heath and ally

2012-01-07T10:16:00.000-08:00

"Lonely in dusk surf
Cresting wave high as evening
Paddle under shade"

Wow, it's been a while. It's been a year and a half. Why? How could I? With all the great encouragement I've received from you all over the years? I have no excuse. The truth is I feel really good when I can keep up and share with you all a little bit from our corner of the world in Forest Grove, Oregon. My only excuse is life got in the way. Car projects and new house chores and work and grad school as well. There is also the botnet that seemed to hijack my postings and send nonsense out to all of you from time to time. Finally, "it's social media stupid." Things have just gotten bite-sized and more intimate out there with Twitter, google+ and all the rest.

But nay I say! There is still a place for a deliberate word and a full paragraph as long as I have admin rights to a little piece of www real estate called, "heathandally." So, let's proceed, but slowly. Above is a Twiku I managed to eek out after surfing by myself, on a day with big waves, at sunset, on the cold and rocky Oregon coast.

Summer Swelter

2010-08-17T09:33:00.000-07:00

Three weeks ago Allyson offered to help me finish the tear down of our 1973 VW Bus. We had a free Saturday with no plans, so we set the day up with three chunks of work, forcing our undisciplined sides to keep going. I was ready to call it at around 4PM. We had returned from a big lunch and I felt like taking a nap. The black asphalt outside our storage shed was radiating hot air in wavy sheets and I was beginning to zone out as I gazed at the wheat fields across the street.

But Allyson wanted to press on with the bus. She was convinced that two of us could take the pop-top roof off the bus by ourselves instead of using the four people the manual said we would need. How could I say no to that kind of optimism? The pop-top removal was a final hurdle that I was dreading because I didn’t think I was going to be able to recruit four people to help me. I found her solution more elegant. Not only did we get the pop-top off, but we basically finished every other project needed to strip the bus down for the auto restoration shop.

The next week we prepared to move Nikita to the next phase. I planned the logistics all week for us to transport Nikita’s shell to the paint place and her engine to the engine guy all in one day, by ourselves, and without owning our own truck. I lined up a U-haul truck, made contact with an engine mechanic I liked, bought a cherry-picker (engine lift jack) and made sure that the uber-qualified paint shop would take on my lowly VW bus project.

They helped my friend restore a Mustang recently, and it was just appraised at 80 grand so I was worried they only catered to the rich and famous. They agreed to make room for me, even though there were a dozen cars waiting in line before me.

We were up at 6am and got to work before the heat could start slowing us down. Allyson cleaned Nikita, while I loaded the engine into the back of the U-haul using my new cherry-picker. Before we knew it, the tow truck came to take Nikita away. We were laughing the whole time. It’s rare you get to see the fruition of a project that lasted 8 months. It’s also rare to see a totally stripped Bay Window bus going down the highway, bouncing around on the back of a tow truck. I hoped it was inspiration to a hundred aspiring men with rusting Bus shells in their backyards.

The Friday night before Nikita left I was making last minute arrangements at my storage space. I wanted to remove a couple last items off of the bus before the move. As I was fiddling with my manual and going over window removal, I heard a car horn and a voice yell out, “Are you there?!” “Sure am, how are you doing?” ….“Oh fine….”

My former storage space neighbor started to heave himself out of his white Dodge Dakota. I moved into the space because I heard that my next door neighbor was a former VW mechanic. You can imagine my surprise when I met him and found that he must have been a mechanic some time ago. He was born in 1936 and he had a lot of wise words for me the first time we met, but he had forgotten more about VW’s then I’ll ever know. He was more interested in airplanes at that point in life. He used the space next door to make the nose cones to acrobatic aircraft, and he was one of the best at it. I could tell when he finished a project because I would smell the honeysuckle sweetness that polyurethane resin gives off, the same resin I used to make surfboards years ago, drifting over from his unit.

Sadly, I forgot his name, but he didn't hold it against me. He forgot mine too. That didn’t stop us from talking earnestly about my VW project. He was wearing suspenders, and they pulled the waist line of his pants far higher than his bellybutton. He had lost most of his hair, and he had big bright eyes that still wondered at life and new things, protected by large eye glasses.

I told him about my plans to install a 2 liter engine which he really liked. He complained that a former friend had destroyed an old work bench and used it for fire wood, and he had only asked him to store it for him for a little while. He talked about his wife who had left him for a richer man, and the fact that ten of his prop cones were in “Osh Kosh,” which he said with amazement. He could see that I was busy and turned around to walk away. I politely returned his good-byes.

As I was turning away and moving on to the next thing on my list, he said, “Oh and you know what? I almost forgot, I was diagnosed with lung cancer yesterday.”……“Is that right?” I managed to get out after a pause. “Yep, but I’ll beat it!” He turned to leave again. “Well, how did that go? How did you find out?” “Oh, well, I was up at OHSU yesterday, and they put me in a big white tunnel machine, a MRI you know. And they said, ‘Yep, you have the cancer.’ But you know I have my son making meals for me and I’m eating lots of fruit that kills cancer, like grapes.” “Yea, I remember you telling me about the diet you were on, with pomegranates.” “Well, that’s right," he said as he raised his hand to wave the caner goodbye. "I’ve beat this before. I’ll beat it again.” He just smiles. “You know my friend’s father was a mason when we were young, and he would bring this stuff home and we would help him mix it in his basement. And it was asbestos, so either that or maybe the fiberglass from the cones, I don’t know. But you know, I’ll beat it!” “Yes you will….hey if you’re driving by tomorrow, stop by. We are going to take Nikita to the shop. It may be nice to see her go.” “Ok, will do.”

He turned to walk away and I wanted to just hug him. But I caught his hand instead and held it firmly. He patted me on the shouldered, smiled, and walked away.

The day before this conversation, I took the GMAT test. This is a graduate school entrance exam and it was the last requirement I needed to complete for my MBA application. I has studied pretty seriously for it for about a month, concentrating on the math section. The test is graded immediately and I scored only in the 38^th percentile in the math, but in the 89^th percentile in the verbal. Convinced that score wasn't going to cut it, I distracted myself with the bus over the weekend. On Monday, I rushed my scores over to the school first thing, and on Tuesday, I received word that I was accepted. The high verbal score and my high essay scores redeemed me.

This MBA program is unique because even though it is full time, classes only meet once a week. I worked out my schedule with my boss and got her permission to attend, and the GI Bill was going to take care of the finances. Or so I thought. Upon talking more thoroughly with the Finance representative at the school, it became apparent that they didn’t think the GI Bill would cover the full cost of tuition. I did some research and found that they were filing the requests in a way that could have costs me up to $20,000. There was a disconnect between the program and the state University, and the University representative wasn't requesting that any of my bill be alloted to fees.

Once I was forced with the prospect that I may actually have to pay for the MBA, my passion for it was immediately lost. The school seemed very willing to work with me and correct the mistake, but my heart was no longer in it. When I told them I would be withdrawing my application they said I had a spot saved for next year, but I doubt, “if I shall ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence; two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” I figure that I’ve already received a business degree, so why add insult to injury? I’m leaning towards something else at this point, maybe more in line with my test scores, like an MFA.

While all of this admission conversation was going on Tuesday and Wednesday, my week was further complicated with the news that my advocate and mentor, the woman who hired me, would no longer be my direct boss. We will still be able to work with each other, but she will be departing to one team to help them with process development for the Division, and I will be staying with our current Department.

Her departure seems cruel, but the leadership has its reasons. I’m hoping this will turn out for the best, but there is this feeling of being out on a limb. I’m pretty amazed that despite my choice to leave the military and government work, my work life still operates on an 18 month cycle.

These few weeks just kept hitting like this, with the big events all happening in those six days, Friday through Wednesday in July/August. The following week was a blur that focused into action by Friday.

By the time this last weekend rolled around, I felt like I was forcing a stumble into a walk after a fast trip on the merry-go-round. On Saturday, I was able to take two of my mountaineering friends with me to the beach and introduce them to the surf. The waves and weather cooperated and one of them, despite being a novice swimmer, was able to actually stand up. They were all smiles. We drove home, and ate dinner in front of the classic surf movie, Shelter.

Allyson and I were able to enjoy Sunday together. We went to church, bought lunch, and sat in the park near our house. We talked about the whirl of life, and how much I disliked working in a cubicle. We then slogged for an hour in the heat to get the movies. On the way home, we were hot and lethargic. As dusk started we took a dip in our community pool. Afterwards, she beat me in billiards as I sat there helpless, worrying about my green swim trunks dripping chlorinated water on the white polished stone tile at the Community Center. By Sunday night the concerns of of the day were fading. The clock was hitting 9pm when we ate our lime chicken and sweating blue cheese for dinner in the soft orange light of our dining room. I looked at Allyson’s sun burnt face and I thought to myself, “Maybe we really do have it all.”

Shasta Attempt #2: Angle of Approach

2010-06-05T18:04:00.000-07:00

I could argue that my first attempt to climb Mount Shasta in 2001 shouldn't count because I was so naïve and really had no hope making it. But I have to count it, because Attempt #2 wouldn’t have been the same without it.

I started hiking in 2001 along the coastal range of California in Big Sur, but I was by no means climbing mountains. Despite that lack of experience my friend and I intended to climb Mount Shasta over a weekend. Andy and I hatched the plan on a Friday evening in August over beer and after watching, “The Wicker Man (1973).” We were both living in Monterey, CA and attending language school. We knew we would soon be deployed to God-knows-where hot, and we were soaking up the California lifestyle while we still could.

