I was at the computer the other day and I did a Google search on JABN. I'll admit this sounds a bit narcissistic, but it's just so darn exciting to see some of my blog posts come up in the results. There was a time when I was invisible to Google. I still remember the first time Google returned one of my pages in the results. If you've ever seen the movie "The Jerk", recall the scene where Narvin is so excited to find his name published in the phone book. It was kind of like that.
This time, to further direct my results, I added the word "update" to my search terms. This generally puts my stuff right at the top of the returned pages. Sure enough, the first entry returned was my home page. But then another page near the top caught my eye: JABN - Jennifer Aniston Breaking News. I wonder if people seeking the latest on Ms. Aniston ever pop onto my site by mistake. Oh, how disappointed they would be. Maybe one of you reading this right now is really wondering "What's up with Jen?". Or maybe some of you have been to the other site when you were trying to get here.
Anyway, I thought a name like JABN would be fairly unique but I apologize for any confusion. Just to be safe, if I ever have any breaking news about Jennifer Aniston I'll be sure to let you know.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Taking pictures
Over the past few years, whenever our family went on vacation I was the primary keeper of the camera. When we purchased our first digital camera, I was the one who researched which one to buy. I was the one who read the manual enough to actually understand the various modes and options. It made sense then, that I should be the one to take the pictures. To be honest, digital cameras are pretty simple to operate. My wife knew this, but she still allowed me the opportunity to play with my toy. This was pretty gracious of her, especially since many of our vacations involve hiking and I naturally tend to hike behind the rest of the group. This results in a lot of photos of backs and behinds. I've tried to make an effort to move to the front, but eventually I find that I've drifted to the back again.
Of course, the main reason I like taking the pictures is that it means I'm not in many photos. I swear, there are some vacations where it looks like A. and the boys went without me. Usually, I just show up in the group shot where I prop the camera on a rock, set the timer and hustle over to the others. Consequently, in the few shots of me that exist I typically looked a bit harried. In a couple, I have a quizzical look as I try to determine if the camera has taken the picture yet. I've never been real fond of having my picture taken. The camera's dose of reality tends to throw cold water on how I imagine myself to look. I'm happy enough to live in my little fantasy world - especially if I can limit an evidence to the contrary.
On our last vacation, the boys also had a digital camera along. B. used it mostly, but N. tried his hand now and then. Having never used a film camera where every shot is a precious commodity, they showed little discrimination or self-control when deciding to shoot. See a grasshopper? Take fifteen shots. See another grasshopper? Do another fifteen, or maybe a movie. The sheer quantity of pictures taken was driving me a little crazy - just because of the frequent pauses in the hikes. Every time B. stopped to take a picture or three of a flower, I stopped to maintain my position as last in line. After all, one of the reasons I like to be last is to ensure that no one is left behind. What I found is that B. also enjoys the back of the line. Our group often hiked in pairs with A. and N. well ahead of B. and me. And yes, we took pictures of their backs and behinds with both cameras.
Having another camera along meant that I appear in more photos than in past vacations. It's like Dad finally got to come along on one. Yep, there I am, fatter and balder than I imagine myself but there just the same. The rest of the group has confirmed that I do indeed look like that so there's no need to have the camera checked for some malfunction. And they seem okay with my appearance so maybe I should just adjust my mental image.
The really great thing about the extra camera is that we have a vacation that isn't mostly documented from one person's perspective. Even though it was a little aggravating at the time, all those pictures of bugs and leaves capture a part of our experience that I largely missed with my camera. It's easy to forget sometimes the sorts of things that matter and are interesting to young boys. Looking at the pictures they took gives me a glimpse back into that world.
Of course, the main reason I like taking the pictures is that it means I'm not in many photos. I swear, there are some vacations where it looks like A. and the boys went without me. Usually, I just show up in the group shot where I prop the camera on a rock, set the timer and hustle over to the others. Consequently, in the few shots of me that exist I typically looked a bit harried. In a couple, I have a quizzical look as I try to determine if the camera has taken the picture yet. I've never been real fond of having my picture taken. The camera's dose of reality tends to throw cold water on how I imagine myself to look. I'm happy enough to live in my little fantasy world - especially if I can limit an evidence to the contrary.
