remote wilderness and the world adventure. I was their staff ornithologist. I dreamed. I dream now, too. I dream of orchids in Madagascar and Brazilian women (just one actually). I dream of the world without. I dream in the dentist's office as I read where people have circumnavigated the globe under human power. I could be one of those people.

And where am I? They survive a hurricane at sea in a boat and I am at my desk. Did you know that Ernest Hemingway finished "As the Bell Tolls" in Havana, Cuba. I can't even go there, as far as I know. I am really just here, in the place of my youth. My friends are here, and I make new friends easily, because I know the rules, the local code. I grew up here, in a marsh, in a barrio, I lived through glass in the street and neighbors that we called "the stealers" for seemingly obvious reasons (they were replaced by a Portuguese family that -- guess what -- got robbed) and several floods.

I feel V.S Naipaul's neighborhood in Trinidad in the way I can still feel my own. The babysitter of teaching my children Erdu is here, my neighbor of the perpetual sushi is here. My best wiffle ball playing childhood friend. Islander Markets and taquerias, the taquerias of my youth. Seafood, tacos and cioppino. I am a tidepool of cross-cultural driftwood. So be it.

So, where am I now? On a journey in my head -- an adventure within. It's a place where we draw the birds in our yard and read all the bird books at our library. We draw the birds of the Arctic, the puffins, and barnacle geese, and dream of the future when we can travel. Shoot arrows into a bale of straw at the back fence until we manage to send one out to the freeway. We get poison oak at the local rope swing while smoking (my political career is a disaster anyway -- honest -- I did inhale) and dive off the dam at swim in the water shed. It's the place where we had our first kiss and got the truck stuck in the mud; the first time we got laid, and then I met that young Asian woman who will remain nameless. We rode our bikes to shoot at rabbits with wrist rockets, and later learned to hunt with guns. A rock concert -- a love-in, and ... a fifth of tequila. Birds on the edge of the bay in the morning. Canoe trips and costume parties. And we should never forget beer drinking bonfire parties to be broken up by the cops on the beach out at the ocean in the wee morning. It's the place where we met ... almost every one we know.

It's the place where I learned to work and ride a bike; learned to navigate an uncertain future. I learned to make art, got married, raised a family, and was a strong part of this community. My community is here. My friends, family and mentors are all here, too; some to live and die here. I sure wish I could strike out on a ten mile hike with the camera into the sun and the scorpions ... there's a wilderness within, I know it; I just have to find it. I must find it.

Inspiration to Change

Last week or so, I received a letter from a friend of mine talking about how he'd been thinking of me. He was planning to start trying to get back into shape, the kind of shape that would put him back on a mountain bike, and be able to enjoy it.

He told me that he was inspired by seeing me change my life, from a smoking, hiking, hacking maniac into a biking, hiking, hacking, maniac. He watched the photos roll in as I drove my car 30000 miles a year around the west shooting pictures. He witnessed a quiet and powerful change as I quit smoking and hit the road on my bike, preparing to ride a 100 miles for the first time in my life. I was flattered and touched to realize that I had this influence on his decisions; that I might have been an inspiration to him to get fit.

On November 10 of this year, one of the most profoundly inspirational men in my life passed away. Ray Lorenzato, Professor Emeritus at the College of San Mateo, father, Sculptor, and my mentor for several years, passed on. Saturday or Sunday morning I'll ride my bike down to San Mateo's Central Park for a memorial on his behalf at 11:00. Ray was a daily challenge to change, and a inspiration at every step.

A new friend of mine has told of this and it's been very interesting to meet Michael. He was one of Ray's colleagues and indirectly caused a profound change in my life, many years ago. I had the pleasure to tell him this, because I recently met him. My (ex)wife was a student in his class where he taught a lesson about a Flemish bread called Desem, which is made only from whole wheat flour and a "yeast" or organism cultured for the flour, and water. As a result of this lesson and my subsequent attempts to bake this bread and eventually reading the book The Laurel's Kitchen Bread Book (and several other titles on the subject of eating better for a better planet) I stumbled upon an article (in the Laurel's Kitchen Bread Book) which became part of my life's philosophy. It was the introduction, entitled Always a Choice, by Bronwyn Godfrey, which changed the course of my life. I started eating to impact global politics, I started to eat better, I studied colonialism and I ate better. I started thinking about what I was doing, what I was doing with my voice, my money, my appetite, my effort. My (ex)wife was right there with me. Did I mention that I ate better?