The conversation was just this simple. I said, “I really want to climb Mount Shasta. I’ve been reading a little, and I think it sounds great.” “Heath, that does sound good. Let’s do it. But we would need to leave really early, because it’s like 6 hours to drive up there I’m sure. Could you drive tomorrow?” A little surprised that someone in the room called my bluff, I said, “Sure I could drive, that’s what the 4-Runner was made more!”

Neither of us knew the faintest about mountaineering, but on the way up we did try to do a little strategic planning. Let's see....the weather? It was just sunny, sunny, sunny and in the middle of August. No problem there. Maybe a little cool at night. I researched online and found a shop that rented gear....The 5th Season. No problem renting a tent there and getting a little info. And that was about it on the planning. Never mind rock fall, snow travel, the ten essentials, or even climbing boots.

We woke up in our newly rented tent at Horse Camp. The camp was free of snow and the earth had that dry, powdery volcanic quality. We moved quickly once we were up, thinking that time was of the essence and that we needed to take advantage of our early 6 am start. Little did we know that the reason the camp was so quite is probably because all the other parties had left at 3 am. Better yet, two months ago at 3 am when the rock- fall danger wasn’t insane and there was still snow to climb and not baking hot pumas rock.

We rolled out of bed and assembled our gear. I had a backpack made for school books, a 1ltr bottle of water and some beef jerky. That could have been it. I was wearing hiking boots that I had just bought at an REI used gear sale, and a polyester shirt from the thrift store that I liked to hike in.

Andy was another story. He had a Zen-like austerity in his dress. He was always wearing T-shirts that were hanging on by a thread and shoes that were flapping around. Today was little different, except he was wearing his barely-used Navy issued work boots. He got away with it probably because his feet calloused up from the usually lame slippers and his steady diet of marathons.

Besides his clothing, his kit included him carrying a gallon jug of water up the mountain in one hand and a bag of 6 Macintosh apples in other hand. Would John Muir have been proud? At the time it only seemed half odd. He just casually smiled and said, “Ready to go?” without thinking twice about his preparations.

We started up Avalanche Gulch, slogging at times through the loose rock, strolling at other times up the trail. We made it pretty far given our experience: to Helen Lake (10K). The view was unlike anything I had ever seen as a surfer growing up in Florida. I sat there and saw the state of California framed by two ridges, just dumbstruck. I had no plans to come back. I was satisfied and thankful. We decided to stop because we heard about all the late season rock fall up the route, and because I was feeling the altitude pretty good.

We descended, returned the tent, drove home, and called the weekend a success. How could you not count that Attempt #1?

Attempt #2 probably represents the apex of my first season really climbing. My wife (Allyson) and I moved to Portland a little over a year ago, and in an attempt to meet more people and become more intimate with our new home, Allyson gave me the Basic (BCEP) Course for my birthday. I spent weeks and weeks in the early spring meeting people and learning new skills. Needless to say, that I ended up being really affected by the passionate people along the way, and inspired by them to see how far I could stretch myself.

Well, I found out just how far last Memorial Day weekend on the side of Mount Shasta, during Attempt #2. Most people probably don't attempt a 14K foot mountain during their first season. But I felt, and still do, that it is an appropriate challenge for me in regards to fitness and technicality.

I love how much wisdom you have to use in this sport. I have turned back from almost half my climbs, and not felt bad about it. Since I’m not afraid to go home, I’m also not shy about trying the right challenge for me at any given time. That way of looking at it I think really contributed to me being able to push myself. I climbed Mount Hood this season for the first time, and mostly by myself. I ran into people I knew, and they gave me vital advice, and the permission to go-ahead, but I did climb that mountain for the first time in a clean way that I am proud of. Nothing boosted my confidence as much as a couple of fellow climbers who really believed in my ability.

So when those friends invited me on a private climb up Mount Shasta, my heart swelled and I didn't hesitate. It was a challenge that I knew I wanted immediately. We planned for weeks. We sent over 30 emails back and forth. We watched the dynamic weather this early season offered. We developed alternative plans and routes. In the end, our party of four drove the six hours down to that mountain and held our breadth for the weather to hold so that we could try for the West Face.

We made an avalanche danger assessment and decided to get beacons, shovel and and probes from the local shops. I was able to return to The 5^th Season, but a little more prepared this time.

On Saturday morning, we checked in at the Ranger Station on E Alma St in the town of Mount Shasta. It was nice to have someone talk to us about all the routes, the most recent avalanche reports, and point out the trouble spots along our way. They also sold us a map made by the folks at The 5^th Season. It uses photographs along with red lines to highlight common routs. On the other side is a large topo, with heavy-duty paper. You can’t beat that for $10.

Directions were easily attained from the ranger station, and about 10-15 minutes later we were at the end of the road, at Bunny Flat, with the rest of the state of California!

We all left the trailhead in high spirits, carrying a full load and heading in the direction of our base camp at about 9k feet. We were taking a different route than the one I tried before up Avalanche Gulch, but as we were heading to Horse Camp I saw a long line of climbers heading up that now snow-laden route. It's affirming in life when we return to the scene of the crime, charged with memories and excitement, and the place seems slightly familiar but also brand new. All the change in myself and my friends over the last decade became glaring for a few nostalgic moments.

We reached Horse Camp about noon and found it under snow, with the Sierra Club hut barely poking its chimney out. We continued on, after chatting with an organized Mazama group. We traveled carefully through engorged gullies, listening to every little settling of the snow and looking out for any avalanches that may be ready to release from the gullies above us.

We made it to our camp in a small valley under the Western Face route a little over three hours later.

We ate and went to sleep early. Everything seemed a little rushed as we settled in and melted snow and any other chores. I still remember asking our crew, "Am I going to get any carbs from my lentils?" They said no, lentils were protein, so I added a little Sante Fe Soup for the carb kick. What I forgot, crucially forgot, was the olive oil I had brought with me. It's always something, and in this case it was a lack of fat to balance out my dinner.

We were up at midnight and the first to head out into the fresh grey slopes, crunching down a line steps in our wake.

I think what did me in about six hours later, was the elevation, and maybe the lack of fat in my diet the night before. I was just not ready to combat the nausea induced by altitude and the subsequent decline in appetite. I made it to 12,500 ft, and then in a period of roughly 30 minutes my world changed.

The sun rose brilliantly pink, with clouds on the horizon, and an amazing pyramid shadow of Shasta draped over the town below. All I could think was, "Red sky in morning, sailor take warning.” My whole outlook started to get negative, and it only took a little bit for those thoughts to manifest physically.

At first, I fatigued, then I had trouble keeping my balance, then I started to get nauseous, and then I was just hilariously undone. My hands began to really hurt. My blood was starting to leave my extremities and rush to my organs. Consciously, I was not panicking, but I think my body had other ideas. I took off a glove to look at my aching fingers. I have never seen them such a dark hue of purple. I jolted at the way they looked. A team-mate was like, "Put your gloves back on!" and he gave me his hand warmers. He then had to feed me Jelly Beans by hand into my mouth because I couldn’t move my fingers and was acting like such a child.

I went a little further and then my toes started to get cold. I knew it was over. I was going to have a hard time getting my body to pull itself together at that point. After a challenging, but supportive conversation with the team, I decided to head back down the mountain, and call it good for Attempt #2.

We returned to town the next day, each of us falling apart in some way. We stopped at the Billy Goat and I enjoyed the best hamburger I have ever had.

We talked about climbing, and life in Portland, and how Attempt #3 was a charm for a couple in the group. That was my Attempt #2. I trained hard, and invested time and money, and made a personal best. I hope that Andy is out there still doing his thing. I'm beginning another decade in a new place with new people, and I know the next time I look at Mount Shasta, I’m even more likely to be overwhelmed by all the good memories.

It's Up in the Air

2010-04-20T17:07:00.000-07:00

If you are slightly interested in what's keeping me too busy to post to this blog lately, here is a link to some pictures about what's taking up my time. I'm in a mountaineering course, just a week to go, but it has been an all out blast.

The Year of Living Dangersoulsy

2009-11-22T19:23:00.000-08:00

Allyson and I are closing in on our first year in the Northwest. It is now starting to feel more like home as we make new friends and find the familiar all around us. The trees now looked like they did almost a year ago when we first arrived here. The first familiar holiday was Halloween. Now Christmas is just around the corner and I suspect as it draws near the enormity of the last year will make itself known to us. The Lord has kept us safe despite our clumsiness and we are forever grateful.

I'm killing an hour here before I go to leave to pick Allyson up from the airport. She visited Vero Beach for a week with her family. It was fun to watch the cold rain out my window in Hillsboro while I talked to her on the phone about 80 degree afternoons and adventures with dolphins at Sea World.

My Nikita bus project hums along. I should have the engine out of her by the end of the week. I've posted some pictures to show the current state of affairs with her. I can't wait to be cruising down the road with Allyson and Daisy in tow, heading to the mountain or beach.

I have learned so much from this year, and so much from all of you, my friends and family. I've learned that faith is often rewarded, although the cliche is true: the reward is not always in ways you expect. I've learned what a blessing that a good friend or family member can be during times of trial, whether they are with you for every step of it, or thousands of miles away. I've learned that you never stop growing, maturing, and facing your fears. God bless you all! Enjoy the holiday season.

Enter: Nikita (and other infamous characters)

2009-10-17T17:18:00.000-07:00

Hello and thanks for sticking with me for another edition of, "the news hour with Heath and Ally." I know I haven't been quite as faithful with updating our blog these last few months, but I like to think it's because we've been too busy rather than I have nothing to say. I'll start as far back as I can remember in this summer. So, I left things off at the beginning of the summer, where in a fit of inspiration I waxed poetic about this season in the sun. I've lived with the seasons before, but found them estranging in the past. Now, I feel like I'm in it with everyone else.