On our last vacation, the boys also had a digital camera along. B. used it mostly, but N. tried his hand now and then. Having never used a film camera where every shot is a precious commodity, they showed little discrimination or self-control when deciding to shoot. See a grasshopper? Take fifteen shots. See another grasshopper? Do another fifteen, or maybe a movie. The sheer quantity of pictures taken was driving me a little crazy - just because of the frequent pauses in the hikes. Every time B. stopped to take a picture or three of a flower, I stopped to maintain my position as last in line. After all, one of the reasons I like to be last is to ensure that no one is left behind. What I found is that B. also enjoys the back of the line. Our group often hiked in pairs with A. and N. well ahead of B. and me. And yes, we took pictures of their backs and behinds with both cameras.
Having another camera along meant that I appear in more photos than in past vacations. It's like Dad finally got to come along on one. Yep, there I am, fatter and balder than I imagine myself but there just the same. The rest of the group has confirmed that I do indeed look like that so there's no need to have the camera checked for some malfunction. And they seem okay with my appearance so maybe I should just adjust my mental image.
The really great thing about the extra camera is that we have a vacation that isn't mostly documented from one person's perspective. Even though it was a little aggravating at the time, all those pictures of bugs and leaves capture a part of our experience that I largely missed with my camera. It's easy to forget sometimes the sorts of things that matter and are interesting to young boys. Looking at the pictures they took gives me a glimpse back into that world.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Do you want to know how far it is to...
Our family is just ending a week-long vacation. All parties were a little sad to see it end, which I think is an indication of a successful time. As I mentioned in my last post, part of our vacation was spent in Canada. This gave our trip the added exotic flair of being "international" although going from Minnesota to Canada is probably about the tamest international trip one could imagine. Still, we felt like real jet-setters as we handed our passports to the border patrol.
The boys were expecting that things would be different in Canada, foreign. They were not disappointed. Things were just different enough to be exciting without being utterly confusing. They delighted in the little things: "Look! The McDonald's arches have a little maple leaf on them!" The pool at our motel used saline solution instead of chlorine. The boys assumed this was a Canadian thing and reveled in the brilliance of it. If it was different, it was Canadian. And if it was Canadian it was cool.
I think one of my favorite Canadian differences is their use of kilometers over miles. I liked that I was able to finally use the numbers on the inner part of my speedometer. They seemed to work just fine. I also liked how my brain kept flipping back to miles whenever I saw a road sign. The conversation would be something like: "Oh man, it's still 11 miles to Ouimet Canyon. Oh, wait a minute, it's not 11 miles, it's 11 kilometers!" We never bothered to try to convert what the distance was in miles. We just knew that kilometers were shorter than miles. It was like we'd been instantly transported closer. I wonder if the opposite sort of thing ever happens to Canadians when they travel in the U.S.. Perhaps they are constantly depressed to find that things are farther away than they initially thought.
By far, my favorite reason for using kilometers was that it allowed me to refer to distances in "klicks". I used the term as often as I could, even for relaying inconsequential and unwanted information (e.g. "I think there's a Sears about 2 klicks up the road."). I never aspired to be a soldier but I always liked it in war movies when they talked in klicks. It was nice to have a chance to try it out. So I klicked about this and I klicked about that and eventually I irritated the others to the point where I was asked to stop. And so I stopped. Or at least I tried to. I think a couple more klicks probably slipped out, purely by accident.
But now we're home and the klicks are stowed away with the passports until our next international trip.
The boys were expecting that things would be different in Canada, foreign. They were not disappointed. Things were just different enough to be exciting without being utterly confusing. They delighted in the little things: "Look! The McDonald's arches have a little maple leaf on them!" The pool at our motel used saline solution instead of chlorine. The boys assumed this was a Canadian thing and reveled in the brilliance of it. If it was different, it was Canadian. And if it was Canadian it was cool.
I think one of my favorite Canadian differences is their use of kilometers over miles. I liked that I was able to finally use the numbers on the inner part of my speedometer. They seemed to work just fine. I also liked how my brain kept flipping back to miles whenever I saw a road sign. The conversation would be something like: "Oh man, it's still 11 miles to Ouimet Canyon. Oh, wait a minute, it's not 11 miles, it's 11 kilometers!" We never bothered to try to convert what the distance was in miles. We just knew that kilometers were shorter than miles. It was like we'd been instantly transported closer. I wonder if the opposite sort of thing ever happens to Canadians when they travel in the U.S.. Perhaps they are constantly depressed to find that things are farther away than they initially thought.