I embarked on a search for a better way to live, a better set of rules, a search for better bread, and on a bread baking quest of my own. A search for a philosophy to help me navigate a confusing world. I fed my friends and gave them loaves of bread. I still make the lentil soup recipe I learned from Frances Moore Lappe in Diet for a Small Planet, and I can still bake a damn good loaf of whole wheat bread. I can't believe that people embrace a lie of scarcity, amid such incredible bounty. It was a great ride I went on, intellectually, socially, physically, happily.

In teaching my wife, oh so many years ago, a simple lesson about how bread was made, Michael had a significant and profound impact on my life, the life of someone he didn't even know. He started an avalanche of choices and decisions that led to where I am today. All from a simple glimpse into the staff of life. A simpler life.

So how do we inspire others in our world to change? I had a conversation with a friend of mine about how I generally felt apolitical in most conversations. I didn't find conversations about politics to be all that exciting. I said that the simple act of having a conversation of politics was usually a serious waste of time.

He asked, "What about the quiet way you life your life? You take photos of the beauty of nature, and you ride everywhere you can. What about that -- is that apolitical?" I say no, it's powerful. It's the only vehicle for change that I have control over. It's actually an idea better defined in feminism. Carol Hannisch's idea that "the personal is the political," is here. Change your life, and you can change the world. It's not just for women.

Ride your bike, eat well, demonstrate the beauty of nature, live healthy, and ask the people around you to join you. Ray and Michael, and my (ex)wife, all inspired me. Change your life -- and maybe someone will be inspired.

It's really cool to think that I might live in a way that inspires people.

I tuned up the roadster today, filled her tires, put lights on her. Took her out for some lovemaking a spin. She's looking good, still under 20 lbs. If I am not going to drive -- I need to be able to get around a bit better.

On the Ipod: Prince, When doves cry. Allison Brown, Mambo Banjo. The Crusaders, I felt the love. Le Mystere des Voix Bulgares, Sableyalo Mi Agontze.

There's a few miles involved.

Today: 21.46
December: 37.62
Weather: 50°F. and clear


Live well.

Eat Well.

Moire

This was a nice example of a moire affecting a digital image. Blogger must have screened it out. Hmmmm, now it's just a fat wad of keys.

November Tally.

Today: 5.75
November Total: 194.36
Number of days this month without driving a motor vehicle: 22
Weather: 30 Nov 7:50 pm 46°F., 63% humidity, wind E 7, CLR 30.426 inches.

Whoa -- cold.

African Crowned Crane Spotted in Los Altos, CA

Hey

I been spending some time on the bike, and at the dentist.

Riding since friday: 50.42
November Total: 188.61
Number of days this month without driving a motor vehicle: 21
Weather: 29 Nov 8:30 pm 46°F 38% humidity, wind SSW, 30.074

It's supposed to freeze tonight ...

Thanksgiving, California Style

I had a great Thanksgiving, more like a Norman Rockwell painting than this. We didn't grill a turkey. Photo plucked from Lauren's site.

Sister Morphine, the Ipod and the Alarm Clock were ...

Gentle readers.

I bet you're rooting for a story about the Ipod getting wet, or a story about an object the size of an Ipod stopping a bullet, or what might happen to a plugged in alarm clock if you dropped it into the washer or the toilet.

It's just not that simple. Since I moved in August. I have been struggling to find everything and squeeze my ever expanding life into a ridiculously small apartment. My father's health has been deteriorating on an almost daily basis. Currently, the doctors are treating him with a designer heroin to manage his pain. At least he has ecstasy on his side.

Here I lie in my hospital bed
Tell me, Sister Morphine, when are you coming round again?
Oh, I don't think I can wait that long
Oh, you see that I'm not that strong

My siblings, their children, wives, and myself have been pitching together in an herculean effort to keep my parents at home, and help them live honorably, decently. My superhero elder brother and his wife carry the brunt of the load. I find myself enjoying the closeness of my family, and the time I get to spend with them. Nevertheless, the time required, combined with trying to finish a cross country move, and a new job leave me occasionally feeling a bit tattered around the edges. I have less time to spend blogging, masturbating reading, and finding crap.