So, we were not immune from the spring fever and ended up buying a house! I mentioned this was a possibility, but its now a reality. It was a pretty easy transaction and we've been living in our new neighborhood for about 6 months now. We live in a part of Hillsboro, OR called Orenco Station. We know a lot of our neighbors. There is a grocery store, wine store, dog park, church, and our doctor all within a five minute walk. The townhouse/condo is just our style and we can't believe that we've been blessed with it.

Allyson and I hiked in the early part of the summer to a place called Jefferson Park. Despite being attacked by a swarm of mosquitos we enjoyed a couple days in this plateau at the base of Mount Jefferson. We took Daisy with us as well and she did all right, although she may have hurt her hip on the way up. Allyson found her stride out there and we both talked about getting out more to do stuff like this. She needs to get more Saturday's off from work though. That is slightly cramping our style at this point.

Not long after our Mount Jefferson adventure our friend Lindsey visited us from Virginia. We rocked it pretty hard for a whole week. The shenanigans included: a midnight tattoo parlor run, bar hopping in Portland, a parade of thousands of nude bike riders, hiking along the coast, snails the size of my hand, mountains, breakfast at a place called Voodoo donuts, and a run-in with Jimmy Hendrix. Also, Lindsey kept up this tempo while vacillating between dealing with severe back pain and the effects of severe back pain killers. We loved seeing her and we were sad to see her go, but I don't think we could've survived another week together.

I made two other life-changing purchases. I bought a new longboard and a 1973 VW Camper bus. Both are classic. The board is from a smaller shaper in Santa Cruz and is providing me hours of enjoyment. Our lovely bus broke and won't even take me around the corner for now. I think I figured out why and a new part is coming in that should fix her up (famous last words).

We took the bus to the beach before she quit working and we camped out in it. The rain came down pretty hard that weekend so the coast wasn't crowded. I woke up early one morning and drove us from our campsite to a parking spot right on the coastline in Seaside. I opened the back door and Allyson awoke to the sounds of waves lapping up on the stones right beneath us. As she was still half asleep we looked out and saw about 5 grey whales blowing their spouts. I looked to her and said, "I always promised you a beach-front view, didn't I?"

I started to work frantically to get the bus running because I really wanted to have it fixed by the time my Dad visited us in September. Sadly that didn't happen. It's really a shame because the couple we bought it from seemed to have such luck with it.

I think they just had the magic touch. I wish I had met them earlier because the four of us seemed to get along. They owned the bus for a long time and had a lot of adventures in it in northern California and all over Oregon. I could tell that they loved the old bus. They were getting ready to sail down to Cabo with a friend for a few months and were streamlining things. I really fell in love with the bus, and these two hard chargers, at first site.

Our first test drive took place on the Cathedral Ridge on the shadow of Mount Hood. I read a lot about how to shop for these, so I was going through the motions, putting her through her paces, but Allyson knew that I had already decided to pull the trigger. What really sealed it was that when I opened the sliding door of the bus, directly across from me was a prayer that really spoke to me, written in scrawled sharpie pen on the Baltic Birch wall. I was sold.

We named the bus Nikita. Allyson found the bus on Craigslist, and she was blue, so we were thinking she was a female anyway. I went to the beach and found a sticker that said nikita in neat bubble letters and in a blue complementing the bus. Allyson had been watching all the episodes of, "La Femme Nikita, " a television show from the 90s and when I saw that it all clicked. I bought the sticker, but let Allyson put it on for the ceremonial christening.

I drove Nikita home two hours down the Columbia river from Hood River, I drove it to work once, and I drove it to the beach that once with Allyson. I was so excited to start refurbishing it and fixing it up! There were so many ways though that I messed that car up as I tried fixing it. Word to the wise, try to watch someone else tune-up your car first before you attempt it. A book just doesn't cut it sometimes. Also, if you are going to do a big tune-up day, start your car after every step so you can tell at what point you hosed things. It has now been a couple months, and I've learned so much, and met so many people as I've tried to get her running again, but still no joy. Like I said though, I have high hopes for the part coming in this week.

So, even after scrambling and spending money on parts and spending hours of time on research, I didn't get Nikita running by the time my Dad showed up. We did spend some quality time together going to the parts store and brainstorming with the guys there and talking about it. We shrugged it off after a few hours and got our week going.

We took off early on a Tuesday and headed into central Oregon. We drove almost four hours from the wet coast to the central desert near Bend. There are a series of mountains there named after three sisters, and Dad and I planned to climb one of them, named Charity. This would be our first mountain summit, and our first hike over 10k feet.

We spaced out our trip over a couple days to acclimate. Every step of the way surprised us by some aspect of wilderness beauty. The first night Dad made a sizable fire which is always entertaining some how. We saw the clearest night of stars either one of us had ever seen. We counted a couple dozen satellites whizzing through the sky. The sky was so luminous with these pin points of light that constellations were hard to pick out.

We woke early that morning, broke camp, and headed up the mountain for a short but strenuous couple of hours through an old growth forest. The hike took us from around 5k to 6k. At the end, we cleared the trees and found a camp with amazing views overlooking a lake. We burned the whole day reading, taking a swim, taking pictures, and generally talking about our preparations for the next day.

The next morning we felt like real mountain climbers because we were up way before dawn and we were a little nervous about the trial ahead. After leaving our camp in the dust on time, we both settled down a bit. We crossed a large plain that looked like the Saint Andrews golf course, but after that we started a series of scrambles. The first leg was a rock scramble, maybe class 3? in sections and very rocky. The third leg was along a long ridge along a glacier, very exposed and with excellent views. The ground turned from grey to red here. The final stage was a soft slog up a very vertical red cinder cone. It was starting to get hot and uncomfortable at this point, and we really had no idea how far the summit was. I called it the Mordor trek part of our day. Day found that only slightly funny. But the weather was perfect and we were kept motivating each other to take the next step.

After slogging it out up Mordor for about 30-40 minutes we made it to the peak. Our first glaciated summit! The views delivered. You could see the Cascade range to the North, a huge expanse of woods to the South, and the deserts to the East. It was a bright and crisp morning and we were the first on it. We scurried down in a few hours, looking back and pointing every couple hours. We grinned from ear to ear at the thought that we had done it. On the way out of town we promptly hit the first Burger King we could find in Bend. You'd think we were out for a couple weeks the way we scarfed our food down.

One final adventure was my attempt to climb another mountain called Three Fingered Jack with friends from church. The rock was a little loose and we weren't moving fast enough to summit, but we had an amazing experience out there as well. My host that day was a native Oregonian and a really experienced climber. He inspired me and I'm ready to start attempting the other Cascade mountains around here.

And in addition to all of this, I even managed to get a ton of work done! Work is going great and it's exciting to have such chemistry with my team. Now our year-end goals are in our sites and we are working to finish strong.

That's the news from our end. I wish it wasn't so newzy. The bottom line of all this is that as the seasons change, and as we meet more people and find more to do, we feel more and more at home. Coming into another winter really causes us to reflect upon the year and everything God has brought us. We have a lot to be thankful about, including all of you! So, be sure to drop us a line or comment. Take care!

This Place is Crackin

2009-05-25T00:48:00.000-07:00

There's a crackalacky in the air. There's mischief afoot. There's a tiger unsprung. There're deeds to be done. The sun's been turned on. Don't hit that switch!

This weekend a friend and I went to suck up some mountain air. Shirts off in the high sun, sneakers wet from ploughing through snow, we don't care! I laid down on a bed of pine boughs under a blue sapphire sky, drifted to sleep as stars started to drip down from on high.

We're in the garden, we're in the vineyard, we're working hard for the weekend. I'm walking more, driving less, praying my new situation is just beginin.

It's the spring in Oregon and you haven't seen none like it. We'd love to have ya, stay a spell, go get your ticket!

Wow, where has the time gone?

2009-04-04T12:20:00.000-07:00

No, we have not fallen off the face of the earth. No, we have not been clubbed to death by a band of woodland dwellers. No, the e-woks have not deified us and locked us off from society. I know you were at the edge of your seats with what has become of us out here, but simmer down now, and know, we seem to be in good hands.

There is a lot of news and I can't cover it all. Here are some highlights. I made it past 30 days on my job and I love it! We joined a gym that has an awesome rock-climbing wall and showers with great water pressure (which is more than I can say for our apartment). I completed an 8-week art criticism course and the writing talent out here blew my mind. I surfed 9 foot waves at a left hand point with off shore winds and feel like I'm learning to surf all over again. We are drinking a lot of good wine. Between the two of us we've cracked our windshields 5 times since we've been here, and replaced both of them.

That's the short version. I can give you the long version in an email if you're interested. There is one other thing: We put in an offer on a townhouse and it was accepted! It was a pretty screaming deal and we didn't want to pass it up, despite not having the most concrete working situations.

So we have an appointment today to sign some more paperwork. Then tomorrow, it may be off to the beach for us to de-compress. We've got a lot to plan in the next three weeks, but we're excited. Keep us in your prayers. We need a heap-full of wisdom and the right doors to open for us.

Take care!

Amen

2009-02-10T13:24:00.000-08:00

It is February 10, at 12:59 PM. I can tell that for sure because I’m looking at my newly repaired Seiko watch that Allyson gave me as an anniversary present three years ago. It hasn’t worked in months because I didn’t have the time or money to take it into a shop. It’s a testament to our new page in life that I was able to walk into Watch Works and have the battery replaced. But first for a bit of real news: I am once again a happy uncle. Jeff and Holly had their second baby, Giada, if I have that right, and we are so happy for them as they continue to walk bravely on the road of parenthood. Jeff tells me it’s a little easier the second time because you know more about what to expect. I’ll take his word for it for now. Scott and Erin, our dear friends, also had a baby girl in the last week, Evangeline. We are inspired by both of them, and they are in our prayers. Congrats!