By far, my favorite reason for using kilometers was that it allowed me to refer to distances in "klicks". I used the term as often as I could, even for relaying inconsequential and unwanted information (e.g. "I think there's a Sears about 2 klicks up the road."). I never aspired to be a soldier but I always liked it in war movies when they talked in klicks. It was nice to have a chance to try it out. So I klicked about this and I klicked about that and eventually I irritated the others to the point where I was asked to stop. And so I stopped. Or at least I tried to. I think a couple more klicks probably slipped out, purely by accident.
But now we're home and the klicks are stowed away with the passports until our next international trip.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
In Canada
As I write this, our family is in the midst of a week-long vacation, mostly in Canada. Our youngest, N, studied Canada this last school year in first grade. This fact had some influence in our choice of destinations this summer - when you're going to a foreign country it always helps to have an expert along.
In the days leading up to our departure, N was very excited at the prospect of visiting the country he studied. He was also happy to share his expertise with the rest of us, such as, "We'd better pack some coats, it's cold in Canada" and "It's okay if we don't see a polar bear, they're kind of dangerous." I should point out that our trip did not go very deep into Canada. We entered at Fort Frances by International Falls and drove east to Thunder Bay - not exactly polar bear country.
As we entered and drove across southern Ontario, I was worried that the experience might be a bit of a let down considering the expectations. There were a couple of observations from the back of the van about it being warmer than expected but mostly the comments were positive. The different flag, using kilometers instead of miles, it all added to the "foreignness" of the place. As we continued along, N. became very excited about the rock formations and terrain and related what he'd learned about them in school. Finally, at one point he remarked, "Canada is even better than I expected!" - and this was before we'd seen Kakebekka Falls, the Amethyst Mine or Ouimet Canyon.
And so, now we've seen all those things. And we've confirmed that Canada is a splendid place, even if you only see a little slice of it. We'll spend another day hiking and exploring and then start our way back to Minnesota tomorrow. B. is a little worried that he'll be all messed up when he switches back off the metric system. We've become so very international.
In the days leading up to our departure, N was very excited at the prospect of visiting the country he studied. He was also happy to share his expertise with the rest of us, such as, "We'd better pack some coats, it's cold in Canada" and "It's okay if we don't see a polar bear, they're kind of dangerous." I should point out that our trip did not go very deep into Canada. We entered at Fort Frances by International Falls and drove east to Thunder Bay - not exactly polar bear country.
As we entered and drove across southern Ontario, I was worried that the experience might be a bit of a let down considering the expectations. There were a couple of observations from the back of the van about it being warmer than expected but mostly the comments were positive. The different flag, using kilometers instead of miles, it all added to the "foreignness" of the place. As we continued along, N. became very excited about the rock formations and terrain and related what he'd learned about them in school. Finally, at one point he remarked, "Canada is even better than I expected!" - and this was before we'd seen Kakebekka Falls, the Amethyst Mine or Ouimet Canyon.
And so, now we've seen all those things. And we've confirmed that Canada is a splendid place, even if you only see a little slice of it. We'll spend another day hiking and exploring and then start our way back to Minnesota tomorrow. B. is a little worried that he'll be all messed up when he switches back off the metric system. We've become so very international.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Of Cucumbers and Pickles
I stopped by Subway for lunch last week. I ordered one of my standards: veggie sub, no cheese. Ordering this sub can occasionally cause a little confusion on the line. The empty bun making its way along the counter looks incomplete. Usually, the next person in line double-checks the toaster - just in case there's some meat being heated. Once, the guy looked at the empty bun and then at me. His look of concern conveyed, "Is this the way you expected it would be?" I gave him a reassuring nod and put in my order for toppings. When I order the veggie I always tell them to put everything on it. They always fill the bun quickly. I think an empty bun makes them uneasy.
On this particular visit, my sandwich was handed off mid-fill. In the exchange, one topping was left off. I was aware of this oversight as it was happening and was watching to see if anyone would notice the omission. It was mildly exciting. No one noticed. They thought they gave me a sandwich with everything but they actually gave me a sandwich with everything except pickles. And I could not have been happier.