I am gradually becoming victorious. I am not your average sized Joe. I have a regular sized houseful of goods. In fact, when I moved from grad school it took me three weeks to pack the sculpture and studio, and only one day to move the entire apartment. And then there's all the art, and the sculpture studio, then the painting studio, and the 30 or so cameras, and the photo studio. I have a painting that has been on the wall of my home for some time. It's large -- 5'by 8'. It doesn't even fit in my apartment. I also have a working darkroom. It's complicated.

Each step of unpacking involves the determination of 4 possible outcomes for each item. Trash, gift, store, or find a place for it here. It's tedious work.

Today, I found the Ipod, the alarm clock, the kitchen timer, and a few other useful items, like the iron. So I started a load of laundry, set the kitchen timer for 60 minutes. Then I jumped on my bike for a wet pavement, gentle rain, dodge-car sprint downtown to Jeffrey's for a cheeseburger extraodinaire. Just as Sister Morphine came into the headset, the endorphins kicked in. At least I have ecstasy on my side.

Well it just goes to show
Things are not what they seem
Please, Sister Morphine, turn my nightmares into dreams

I have been riding my bicycleta to work every time I go there, for about two weeks now. In fact I have never driven to the new location of my job (we moved a while ago). This is a shot of Henry Adams street which is part of my new route to work. The only time recently that I have driven the car has been to pick up my son.

I just took la computadora off of the bike today and read it. 60.08.

Today 14.2 miles
Swimming: 0/0 yd.
Riding: 14.2/138.19
Miles Running: 0/0
Walking: 0/0 Miles
Number of days this month without driving a motor vehicle: 16
Weather: 24 Nov 9:30 pm 52°F., 76% humidity, Wind WNW 3, 29.776.

If you look at that street you will see the climb at the end of it ... Potrero Hill. Looks like it might be fun.


Now that the tryptophan has finally worn off I have resorted to eating a lot of Tacos de Camarones al Mojo de Ajo, and am trying to learn some Spanish from Miguel, the camarones dealer. Photo credit.

So the Bicycle is Your Primary Form of Transportation?

Yes.

It's all about route picking really. The pleasure in all this comes from picking better routes. Today, I replaced my bars with a new set and then pruned two inches off each end. I reduced the width of my bars by a total of seven and a half inches, to nineteen and a half inches. This should reduce the chances that some inattentive driver will clip the end of my bars and send me flying by about 32 metric percent. Additionally, it will mean better handling while I am on the sidewalk.

What are you doing on the sidewalk?

I wouldn't go as far as to say that San Mateo planning is bike negative, but I do believe they might feel that bikes don't really belong in the road. At critical points they push bikes toward the sidewalk and onto bike pedestrian bridges, such as the ones crossing the US 101 at Tilton Ave, Third Ave, the planned one at Hillsdale Blvd, and the bridge over the railroad tracks at 19th Avenue. Crossings such as the pedestrian route at Hillsdale and Pacific Blvd./rail tracks and the pedestrian bridge at Peninsula are both extremely difficult for bikes. These are all primarily East/West routes, and they are difficult on a bike. There are several signifigant obstacles in any East/West trip in San Mateo.

I believe that there are two fundamental failures in the thinking about bikes that lead to these decisions. One: "Bicyclists are pedestrians" and two: "Bikes are for recreation." SO, it's delightful that the county closes Cañada Road to vehicles on Sunday so that bicycles can use it exclusively. It's cool that there are places like Sawyer Camp road (mixed human-powered use) Ryder Park (Same -- with dog park so ... no dogs on leashes). I am not going to drive my bike there in my car to get out and use these. I want to ride there. I also want to safely ride to my parents house. And to Sushi at Tokie's in Foster City, and to the Dentist.

There are some great North/South routes in San Mateo. Palm Ave for a while. Alameda De Las Pulgas isn't too bad. Norfolk Street. The route through Bay Meadows Race Track.

But let's take a look at me through North San Mateo to downtown to have coffee. Initially, I applied the typical Phoenix logic to the problem -- forgetting a myriad of childhood knowledge and experience. Pick the direct route on the biggest streets and ride there. Take Delaware (Parents dropping off high school aged kids for school -- construction workers opening car doors into cyclist -- pedestrians walking into street and drivers on cell phones in SUVs trying to hit/miss cyclist) from Peninsula to 3rd (Scary-Scary) and turn right, turn left (safety ahead) on B. Get coffee. Omg -- I lived.

Not one inch of this route is very safe on a bike.