Allyson and I also have news, although the above is hard to follow. I have accepted an offer to work for Providence Health & Services, a regional hospital here that has a mission for providing for the poor and vulnerable. I’m really excited about the position and my future colleagues are great people. I start next Monday, February 16th.

I don’t have to tell most of you what the last few months have been like for us, but for the uninitiated this news provides an exclamation point to God's story in our life. If an exclamation point could also be a comma, then that is more appropriate, because we’re sure that the story is far from over. Allyson and I are in amazement mode, as we look back on leaving careers in DC, with no real prospects here, and making our way across the country, and finding an apartment, and just stewing in hope and prayer as we began an excruciating job hunt. This honestly was the most challenging job hunt ever for me, but the Lord provided. My heart goes out to all the folks here still looking for work.

To celebrate we have kept our days very busy. This was my schedule last week. Wednesday morning I surfed a perfect 9-foot left off a point break and scared myself to death. Wednesday night I attended my art criticism class and heard my writing read aloud, which scared me to death. I forget Thursday. Friday I woke up at 0530 and Ryan and I drove to Smith Rocks to go rock climbing, which scared me to death. Saturday we climbed more, then drove back to Portland, where I met up with Allyson. Saturday evening Allyson took her first flight lesson in a small Cessna aircraft while I sat in the back, which scared me to DEATH. You’ll be happy to hear I am not dead after all of that fright. I guess we didn’t know how to handle our current sense of stability so we invented these risks. I don’t know.

Anyway, we are now ready for visitors! We welcome all comers to our little abode downtown, where a good book can be had at Powell’s Bookstore, a good walk can be had in Washington Park behind our house, and the good beer flows like the Columbia River. Cheers!

Here's looking at you

2009-01-01T11:42:00.000-08:00

For those who are interested, I'm starting to post some of my old and new write-ups on stuff I'm reading. Check it out at: Looking Out.

Thanks!

Perfect Storm

2008-12-26T10:34:00.000-08:00

It's the day after Christmas and I can see the pavement on the roads for the first time in two weeks. The snow and ice is beginning to thaw and Portlanders are taking to the streets for post-holiday sales. Portland welcomed us two weeks ago by sending in a snow storm. We started to worry that we got ourselves into a lifetime of brutal winters, but friends assured us this was not typical, but rather, unprecedented. At first, they claimed they hadn't experienced snow like this in Portland for 5 years, but the snow kept falling and quickly busted that record. After a couple more inches of accumulation they said it had been 10 years since there was this much snow. The snow melted a bit, then froze solid, locking our cars into their spaces on a steep hill behind our apartment. We just received our parking permits at the beginning of the storm, worried that they would ticket the Solara and the Matrix, but the parking police gave up issuing tickets given the conditions. By the end of the first week of the storm The Oregonian (local newspaper) declared we were enduring a 20-year storm. By the middle of the second week the weathermen were staying that it was 1968 when we last had this much snow. Finally, we got word that a weather reading at the airport confirmed that by midnight on December 23rd, after two more inches of snowfall, there would be more snow in Portland due to these storms then at any time in the city's recorded history.

The weather's timing couldn't be better; it added to the trials of our Western adventure. Ice from the storm caused over 40,000 Portlanders to lose power. Highway I-5 leading out of the city was shut down, as were access roads to the mountains and the ocean. Frigid temps and high snow banks devastated the already fragile shopping season. The storms stopped us from going, well anywhere beyond a four-block radius. At least two of Allyson's job interviews had to be rescheduled. I tell myself that the weather is yet another reason why I have not yet had a single call back on my applications, but I guess this thaw I see now outside will shed light on that theory.

I used the forced down-time as an opportunity to explore my immediate surroundings. On the fourth day of heavy snow I walked four hours into the hilly woods behind our apartment--my camera and umbrella in hand. I'm sure I was quite a spectacle, with my 30-year-old film camera, bright orange snow pants, and the only one with an umbrella in those woods, called Washington Park. Washington park is a massive park to the West of town situated on a series of hills. It is full of attractions that I'm sure see heavy traffic in the summer. There is the Portland Zoo, the oldest West of the Mississippi. There is also the Japanese Gardens, the famous Rose Gardens, the Abortoreum, two war memorials, and hundreds of miles of trails. This time of year, and in this weather, it is mostly deserted, except for skiers, snowshoers, and walkers like myself. I stayed out there for four hours, until I started to get a little woozy, frantically taking pictures and soaking it all in. I can hardly believe this is my back yard. I head home as the sun sets, at around 4pm this time of year. As I do the parks lamppost turn on and light my way downhill and across the white carpet with an orangish glow. On the way down, I hear a lot of activity. There is a group of snowboarders who were creating a ramp park in what was once a set of stone bleachers, taking advantage of the incline and icy railings. I turn a final corner in the trail and enter the final stretch that leads to my apartment complex. It's framed by tall evergreens, their outlines black against the purple sky in the shadows behind the lamp-posts. It starts to snow heavy and I unfurl my umbrella. It's an essential item on any hike. It promptly inspires a few snickers from high-school snowborders heading up the hill. The snickers could have been inspired by my newly-purchased orange, female snow pants ( a deal for $7 from the local Goodwill).

I immersed my thoughts in the snow, the crisp twilight air, and the shrieks of laughter from sledders who took control over roads that cars could no longer navigate. At my apartment building I see movement out of the corner of my eye from under an evergreen tree across from me. There is another man, also under an umbrella, sitting in the snow, but he obviously has no apartment to return to. He is shivering but trying to make himself comfortable for the night. Despite the cold, vagrants are loyal to Portland in all four seasons. We looked at each other for just a second, both recognizing something shared as the only two umbrella users that night, but he was in desperation and I was going home. I turned and a shiver went down my spine as I let the anxiety of my own unemployment overtake me for a second.

The storm forced me to take stock of what I'm doing out here. Before I had a chance to dive into a job hunt in the way I normally would, I had to sit with my thoughts. I hatched a couple schemes for self-employment. I solidified my educational goals. In my excitement I took dozens of pictures of my new neck of the woods, the best way for me to handle all the creative energy that goes along with being in a new place. Allyson and I could have gone to a friends house for the holidays in southern Oregon, but we felt compelled to stay bedded down in our apartment. We wanted to ride out the storm with the rest of the Portlanders. This was a historic storm, and we wanted to be a part of it, a part of the stories to come.

As we ate our Christmas dinner last night, we felt we turned a corner in our nesting process. We felt one step closer to being enveloped in the comfort of home. Now as the snow thaws and commerce returns to normal we chalk this storm up to another mark on our record of experience as true residents. That is the news from us, here in our new digs. I hope all of you are having a very merry Christmas, and we wish you a happy new year!

4.5 Days!

2008-12-04T22:18:00.000-08:00

Sorry, this will be a little rushed, but I wanted to give everyone an update. What good is a blog if you don't record a trans-America expedition?Allyson and I arrived in Portland yesterday afternoon following our trying trans-America expedition. I took Daisy out for a walk this morning in my friend's beautiful suburban neighborhood outside of Portland to check and make sure everything was still secure with our convoy of 16ft Truck, trailer with Matrix, and our scout car, the Solara. All made it without a hitch! Amen. No breakdowns, no funniness. The truck was slow over the mountain passes in the West. It's max speed uphill was no more than 45 mph, and probably averaged around thirty. We didn't mind those Western passes as much as we did the snowstorms. The first 40 hours of our trip (I guess that is most of it really) we dealt with rough weather. As soon as we packed the last items in our cars in a flurry Sunday morning it started to drizzle. By the time we were on the highway it started to rain, and by the time we left Pennsylvania we were watching the seasons first blizzard march towards us on the weather channel. We pushed on through the weather that first day until we reached the outside of Chicago, never really seeing much of the sun. We started early on Monday, but soon found we were just in time to intercept the last band of a snow storm that had been blowing off the Great Lakes all night. It was 5am, visibility was 10ft, and there was no one to decide where lanes should be on the road but me. I chose to make one big center land. Road conditions improved in Chicago because the road crews had cleared and salted the highway. Once the sun rose, we realized how crazy the driving conditions had become. Throughout the plains states of Indiana, Ohio, and Nebraska, we saw dozens of wrecked cars on the side of the road which the storm had caught by surprise the night before. There were jack-knifed tractor-trailers and flipped pick-ups. Some of the abandoned vehicles were tagged as abandoned, but many were still occupied by their drivers. We saw one poor local lady come roaring onto the freeway off an on-ramp, not aware of the icy conditions. Five minutes later we saw her and her car fuming in a ditch. There was a police wagon just driving around picking up these unlucky drivers, tagging their cars, and moving on. The sun finally broke through this morning, so we continued on, but at a very slow pace.

We made it all the way to Omaha that night, under clear skies. The next day, day three, we spent driving quickly across Nebraska. A second front was supposed to sweep across our path that night, and we could see the clouds forming; at first they were mere wisps at high altitude in the West, then lower and lower and darker and darker they formed. By the evening, we thought most of the storm clouds were in our rear view mirror. We pulled into our hotel in Cheyenne. As the sun set, we looked west to the mountain range we would have to cross in the morning. It would be our highest pass at 8k feet. The pass was shrouded in roiling green clouds, illuminated red by the setting sun.