You see, I've been thinking for some time now that I might prefer my veggie sandwich this way. There's something about eating fresh cucumbers and pickles together that feels odd to me. I eat a cucumber and I think, "Ah, that's tasty." Then I hit a pickle and I think, "Hmm, I wish you were still just a cucumber." This is a little weird because I really like pickles - just not mixed with fresh cucumbers. The way I see it, this pickle was once a cucumber that sacrificed its freshness and changed its very nature just so that it would still be edible when there were no fresh cucumbers. By eating it with a fresh cucumber I feel like I'm saying, "Nice job with the whole pickle thing but it wasn't necessary. I'm not saving you for later anyway." It kind of cheapens the pickle's whole purpose for being.
So, I had my veggie sub with everything except the pickles. As I suspected, I do prefer it this way. I'll probably continue to ask for everything when I order a veggie sub, though. I suppose I could start saying, "Everything, except pickles," but I don't think I will. I liked the sub better without pickles but not enough to merit changing the simplicity of just saying "Everything."
On this particular visit, my sandwich was handed off mid-fill. In the exchange, one topping was left off. I was aware of this oversight as it was happening and was watching to see if anyone would notice the omission. It was mildly exciting. No one noticed. They thought they gave me a sandwich with everything but they actually gave me a sandwich with everything except pickles. And I could not have been happier.
You see, I've been thinking for some time now that I might prefer my veggie sandwich this way. There's something about eating fresh cucumbers and pickles together that feels odd to me. I eat a cucumber and I think, "Ah, that's tasty." Then I hit a pickle and I think, "Hmm, I wish you were still just a cucumber." This is a little weird because I really like pickles - just not mixed with fresh cucumbers. The way I see it, this pickle was once a cucumber that sacrificed its freshness and changed its very nature just so that it would still be edible when there were no fresh cucumbers. By eating it with a fresh cucumber I feel like I'm saying, "Nice job with the whole pickle thing but it wasn't necessary. I'm not saving you for later anyway." It kind of cheapens the pickle's whole purpose for being.
So, I had my veggie sub with everything except the pickles. As I suspected, I do prefer it this way. I'll probably continue to ask for everything when I order a veggie sub, though. I suppose I could start saying, "Everything, except pickles," but I don't think I will. I liked the sub better without pickles but not enough to merit changing the simplicity of just saying "Everything."
Monday, July 13, 2009
Ride On
Last weekend was a momentous one for our youngest, N. On Saturday, he learned how to ride his bike without training wheels. I think he had been a little embarrassed about not knowing how since many of his friends have been riding for a little while now. It really wasn't his fault. His parents just hadn't taken the time to teach him. On Saturday morning in a moment of resignation, he declared that maybe he was just going to be one of those kids that didn't ride a bike. Ah, but it's always darkest just before the dawn. Within ten minutes of making that statement he was riding just fine on his own.
As I watched N riding around the parking lot of a church near our house, I thought back to when I learned to ride. I can't remember too many details, mostly emotions. I remember feeling some terror and exhilaration when I realized I was actually riding on my own. I remember feeling a certain amount of relief as well. It's such a weird, foreign experience. Even though everyone's assuring you that you'll be able to do it, until you do, you just don't know for sure. It's a relief to find out they were right. By far, the strongest emotion I felt was pride. I know that sometimes pride can be a bad thing, especially when it's excessive or used to put someone else down. But, I think there are times when pride is justified, when it's pure and accompanied by a joy equally so.
As N rides past, the smile on his face tells me everything I need to know about how he's feeling. I realize it's how I'm feeling as well.
As I watched N riding around the parking lot of a church near our house, I thought back to when I learned to ride. I can't remember too many details, mostly emotions. I remember feeling some terror and exhilaration when I realized I was actually riding on my own. I remember feeling a certain amount of relief as well. It's such a weird, foreign experience. Even though everyone's assuring you that you'll be able to do it, until you do, you just don't know for sure. It's a relief to find out they were right. By far, the strongest emotion I felt was pride. I know that sometimes pride can be a bad thing, especially when it's excessive or used to put someone else down. But, I think there are times when pride is justified, when it's pure and accompanied by a joy equally so.