Use childhood knowledge:

Leave driveway and cross Delaware immediately -- and carefully -- trying to hide behind a woman with a stroller so as not to get mowed down -- to State Street. Travel one block East to Claremont and turn South. Follow Claremont quietly, watching for people backing out of driveways in a sane way to leave for work. Carefully cross Poplar. Proceed to Monte Diablo and turn right to N Railroad and continue South on this narrow one lane two way street with almost no traffic. Roughness of road hammers testicles and prostrate so be careful. Wave to hispanic cyclists who wear baseball hats for helmets. Hola. Turn right and cross under railroad tracks at Tilton. Turn onto South Railroad -- watch for SUV taking up entire road every day, wave, and break law riding against traffic to ramp in to railroad station. Ring bell a lot and ride through train station avoiding pedestrians and trying not to get a ticket (keep ringing bell and pretend not to hear cops and conductors -- keep riding). Jump curb into parking lot and high density angle parking. Ring bell -- pay attention and plan for escapes.

Cross Second and turn onto the car free Main Street -- and aim bike directly into line for theatre. Ride slowly and politely through the crowd. Behave like best of bike advocates. These are people in my community. And it's a good community. Even if its government thinks bikes are pedestrians. So I am always nice. Ride to Third and turn West onto the sidewalk. Cross as a pedestrian on B street at the light and proceed on the sidewalk to the light pole in front of the cafe.

"Could I have a double espresso, please?" And the assumption that bikes are really transportation.

Rain, oh Yeah ...

I remember this stuff. It falls from the sky and gets everything wet.

So I got up this morning and looked out and -- guess what? The ground was wet. Ah, what to wear? Should I wear neoprene socks? Nah -- forgot to find those. Smartwool™ socks, Sugoi stretch tights, geeky 100% nylon explorer shorts from REI™, trendy 100% Merino Wool to die for pullover from SmartWool™. North Face™ Polartec™vest. Cannondale rain jacket. Louis Garneau helmet showercap™. Soppy when wet leather palmed soggy butt cotton backed gloves. Customized bike messenger bag.

8 sorta wet, somewhat warm and seem to dry out get wet in a hurry miles later, here we are, in the house with the remains of the day all hanging around the bathroom drying out and preparing for tomorrow. A pizza and a soak in the hot tub, warm conversation with friends, two oatmeal, a double espresso, and it's time for bed. This kinda day makes one tired and hungry.

Should I Cut My Hair?

I thought it might be interesting to take a vote. Does anyone have an opinion about what cut I should get -- here are a few choices. Please comment your opinion.

Bob Marley

Marten Sheen

Johnny Depp

Olvier Matinez

Quentin Tarantino

Steven Tyler

Andy Warhol

Pierce Brosnan

Lyle Lovett

Harvey Kieltel

Happy Veterans Day

My father told me a story yesterday, while we were watching the news of Iraq and story of the loss of 3000 there since the war began. My father is 83 years old and on Wednesday night I ride over to his house with dinner on the back of my bike, to cook and have dinner with him and my mother. Their health has deteriorated lately and my whole family is gathering around to help and try to make things better, and easier for them. And like I said, he told me a story yesterday.

He told me a story about the battle for Iwo Jima and how the Americans lost some 10000 soldiers in that battle alone. He served on the USS Hancock at the time and described the hit that the Hancock took during that battle.

250 men were lost on that ship alone when a kamikaze stuck the flight deck and hanger deck severing a 4 inch gas line and causing several explosions. This was quite a signifigant hit on the Hancock, causing more death and injury than the 10 hits that the USS Hornet took during it's sinking at the Battle of Santa Cruz, which according to my father, only cost 150 of his shipmates.

As you read the history of the USS Hornet, think of my father, who served in each of these great battles. Yes, he was on the Doolittle Raid. He was also at the Marianas Turkey Shoot. And he sailed into Tokyo harbor at the end of the war. Am I proud of him? You bet!

I didn't hear these stories my entire life, just for the last 30 years or so. Sadly, these stories will stop soon.

There's another veteran in my family, my older brother, who served honorably in Vietnam. Some years later he took his own life. His stories are lost I am afraid. Am I proud of him? Yes, I am.

Join me in a prayer for these men, and all of the great men and women who have honored their countrymen, their parents, and their children by risking their lives through service in times of war. And let's be sure to honor them, by remembering thier stories.

Happy Veterans Day.