The next morning, day four, we left again early. Some of the storm was still left over because it was snowing and blowing. The wind was howling and the snow was blowing horizontal. The truck climbed slowly, hill by hill, to the pass. I was getting scared, but was determined. I knew that this should be the last of the bad weather, and it was between me and our Eden. We finally saw the altitude sign that was the indication we had reached an apex to the pass, "8000ft." As my Budget truck inched along (I swear the rumblings of the engine were singing that old tune, "I think I can, I think I can...") we came to the top. I looked up to the right and saw an exit to the "look-out" park. In more temperate seasons I would stop to take pictures. I considered taking a break from the conditions and pulling off for a few minutes. As I looked up, there was a break in the snow, and I saw a huge, copper-colored statue of only a head looking down on my caravan. The huge statue was Abraham Lincoln looking sternly down upon me, determined, and with confidence provoking me. His visage was then engulfed in the flurries and disappeared. The Lincoln Memorial was my favorite stop on the Mall while we made DC our home. I took it as a sign, as a goodbye, and as an order. We continued on, now the downhill stretch, perhaps even more dangerous in the ice. The Budget truck began shaking and shivering as the momentum of the weight bore down on its meager breaking system. Luckily, there was a very cautious FedEx truck setting a slow pace in front of me, but I was not sure I wouldn't run into it on two occasions as my brakes felt like they were going to bust under the pressure. But the snow broke, the ice retreated, we turned a corner....before us was the Great Basin framed by the two sides of the canyon we were driving in. There was the West, in the morning light and in all its glory.

In the next few hours we crossed a lot of high hills, all at 45 mph. The desert, and mountains, and a whole continent, lay out before us in violet. All clouds were behind us now.

We made it across Wyoming and into Boise that fourth day. It took half of day five to pull into Portland. I have pictures of that last day and a half. It was an amazing stretch, and I'll let the pictures do the talking for now. I should have some on here before too long. But for now I have to go and look for a place to live!

A Tropical Specimen

2008-11-11T12:52:00.000-08:00

A praying mantis died on a wicker chair in my back patio. I'm pretty sure that it's dead. At first, I thought that perhaps it was just resting, preparing for hibernation or molting or something. But the manits has turned brown, and it has been many days since it moved at all, and I'm pretty sure that my chair was his final resting place.

How did this large praying mantis end up in my backyard? I live in one of the least hospitable places to nature in Northern Virginia, Tyson's Corner. Directly behind my apartment is a strip mall, and in front of that mall is a pike road, and beyond that I am surrounded by the infamous Beltway, and other four-lane highways that form a swirling cocoon around the Corner. Within this cocoon of a few square miles are two malls--right across the street from each other (one for the middle class people and one for the rich people)--and corporate offices for all the accounting firms and most of the Beltway Bandits of the defense industry. So what is a tropical specimen doing here? I wonder if this could have been someone's escaped pet. How long has the mantis been wondering around? Is it possible that he actually lived some time in the Corner? Did he ever make it through a winter outdoors? Is that possible for a mantis?

I've done only two certifiable, embarrassingly silly things for the benefit of entertaining others in my life. One of those two things was to behave as if I was a martial artist possessed by the spirit of a praying mantis. Seven years ago I was in language school in Monterey, California, sharing a room with two friends, Scott and James. They decided, because they knew that I needed to loosen up, that they would ambush me as I walked into our room at the end of the day.

I walk in and James hops down from his top bunk and for the first time in the four weeks since I had known him he wasn't grinning from ear to ear, but looking serious, and said something to the effect, "We got some business to take care of." Then, suddenly, Scott came charging out of the shadows on my right side. I could've decided to be my old self, and a little bit of a stick-in-the-mud, or my boring self, and not really react at all, or normal and act like Jet Li or a crazy man, instead I was instantly overcome with the urge to act like an insect. Before Scott had a chance to make contact with me I twist, flinging my book bag away in one smooth motion. I turned my back towards both of them and they are a little stunned. I raised my arms straight into the air and formed pincers with my hands. I squatted and assumed the horse stance and with my pincered arms still raised high I began swinging my fully extended arms up and down to the ground, and began to walk backwards towards them and attack them with those pincers.

They were so overcome with laughter at my display, that I had no choice but to take advantage of their failed attack. I continued to strike them with my pincers in oblique ways, and from weird angles, and with a slightly cocked head, which seemed disembodied, even to me. For a second I was quick as lighting, and then I would strike, and let the strike linger in their laughing guts, just like a praying mantis.

That was another one of those moments that ensured my time on the central California coast was going to be magical and in the company of brothers. Those are my friends, and they always will be, no matter how far we are from each other.

Maya Angelou recently was sitting for a CSPAN interview with the New York Times culture correspondent. At the end of the interview portion the audience asked her many wonderful questions, and I stayed up till midnight to hear them all. She seemed so wise, and I loved her voice and the substance of her answers. She was full of humbleness and compassion. One question asked was, "You have a house in North Carolina and a house in Harlem. Where is home for you?" Part of her answer was, "Home is the place where you feel smart."

I'm sure that the praying mantis looked around and chose this place specifically to retire. I like to think that he passed many backyards full of foreign objects--bicycles, Bar-B-Qs, and rusted exercise equipment--before he found his way to my wicker and bamboo chair. Something deep down in his insect brain, just on the edge of consciousness, must have told him that this was as close as he was going to get to home. I'm sure a wave of relief passed over him as he crawled, step by deliberate step, before he stopped and rotated his triangular head towards the sun, and eternally clung to the wicker chair.

Event Horizon

2008-10-09T11:35:00.000-07:00

Allyson and I are making plans to move west. It’s a huge twist for us, but truthfully, not that much of a departure from the tempo of our life together so far. We like to see new things and we’re still searching. We’re ready to jump into the unknown, financial crisis or not. The trick is to remain mostly faithful and not get worried. We do have a few things we need to do before we can go. I leave tomorrow to take care of one of those necessary chores. I’m meeting my Dad and brothers in Vero Beach, Florida, to clean up Dad’s house, and hopefully make it livable enough to rent in his extended absence. I’m looking forward to the hard work, swims in the ocean, meals at the mall, and shopping at Home Depot. I also can’t wait to share our plans to move with them.

Having the chance to talk to him, right before a major life change, reminds me of another visit seven years ago. I met Dad halfway between his home of Phoenix and were I was visiting in LA, at Joshua Tree National Park. I was getting ready to go overseas for three years. I read my journals from that time, wondering what I was looking for then. This is what I found:

Dad usually isn’t hard to find, nor late. We both have an amazing sense of direction and we both like to be punctual. The punctuality arises partly out of a sense of obligation to whoever we agreed to meet, but mostly its wanderlust. In our anxiousness to get out of the house and on the road, we’re early most places we go.

That’s why it annoyed me to be waiting on the side of the road on a bright day in the southern California for my father to show up. I was clearly visible from Highway 10, parked on the side of the road. I was worried that a construction project up the road a few miles blocked the sign that read, “Joshua Tree National Park Ahead.” I passed the entrance myself and had to turn around at the Desert Center. I leaned on my rental car, soaked up the sun, and listened to the wind blow the sand across the pavement. I was thawing out after spending the last two weeks soaked and cold in the mountains.

After 20 minutes I decided to drive into the park as far as the Cottonwood Visitors Center to see if he was there. It’s a roughly paved road, barely two lanes and rolling between the Eagle and Cottonwood Mountains. It’s bordered by high stone walls. This drive keeps the secrets of the park on the other side well hidden. He wasn’t there either so I returned to my post out near the highway. Shortly after, I saw his big green Dodge Ram pickup heading towards me on a dirt side road, leaving a tendril of dust in its wake. He gets out of the truck all smiles. He’s slightly taller than me at 6 foot, with wide shoulders and black curly hair. He was sporting his mustache again.

We’re not in a rush for pleasantries. We just both grin ear to ear and walk up to each other and exchange hugs and handshakes in an affectionate and manly way.

“Hey son”

“Pops”

“Wow, look at this place, have you been waiting long? You know I had trouble finding this entrance,” he says quizzically.
“I know, me too, I passed it and had to turn around all the way down the road because of the construction. A little bit of an ordeal.”
“But that’s ok, we made it. Look at you. How’s it going?”
“Tired, and excited, just soaking it all in. That training was intense. I’ve just spent a couple days with David in LA. I can tell you all about it up there.”

He pats my shoulder and says, “Yep, let’s get in there so we can get that hike in before it gets too dark.”

“Cool, there’s an entrance station about 5 miles ahead. We can check in and pay and then we can head strait for camp, and hit some trails. We’re sleeping in the truck, right? So we don’t have anything to set up I don’t think.”

“Ok, see you at the entrance.”

“See ya”

We head north, towards the entrance. We reached the Cottonwood Visitor Entrance 15 minutes later. Of course it’s not as easy as just checking in. Dad’s a sucker for buying gifts. Right now he is searching for just the right children’s book for my new brother and his new son, Simon. I hadn’t met Simon yet. He lives in Nebraska with his mom. I watched Dad as a new father in his forties. His excitement is endearing, but I want to go. I know the view that’s up the road, and I’ve been waiting a long time to show it to him. Then again, I really didn’t care. I was in a state of blissful suspension, like the lull between two waves.

The last two weeks were insane for me as I suffered through Navy survival school in the mountains east of San Diego. The training included going days without food, navigating in the middle of the night, and sleeping in makeshift shelters, all carried out with a sense of “urgency” supplied by the instructors. This was my final hurdle of two years of training in the Navy to be an Arabic linguist. It drained me of whatever sense of anxiety I had left. The next week I would be going to Spain. I sat idly by as my father rummaged through stuffed lizards and natural history books. He’s like a kid in a candy store.

“Ok, I got what I need. Isn’t this just great? I think he’s really going to like it because he likes fire trucks. I don’t know why, his mother just tells me that he is always pointing them out and that it is just his thing. But I’m ready. Are you ready to get out there?”