As N rides past, the smile on his face tells me everything I need to know about how he's feeling. I realize it's how I'm feeling as well.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Pajama Man
My hand hurts. It's not a sharp pain, just an annoying ache when I make a fist or try to grip something tightly. I can't even point to a specific spot that hurts although I think it's mostly in the region around my pinky and ring fingers. Some days it hurts more than others. Most days, it doesn't hurt at all. I suppose if I kept track of all this I might find that I could predict the weather or something based on my hand pain. I have no interest in doing this. There are plenty of fine sources of weather forecasts on the internet that I trust more. Because I work on a computer all day, some may assume my hand pain is a work-related repetitive stress injury, carpal tunnel syndrome or one of its cousins. This is not the case. I remember clearly when I injured my hand and it most definitely was not work related.
Imagine a winter night. I can't remember exactly how many years ago - more than five, less than fifteen. It was one of those cold January nights. The night seemed all the colder because we'd just had a few days of warmer than normal temperatures. But now, winter was back with a vengeance. It was a Friday night. Normally, our garbage is picked up on Friday mornings but the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday had pushed everything back a day. The garbage would be picked up tomorrow, early Saturday morning.
I had a decision to make. The garbage can was still up by the house. It needed to be placed by the curb before the trucks came by in the morning. I could go now or wake up early and go then. The thought of climbing out of nice warm bed early on a Saturday morning was not appealing. I decided to do it now, despite the fact that I was already in my pajamas. Now, I know some kids these days like to wear pajama as regular clothes. I am not a kid and I prefer to not be parading about in my pajamas. Really, if you saw me I'm sure you'd agree. But, it was late and the task was a quick one. The neighbors were not likely to be looking out their windows. In retrospect, I should probably have donned a winter coat and boots. The coat would have provided some warmth plus it would have covered the long sleeve purple tee shirt and good part of the red plaid flannel pants. The boots would have been far superior to the slightly over-sized slippers I was wearing. In my defense, this is a quick task. Our garbage can has wheels on it. On a clear driveway, it takes about four seconds to run it down to the curb - another four to get back in the house and you're done. In the time it takes to put on a coat and boots you could have completed the job.
And so I set out. I left the driveway light off so as not to draw undue attention. I grabbed the garbage can and began racing down the driveway, pushing it ahead of me. The over-sized slippers gave me some difficulty but once I got up to speed I was okay. The driveway had looked clear as far as I could see. The spate of warm days had melted and dried most of the usual crud that builds up over the winter. This allowed me to positively fly down the driveway, even with the floppy slippers.
I never saw the chunk of ice. Apparently, it had dislodged from one of our vehicles and then refroze to the driveway, about two-thirds of the way down. When the garbage can hit the ice, it stopped like it had hit a brick wall. I did not. My floppy slippers offered me no maneuverability and I continued on a straight trajectory over the can. Yes, Pajama Man was briefly flying. And then, I was landing, crashing really. As I hit the pavement, I put out my arms to break my fall. I came down hardest on my left hand, arm and shoulder. I lay there for a moment, unsure of what had just happened, wondering if anyone had witnessed it. It occurred to me that if someone had seen me fall that they were likely watching me now, possibly trying to decide if they should call 911. I got up quickly and tried to look healthy. I carefully lifted the can over the ice and finished placing it at the curb.
I didn't notice any pain until I was back in the house. My left hip, shoulder and arm all hurt. By morning, I was feeling mostly better except my hand hurt a little. Kind of like it does today.
Imagine a winter night. I can't remember exactly how many years ago - more than five, less than fifteen. It was one of those cold January nights. The night seemed all the colder because we'd just had a few days of warmer than normal temperatures. But now, winter was back with a vengeance. It was a Friday night. Normally, our garbage is picked up on Friday mornings but the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday had pushed everything back a day. The garbage would be picked up tomorrow, early Saturday morning.
I had a decision to make. The garbage can was still up by the house. It needed to be placed by the curb before the trucks came by in the morning. I could go now or wake up early and go then. The thought of climbing out of nice warm bed early on a Saturday morning was not appealing. I decided to do it now, despite the fact that I was already in my pajamas. Now, I know some kids these days like to wear pajama as regular clothes. I am not a kid and I prefer to not be parading about in my pajamas. Really, if you saw me I'm sure you'd agree. But, it was late and the task was a quick one. The neighbors were not likely to be looking out their windows. In retrospect, I should probably have donned a winter coat and boots. The coat would have provided some warmth plus it would have covered the long sleeve purple tee shirt and good part of the red plaid flannel pants. The boots would have been far superior to the slightly over-sized slippers I was wearing. In my defense, this is a quick task. Our garbage can has wheels on it. On a clear driveway, it takes about four seconds to run it down to the curb - another four to get back in the house and you're done. In the time it takes to put on a coat and boots you could have completed the job.
And so I set out. I left the driveway light off so as not to draw undue attention. I grabbed the garbage can and began racing down the driveway, pushing it ahead of me. The over-sized slippers gave me some difficulty but once I got up to speed I was okay. The driveway had looked clear as far as I could see. The spate of warm days had melted and dried most of the usual crud that builds up over the winter. This allowed me to positively fly down the driveway, even with the floppy slippers.
I never saw the chunk of ice. Apparently, it had dislodged from one of our vehicles and then refroze to the driveway, about two-thirds of the way down. When the garbage can hit the ice, it stopped like it had hit a brick wall. I did not. My floppy slippers offered me no maneuverability and I continued on a straight trajectory over the can. Yes, Pajama Man was briefly flying. And then, I was landing, crashing really. As I hit the pavement, I put out my arms to break my fall. I came down hardest on my left hand, arm and shoulder. I lay there for a moment, unsure of what had just happened, wondering if anyone had witnessed it. It occurred to me that if someone had seen me fall that they were likely watching me now, possibly trying to decide if they should call 911. I got up quickly and tried to look healthy. I carefully lifted the can over the ice and finished placing it at the curb.
I didn't notice any pain until I was back in the house. My left hip, shoulder and arm all hurt. By morning, I was feeling mostly better except my hand hurt a little. Kind of like it does today.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Snorting alone, apparently
I think I've mentioned in past posts that when our local YMCA was remodeled, the fitness room was fitted with three large-screen televisions. The TVs are mounted in a row on a wall with stepping machines and treadmills facing them. Usually, the TVs are set up with FOX News on the left, ESPN in the center and CNN on the right. This is probably the only place where you will find FOX News to the left of CNN. Each treadmill also has its own personal TV if you'd prefer to watch something else. Yes, there are a lot of televisions at the Y.
I never use the TV mounted on the treadmill. There are a few reasons for this but the main one is that I'm really not that interested in watching television while I run. For me, one of the pleasures in running is locking my body into a rhythm, focusing on my gait and breathing and then just letting my mind wander where it will. I fear this all sounds a bit more Zen-like and graceful than it appears in reality. For one thing, it's pretty easy to focus on my breathing - it's that loud wheezy sound. And my gait? I would classify it as something slightly faster than plodding but not quite trotting. Still, once I get things going a certain amount of momentum kicks in and I can generally free my mind to think of other things.
Of course, with three large TVs staring me in the face, it's hard not to watch them a little. Okay, maybe a lot. I don't so much watch them as look at them. None of them has the sound on so you need to read the closed captioning to really follow what's going on. I tend to flit from one set to the next, looking at images, occasionally reading a little of the transcript. One morning, as I ran along, my gaze rested upon an interview with some political pundit. The tag line across the bottom of the screen caught my attention because it sounded ridiculous. I started following the captioning and I couldn't believe the absurdity of the comments. It was almost laughable. In fact, a woman running on a nearby treadmill chuckled out loud just at the point of one of the more inane statements. A kindred spirit, I thought. Someone who sees the world as I do. I allowed myself a quick indignant snort, sort of a tsk really, just to let her know she wasn't alone. Throughout the rest of the interview, I offered up a few more snorts and she laughed a few more times. A shared moment between two people who weren't going to be snookered by some so-called expert just because they were on television.
The interview ended and so did my snorting. But the woman on the treadmill was still chuckling. I glanced over and realized that she wasn't watching the big TV on the wall. She was watching the little TV on her treadmill. A sit-com, the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, I believe - apparently, a very funny episode.