“Let’s do it. Hey dad, this road coming up is very curvy. Just let me know if you want me to pull off because the vertigo is acting up. Just flash your headlights.”

“Well, I will. I don’t think its going to be a problem. I have my Dramamine, but I’ll flash you if I need to stop. Oh…wait…where’re we going?”

I pull the park map out and show him our route, and our eventual camp at Jumbo Rocks. I haven’t been to this particular spot before but I knew what the roads were like.

My first trip to Joshua Tree was two years prior. The Navy sent me to Monterey to begin my language training, after two miserable winter months in Great Lakes Illinois for boot camp, fighting pneumonia and 5 foot snow drifts. My plane descended over the Los Padres coastal mountains and I looked down at endless coastline, dreaming of all the waves that must go unridden there. We headed slightly out to sea and then turned back to land, banking over the Peninsula so my window seat was fully exposed to what was below. In the twilight I saw Pacific Grove and Monterey for the first time. Street lights flickered on and it reminded me of a Christmas tree. I fought back tears only because I was in uniform.

I had known Scott and James only two weeks when they invited me on a road trip into Mexico and then to Joshua Tree. They wanted to check the state out over a three-day weekend. We were all from the East and were curious about our new surroundings. I was reluctant to go on this trip because I saw so much beauty locally that I wanted to explore, I was broke, and quite frankly, I didn’t know what to make of these guys. Scott said, “Well, look man, we’re all in the Navy, we all make money, we’ll spot you, and you can just pay us back later. We know you’re good for it.” Scott’s generosity never ceased to amaze me from that moment to this one. Scott, James, Marciello and I became instant friends and brothers. They were amazing musicians, poets, and baseball fans, finding their own sense of balance and making the most out of Navy life. I think they were worried for my soul and began their intervention with this invitation.

We arrived at the park in the middle of the night, after a miserable day in Tijuana and a long drive back into California. There were no lights in the desert so we had no idea about the view, except for the stars. We never found a pay station. We had no map. We didn’t know what entrance we had entered through or really where we were. We just found a parking spot, rolled out sleeping bags and fell asleep.

I awoke the next morning stunned. The early light had turned the entire landscape violet. I was surrounded by heaps of rocks that looked as if they had been stacked by God’s children. Ancient mountains lay in piles, water colored purpled, orange, and red. I had found my place once again. I scanned the scene and sketched it in my journal. I fell in and out of sleep sitting in our rental car. I opened my eyes to see James and Marciello getting a ticket by the ranger, still in their sleeping bags. They didn’t sleep in a designated area. James was just smiling at the guy because he didn’t give a care, and knew he wasn’t going to pay.

Dad was driving behind me with no vertigo problems as we wove through the low country of the Colorado Desert and then climbed into the beginnings of the higher Mojave Desert. Roughly 40 minutes later we found our spot at the Jumbo Rocks. It didn’t take us long to check out the map and find trails across the street. The beauty of Joshua Tree is that you don’t have to go far. It’s all waiting for you right off the road.

We spent hours scrambling around the rock heaps, working up a sweat in short sleeves and shorts in the afternoon sun. The dry heat of the high desert begs for exertion. I thought that I could teach my dad a thing or two. I had spent the last two years hiking Big Sur, the Sierras, and Pinnacles. I finished months of kick-butt training in Pensacola and San Diego and I was heading out to the Persian Gulf before too long. I wanted to show him the grown up version of myself. I thought I had come a long way since the last time we met. We free climbed up crags. We jumped from rock to rock with 30 feet of air underneath us.

We came to one critical spot, where we needed to climb from one boulder down to the next. There was a bowl-shaped canyon, with a trail between the brush at the bottom that we wanted to reach. This particular stage of the descent was actually an eight foot step down, with few footholds, but it was particularly exposed. The rocks continued 20 feet below the step, all the way to the ground at a steep angle. If you lost your footing on those smooth orange rocks it would be hard to stop your momentum all the way down. But Dad went first, and made it to the ledge. I started after him, but I got the shakes in my calves. I can usually keep my slight case of the shakes under wraps, unless I’m in a tough spot on a vertical climb. But it took him reaching out his hand, and bracing me on the way down for me to make it through this one. I was really surprised and chalked it up to an excess of adrenalin. What is it about being a father that gives someone courage in unfamiliar territory? There would be no teaching my father any lessons on those rocks. I relaxed into my role: the role of a man, but a man who would always be a son.

We drove into Twenty-nine Palms to buy firewood and food and returned back to the site. We drank beer and lit a fire. We didn’t talk a lot, but we tried hard to say all the things that mattered. I would be leaving soon. I was a deployable Arabic linguist and there was a war going on.

I wanted so badly for that trip to be special for us. Dad was a traveling nurse, and had started hiking again recently in Arizona. I was stoked we both enjoyed taking these long walks. I wanted the California stars to shine brightly over us. I wanted him to experience a violet sunrise so that the image would scar into our brains, and become a memory to last us until we met again.

I can’t recall our exact words, but I know the tone. I know I talked about hardship over the last two years. I know he was deep down working through something. He talked about his newly expanding family, about the idea of being a doctor, but being really happy as a nurse.

“You know son, sometimes your east coast family, my sister, well I was talking to her, and sometimes she jokes about a family curse, because of all the trouble they’ve had over there with Jeff’s business and the kids, but I don’t buy that. I don’t buy that at all. Life is special, and sometimes it’s hard, but it is what it is, and you just try to enjoy it…..I’m just really proud of you,” he says smiling, “and I know you’re going to do great things out there. Just be safe.”

“Thanks Dad.”

We sat quiet after this. It was getting late, and we talked briefly about our respective exit plans the next morning. We needed to leave right after daybreak.

“I can’t wait for the sunrise,” I say as I stretch back and yawn. “This whole area lights up, and it’s awesome.”

Dad grins.

“Ok, I’m going to get around for bed.”

The night became cooler quick. We rolled the windows down and with a couple blankets we slept great. The air was crisp but we stayed warm. As it got late the wind started shaking the truck. The ring around the moon grew thick, and clouds quickly rolled by.

I woke up to a grey dawn instead of a colorful one, and I was chilly. I half laced my shoes, put on a fleece over my t-shirt and shorts, and went to the bathroom. On the way back to the car I looked at my fleece and saw that it was accumulating snow. I looked around and there were flurries everywhere.

“Dad, wake up, check this out. It’s snowing outside.”

“Are you serious?”

“Unbelievable, it was a desert here yesterday afternoon. I know its winter, and we are higher up, but really, how often does it snow in the desert?”

We walked out onto the overlook just south of the camp site. There before us was the entire Pinto Basin, and the Pinto Mountains beyond to the east. The boulders were all dusted with white trim. The wind blew in our faces and swept back our hair and we took deep breaths.

“Well, It’s not what we expected, but it is awesome. I can’t believe its snowing right now. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but that’s cool” he said.

“Well, its about that time. Are you ready to drive back to Phoenix?”

“Yea, I have to go. I have a late shift to get ready for.”

We promised to call often, but neither of us were good at calling. He promised to visit me in Spain, but he never could. This was goodbye for now. We hugged, and got into our cars and he followed me in the truck towards the north side of the park.

We turned towards the north. The Pinto Mountains on our right and the Queen Mountain ridge on our left separated, and we found ourselves on the top of a valley a couple miles wide between them. We were driving down a straight road in the middle of that great expanse which looked grey and lunar. Beyond the valley and beyond the park, we saw the entire state of California, as the flat valley is spread before us for miles and littered with towns.

Halfway down our drive to the exit, a flash of light burned to my right, and I squinted my eyes. When my vision adjusted I saw the rock walls burst into color. The sun rose late because it was hidden behind the Pintos in the east, but it finally rose. The clouds cleared, and we drove into a valley blooming with shades of violet, burnt orange, bright orange, deep red, and sage.

Just outside the park, I pull off to the side of the road and motion for my dad to stop and roll down his window.

“Hey, you want to pick up some breakfast?”

Hurricane Hanna

2008-09-08T17:46:00.000-07:00

If you look real close you can see me in the pocket of this wave. It's a good seven foot wave, pretty clean, and probably the best shot of me surfing ever.

What can I say about last weekend that the picture doesn't?

What the photo says so much better than me is, "This is the way every morning should be."

It also says, "My God is an awesome God," and, "His is a peace that passes all understanding."

I have a picture in my head about what that wave was like for me to ride, but its fading fast. I really only remember the last little open face turn I took on the shoulder to slow down and make it into the next section. I don't remember being in the pocket of that wave. This picture may just become a more vivid memory of my experience than the experience itself.

There's one memory that will always be more distinct than the photo. I won't forget giving a fist-pump to my friends who saw the whole thing on the beach. I have a similar memory of my friend Boris running up to me on the beach in North West France, during a visit to a spot called La Torche when I was 17, and giving me a high-five because I had just landed the sickest floater he had ever seen down the face of a steep wave there.

The picture doesn't tell you about loading up a Toyota Matrix with my friend George, his wife, and their two infant children, in the middle of tropical storm Hanna. It doesn't mention the three hour drive. That picture is nice, but it doesn't describe how I grin when I hear Sadie, age 2, use the words ocean, surf, "urfboard," and uncle Heath. Her total vocabulary consist of very few words words after all. It took a lot of faith to get the five of us to Ocean City that Sunday.

It took a lot of faith to keep George paddling into a clean-up set as it drove him into a pier. It wasn't pleasant to see his arms and hands cut up, but George is fearless and he just keeps right on ticking.

I came in after this wave, turned my back to the ocean and headed towards Ocean City's 12th street boardwalk. I passed two teenage girls tanning. One was chasing a huge seagull, and the other was laughing hysterically on her towel. The girl on the towel was able to catch her breath long enough to say, "That seagull just ate your cigarette. "

Sizzlin in the City

2008-09-01T15:02:00.000-07:00

The first Labor Day parade was held on September 5, 1882 in New York City. One chant echoed through the humid air from the voice of immigrant laborers: "EIGHT HOURS FOR WORK, EIGHT HOURS FOR REST, EIGHT HOURS FOR RECREATION." We've come a long way. It's appalling what we take for granted that those labor movements won for us.

For us who now reap the benefit of labor's previous angst, Labor Day means the end of summer, and the end of BBQ season. Our first month here, over a year ago now, we attended a lot of BBQs. Our nieghbors were the instigators. They were making the most of every moment in the summer, and in the winter we understood why. So this summer we got into the spirit of things and ate our way through the season. We did it all: burgers, brats, bangers, beer, and--as of yesterday--chicken biryani. Our goal this summer was to get the apartment organized enough to invite friends over for a few great meals.

We spent the entire month of July cleaning out the apartment to make more space, then closing our public storage unit and moving everything into our apartment, and finally getting rid of about a third of our possessions overall. We threw a lot of junk away, and gave other items to neighbors. We took boxes to the thrift store, and sold some furniture on Craigslist. Whatever it took to downsize our 8,000 lbs of stuff so that it would fit into our 700 sq ft apartment, we did it (check out picture below on right-hand column). And it wasn't only the shedding that was challenging , but also figuring out how to store what we had left over.

First we organized the closets and then filled them floor to ceiling. I had plans for our breakfast nook. I decided this nook was going to be our new garage. We went to IKEA and bought a wall of storage units. I hung three surfboards from the ceiling and hung one bike from the wall. I moved in a 5 foot tall tool chest, a table saw, circuar saw, and a work table made from a simple door as a table top set on top of two saw horses. It works, believe me. We fit our second couch into the living room, and moved around the book shelvs so that Daisy can't get to them (by now you now that Daisy loves to eat our books). After re-organizing a couple paintings to fit the new layout, we were in business.

All that was left to do was to have a couple parties. Our first was to have our Navy buddies over. We made use of the pool, BBQ'd shrimp, steaks and burgers, and threw the frisbeee around. For our next event, we hosted a birthday party for our nieghbor's twin 6-year-old boys. A blast. Allyson finally found a beer she liked: some seasonal belgium number that she drank with an orange slice. We cooked up the sausages and just enjoyed each others company.

This weekend Allyson and I topped off our summer culinary experience. Our guest this summer kept telling us they really enjoyed the food, which was encouraging. We like to cook, especially for other people, so we took the inspiration and ran with it. We broke down and bought a complete matching set of pots and pans. How decadent, I know. I couldn't wait to break them in. Allyson went with a girlfriend to see the musical Momma Mia and I stayed home and started cooking. I decided with all the new gear it was time for me to try one of my favorite cuisines: Indian.

Indian food is just awesome. I know some of you are thinking, "Welcome to the 20th century." Never fear. I'm no stranger to eating it, its just cooking it that's new for me. What other cuisine can balance so many flavors at once? I love a spicy red chili paired with lime, or a lamb sauce with mint chutney. Great stuff. I head out to an Indian grocer and start pulling spices and oddly-shaped vegatables off the shelves. Before I know it I'm in my kitchen knee-deep in Tumeric. Just a heads up, this stuff will stain everything you own yellow. Not good when you have a white kitchen. I made a garam masala from scratch, which seems to be the same thing as curry powder. I sliced and diced up a whole chicken. Allyson returned from her movie and was too distracted by the smell to notice the yellow everywhere. She helped finish the meal with rice and vegi's. The result was complete success. The whole kitchen, from floor to cupboards, was stained the multivariate colors of an Indian rickshaw, the onions made me cry, the smell of curry could be detected in the parking lot, but the ultimate meal: oh-so-worth-it.

So, young working-man or woman, stand-up, and celebrate your liberty! Eat, and be merry, and enjoy the spoils of your hard labor! Because summer is singing its swan song. The pools are being drained for the winter. The hurricanes are marching in, sucking up all the humidity and signaling the Fall. It will soon be time for surfing, chilly water, wetsuits, and snow.

"Musique"

2008-08-03T12:04:00.000-07:00

I decided to get up with Allyson at 6 am this Saturday for moral support. She is still working Saturday's most of the time and that has got us pretty bummed. I was also anxious to try the new Costa Rican coffee that she has been raving about. So, we rose early, put some coffee in the French press, and watched a little pre-dawn TV.

We settled on local programming, which in the Washington area can be educational. The large international population in DC loves to offer programming that shows a slice of their home countries. We happened on a show about Cote d'Ivoire. They were speaking in French and Allyson was trying to mimic the host.

A block of text saying, "Musique," is pasted up on the screen, blinking. We are then treated to a music video made by the Ivory Coast's freshest hip-hop talent. A high schooler in Raybans is wearing a grey suit 5 sizes too big. He starts getting his groove on. He is accompanied by two henchmen who must be ten years his senior. This star's main attraction appears to be the combination of his youth, better-than-average voice, and his unique dance moves. A subtle pelvic thrust doesn't seem possible, but violent pelvic attacks into the air are no problem. He had this little move where he would lift his whole leg and show the camera the bottom of his foot and shake it. We started cracking up. There was a full line-up of women in the video, but instead of fake chicks, these were girls right off the street, looking slightly uncomfortable as they did their best with US style dance moves.

Allyson returned to her room to finish getting ready for work. I took another sip of coffee. I watched the rain, and focused on the odd mixture of French and African music.I had a best friend in high school, Boris, who was a French exchange student. We had a lot of fun surfing and traveling around. We were close friends and we went through all those things you go through in high school together. We just clicked.

I visited him for summer vacation when I was 17. I spent August, traveling across France, staying in ancient homes all over the country-side, and searching for surf along the coast. It was good to see Boris in his home ground. He was joyful, and even a little mischievous with me. I think he enjoyed having the upper hand and me being the foreigner. He moved in on me with a girl I was trying to get to know and dated her as his own during that month. I never understood that.

I really respected Boris' family and was able to spend a lot of time with them. Boris’s father, Serge, drove us all over the country visiting different family members. Serge, was an adventurer. He was always smiling wisely and getting the most out of life. He took his family to Africa many years ago and made a bit of money. Boris has stories of driving in Land Rovers across Africa from the Congo into Kenya. He had a pet chimpanzee before it got too big and started kicking his ass.

We ended my month-long French adventure with a family reunion at his parent’s house on the coast in La Rochelle. All the family that we visited on our travels across France showed up for one last summer fling at the beach house in La Rochelle. We sailed the Hobie Cats. We played some volleyball. We made irreverent jokes. I have a picture of my final feast with them. In the picture you can look down the row of tables in the backyard. We are all stuffing our faces with lobster. We're all sun kissed. I'm in the front with long blond hair. Sitting across from me is Boris' oldest brother, smiling wide. We have similar expressions on our faces. There is symmetry in the picture. We were about the same age. He'd be leaving the La Rochelle house soon to make his own way on the Dark Continent. He was leaving next week for Africa to be an ostrich herder.

Boris and I lost touch. He visited a couple more times when I was in college. I was so busy trying to make it in life. I joined the Navy and things really got busy. I feel bad that we lost touch. I lived in Spain for over two years and never once took the time to visit Boris.

I prepared to leave Spain, and the Navy in 2005. I stayed my last two weeks in a hotel in Rota across from the beach with my good friend and brother, Scott. Our wives went ahead of us to find homes and get settled in Georgia. We honestly weren’t looking forward to Georgia. We spent a couple weeks enjoying our last sweet days in Europe, drinking in every bar and visiting every friend.

"I've got an idea.""Yea, well what’s that mister?" Scott didn't bother looking up from soaking up the sun. We were waiting for two of our friends to meet us on the beach. They really didn't like each other and I don't think we knew which one was going to show up, if either one. But Scott was always good at reconciliation, so I wasn't worried. He was going to need to be good at it too, because it was going to be a long four days."I've told you about my friend Boris. He's living up in Bordeaux. I really want to see him before we leave."

"Well, yea, I'd love to. I think we can do that, we've got the days."
"I'm going to rent a car and I think we should do it this weekend."
"Dude, I would absolutely love that. I think Carl would be down for that too maybe."

I was just getting to know Carl then, but it seemed like a good idea. I forgot one of the golden rules of travel though. The more people you bring, the slower you go. Under normal circumstances this wouldn't have been a problem, but these weren't normal circumstances.We had three days to drive 15 hours to his house, spend a day and a half with him, and drive 15 hours back. I would've preferred to stay more days, but we all had schedules to keep. Needless to say, we got on each other’s nerves. Carl and Scott like to soak it all in and take their time when they travel. They like to do little things like eat and go to the bathroom too. Imagine that. I was on a mission though, and I didn't have time for messing around.

"Heath, I need to eat lunch. I'm getting hungry. You wouldn't like me when I'm hungry." said Carl.
"Alright, well, can we just get through town and find a place along the way? I don't want to get stalled in this traffic."
"The food in roadside places around here sucks. Lets just try to find something in town, a quick lunch, and we'll be off."

I relented. We looked for food. We got lost. I got aggravated, but we pushed through it and made it to Bordeaux.

Boris was staying with his fiancé near St. Michael's square and we arranged to meet him there. We made eye contact at about 20 yards. He walked up to me, and he started smiling, but it came slowly. I knew he'd be a little sore with me, but I could see right away that it was more than that. He was a different person now, with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Hey buddy, how are you?" he said."I'm awesome, Boris. Thanks so much for having us. It’s great to see you."