I never use the TV mounted on the treadmill. There are a few reasons for this but the main one is that I'm really not that interested in watching television while I run. For me, one of the pleasures in running is locking my body into a rhythm, focusing on my gait and breathing and then just letting my mind wander where it will. I fear this all sounds a bit more Zen-like and graceful than it appears in reality. For one thing, it's pretty easy to focus on my breathing - it's that loud wheezy sound. And my gait? I would classify it as something slightly faster than plodding but not quite trotting. Still, once I get things going a certain amount of momentum kicks in and I can generally free my mind to think of other things.
Of course, with three large TVs staring me in the face, it's hard not to watch them a little. Okay, maybe a lot. I don't so much watch them as look at them. None of them has the sound on so you need to read the closed captioning to really follow what's going on. I tend to flit from one set to the next, looking at images, occasionally reading a little of the transcript. One morning, as I ran along, my gaze rested upon an interview with some political pundit. The tag line across the bottom of the screen caught my attention because it sounded ridiculous. I started following the captioning and I couldn't believe the absurdity of the comments. It was almost laughable. In fact, a woman running on a nearby treadmill chuckled out loud just at the point of one of the more inane statements. A kindred spirit, I thought. Someone who sees the world as I do. I allowed myself a quick indignant snort, sort of a tsk really, just to let her know she wasn't alone. Throughout the rest of the interview, I offered up a few more snorts and she laughed a few more times. A shared moment between two people who weren't going to be snookered by some so-called expert just because they were on television.
The interview ended and so did my snorting. But the woman on the treadmill was still chuckling. I glanced over and realized that she wasn't watching the big TV on the wall. She was watching the little TV on her treadmill. A sit-com, the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, I believe - apparently, a very funny episode.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Morning Commute
I rode my bike into work today. Initially, I wasn't going to but it seemed so nice out. And then I remembered that the car was low on gas. A sure sign that I should be biking. For me, this was a pretty spur of the moment decision. Taking the bike requires a certain amount of planning. I need to pack my pannier with work clothes to change into. I need to be sure I leave a little earlier than normal. Normally, I like to map this all out the night before so I don't have to think too hard in the morning.
I was already dressed for work when I made this decision, but it was early. I ran upstairs and changed into a T-shirt and biking shorts. I received new biking shorts for Father's day and I just love them. They have a thick pad of something soft on the behind which I've found most pleasant while riding (walking is another matter - I kind of feel like a toddler with a "load", if you know what I mean). The shorts themselves consist of two layers. The inner layer is that classic, form fitting bicycle short. The outer layer is much looser, more like regular shorts with lots of pockets with snaps and zippers. Biking shorts for the modest man. In my opinion, more people to switch to this style.
So, I packed my clothes and I was ready to go. It really was a beautiful morning to be outside. Oh sure, it was a pain that there was a sandbag in the bike lane in that narrow spot on Larpenteur. That was nothing compared to the orange construction barrel tipped over in the bike lane on Como. Neither of those compares to the driver who apparently did not see me as he lurched across the bike lane as I approached - I have never squeezed my brakes so hard before. (How do you not see a 6' 3" guy with a bright yellow helmet wearing an orange shirt and fashionable biking shorts?)
Anyway, even with all those distractions, it was a great day to bike into work.
I was already dressed for work when I made this decision, but it was early. I ran upstairs and changed into a T-shirt and biking shorts. I received new biking shorts for Father's day and I just love them. They have a thick pad of something soft on the behind which I've found most pleasant while riding (walking is another matter - I kind of feel like a toddler with a "load", if you know what I mean). The shorts themselves consist of two layers. The inner layer is that classic, form fitting bicycle short. The outer layer is much looser, more like regular shorts with lots of pockets with snaps and zippers. Biking shorts for the modest man. In my opinion, more people to switch to this style.
So, I packed my clothes and I was ready to go. It really was a beautiful morning to be outside. Oh sure, it was a pain that there was a sandbag in the bike lane in that narrow spot on Larpenteur. That was nothing compared to the orange construction barrel tipped over in the bike lane on Como. Neither of those compares to the driver who apparently did not see me as he lurched across the bike lane as I approached - I have never squeezed my brakes so hard before. (How do you not see a 6' 3" guy with a bright yellow helmet wearing an orange shirt and fashionable biking shorts?)
Anyway, even with all those distractions, it was a great day to bike into work.
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