In my mind, and ignorance, I saw only what was right in front of me. In so many ways he was living the dream. Beautiful fiancé. Beautiful flat. He was in the family business. He could go kite surfing whenever he wanted. And on the surface we picked up right where we left off.

We spent an evening on the town at a couple bars. The next day was a long one. We went wine tasting in St. Emilion, surfing in Lacanau, and then we hurried back to take the hour drive to La Rochelle. We were there in the summer, and the days were long. I felt like I was 17 all over again.

Not much changed at his parent’s house. The garden was bigger. Serge was just as jovial. Boris' mom seemed different. She looked at me a little too long. She got misty eyed when she saw me. She didn't used to be the emotional sort. Not with me anyway. We didn't catch up with the parents right away because I wanted to show the guys the neighborhood. We biked over the bridge to Il-de-Re. We somehow found the time to sail the Hobie Cat. Boris and I fell right into our groove on the boat and did a fine job. Just like off the coast of Florida when we were in high school, scooting over reefs. We didn't talk much out on the water.

I was having the time of my life. All those memories of my summer in France were welling up inside. If I wasn't in such a hurry to re-live my glory days I would've realized, that Boris, and his mother, and his father were also going down memory lane with me. I wish I could go back and be more aware that maybe these were memories they didn't want, in the middle of summer, when the whole family was supposed to be home. The whole family was not coming home that summer. Not all of Serge’s children were returning in August. Boris’s oldest brother would never be returning from Africa, because Africa had taken him.

We sat around their dining table mostly quiet that night. Their house is one quarter of a commune; a rectangle of homes with a shared courtyard in the center. It’s 400 years old and has large wooden beams, a wide fireplace, and other details you just don't see in houses anymore, or ever in the US. We sat in our chairs tired and enjoyed each others company. The French can just enjoy your company without a lot of chit-chat. I felt welcomed that way.

"Tomorrow, we will have a special lunch for you before you go.""Thanks Serge. Thank you so much."

Boris' mom just looked at me a long time and said nothing. She was also looking over my head, at the picture of her oldest son, who was all smiles in the photo. Serge smiled at me. He shook his head. I bowed mine in shame. I promised to learn French a long time ago. I never did. Boris's mom looked at me and I felt she wished that I knew French. I would say I'm sorry. I couldn't say that to her in English. It felt vulgar. I couldn't say it to her in French either for the same reason. She wished that I knew French so that she could ask me, "How? How did you have the nerve to come back, with no word, and out of the blue? How could you come this time of year, as if nothing had happened, as if there had been no change?"

Serge invited everyone to lunch the next day. He asked the workers helping him to get him dozens of the freshest oysters. The workers joined us for lunch and we were a happy and mixed lot. We sipped sparkling white wine in the morning sun on the back porch. Serge made a toast in our honor. I expressed my gratitude as best I could.

The day-light turned orange, and our time came to a close.
Serge walked us to our car.

"You know Heath you are welcome to come back anytime. Stay in the rental. We'd love to have you and to meet your wife."
"I would love for her to meet you, Serge. I need her to see this place. This house is such a part of me. It made such an impression on me."
"Yes, well anytime, but not this summer. I think me and the wife are going out of town."
"You are? Really? Where are you going?"
"I think we will gas up the Mercedes and head south, into Africa, into Senegal. I think we will drive all the way to West Africa."
We exchange knowing smiles.

***

I take another sip of my coffee. Another block of text flickers on the screen to let me know the next segment of the Cote d'Ivoire variety show is coming on."Economie"Cote d'Ivoire's economy appears to be struggling. I see dirt roads and dirt-floored shacks. The longest portion of the segment revolves around the port, which they are very proud of. It looks much too old and decrepit to be the life-blood of this entire nation. They show a fork lift driver loading wood onto a rusted freighter, the Olanda. He is precarious in his duties. He is off and moving with his loads of wood before it seems they are securely on top of the forks. The wood wobbles but doesn't fall as he loads it onto the Olanda. I watch bleery-eyed in the morning and start to drift back to sleep. Load upon load of wood is loaded, until she is full. The Olanda slowly creeps from her proud port. I watch as the humid morning fog envelopes her, and she disappears into the rolling sea.

Chasing the Wind

2008-05-04T13:48:00.000-07:00

It's hard to go back to work after a three-day weekend. I'm having trouble lately figuring out if, or how, I fit into a corporate environment. I've never really excelled there. I'm not sensitive enough to the politics, or care enough about management. I've always felt more productive when I'm working by myself, or with maybe a handful of other people. But the corporate world is where I work and it's where most of the people I know work.

I shouldn't have been surprised to hear that some of my friends my same age feel the same way about where they work. We invited some of these friends over Friday night for a summer BBQ to celebrate me completing my first triathlon of the season.

We grilled hamburgers and corn, drank good Syrah from Paso Robles, and gazed blankly at the back of a strip mall behind our apartment. As it became dark we got quiet so that we could eavesdrop on our upstairs neighbor, Marvin, sing reggae and dance with his four year old daughter. After a few drinks we started talking. My friend Matt works at a bank and says these exact words with no prompting, "I'm sick of this corporate life. I want to start my own business or something. Seriously, we really have no attachments. We should do it!"
Matt's sister was quick to respond. "I don't know who you're talking about. I have twins."
"Yea, but you know what I mean. It was getting really bad this week." He pauses.
"I just got to the point where I was sitting on my desk, with my head in my hand, rubbing both my temples, with my eyes closed. And I was with a client at the time!"
"Shut up man! Are you serious?" I'm quick to respond like this when I'm a little buzzed trying to convey my empathy.
"Yea, I know that sounds bad, but she was like a real pain in the ass. She's always coming in with these crazy request. Don't these people have anything better to do?"

And just like that, I knew I wasn't alone.

****

Ecclesiastes 1

1 These are the words of the Teacher,^[a] King David’s son, who ruled in Jerusalem.

Everything Is Meaningless

2 “Everything is meaningless,” says the Teacher, “completely meaningless!”

3 What do people get for all their hard work under the sun? 4 Generations come and generations go, but the earth never changes. 5 The sun rises and the sun sets, then hurries around to rise again. 6 The wind blows south, and then turns north. Around and around it goes, blowing in circles. 7 Rivers run into the sea, but the sea is never full. Then the water returns again to the rivers and flows out again to the sea. 8 Everything is wearisome beyond description. No matter how much we see, we are never satisfied. No matter how much we hear, we are not content.

9 History merely repeats itself. It has all been done before. Nothing under the sun is truly new. 10 Sometimes people say, “Here is something new!” But actually it is old; nothing is ever truly new. 11 We don’t remember what happened in the past, and in future generations, no one will remember what we are doing now.

The Teacher Speaks: The Futility of Wisdom

12 I, the Teacher, was king of Israel, and I lived in Jerusalem. 13 I devoted myself to search for understanding and to explore by wisdom everything being done under heaven. I soon discovered that God has dealt a tragic existence to the human race. 14 I observed everything going on under the sun, and really, it is all meaningless—like chasing the wind.

15 What is wrong cannot be made right.
What is missing cannot be recovered.

16 I said to myself, “Look, I am wiser than any of the kings who ruled in Jerusalem before me. I have greater wisdom and knowledge than any of them.” 17 So I set out to learn everything from wisdom to madness and folly. But I learned firsthand that pursuing all this is like chasing the wind.

18 The greater my wisdom, the greater my grief.
To increase knowledge only increases sorrow.

Ecclesiastes 2

The Futility of Pleasure

1 I said to myself, “Come on, let’s try pleasure. Let’s look for the ‘good things’ in life.” But I found that this, too, was meaningless. 2 So I said, “Laughter is silly. What good does it do to seek pleasure?” 3 After much thought, I decided to cheer myself with wine. And while still seeking wisdom, I clutched at foolishness. In this way, I tried to experience the only happiness most people find during their brief life in this world.

4 I also tried to find meaning by building huge homes for myself and by planting beautiful vineyards. 5 I made gardens and parks, filling them with all kinds of fruit trees. 6 I built reservoirs to collect the water to irrigate my many flourishing groves. 7 I bought slaves, both men and women, and others were born into my household. I also owned large herds and flocks, more than any of the kings who had lived in Jerusalem before me. 8 I collected great sums of silver and gold, the treasure of many kings and provinces. I hired wonderful singers, both men and women, and had many beautiful concubines. I had everything a man could desire!

9 So I became greater than all who had lived in Jerusalem before me, and my wisdom never failed me. 10 Anything I wanted, I would take. I denied myself no pleasure. I even found great pleasure in hard work, a reward for all my labors. 11 But as I looked at everything I had worked so hard to accomplish, it was all so meaningless—like chasing the wind. There was nothing really worthwhile anywhere.

The Wise and the Foolish

12 So I decided to compare wisdom with foolishness and madness (for who can do this better than I, the king?^[a]). 13 I thought, “Wisdom is better than foolishness, just as light is better than darkness. 14 For the wise can see where they are going, but fools walk in the dark.” Yet I saw that the wise and the foolish share the same fate. 15 Both will die. So I said to myself, “Since I will end up the same as the fool, what’s the value of all my wisdom? This is all so meaningless!” 16 For the wise and the foolish both die. The wise will not be remembered any longer than the fool. In the days to come, both will be forgotten.

17 So I came to hate life because everything done here under the sun is so troubling. Everything is meaningless—like chasing the wind.

The Futility of Work

18 I came to hate all my hard work here on earth, for I must leave to others everything I have earned. 19 And who can tell whether my successors will be wise or foolish? Yet they will control everything I have gained by my skill and hard work under the sun. How meaningless! 20 So I gave up in despair, questioning the value of all my hard work in this world.

21 Some people work wisely with knowledge and skill, then must leave the fruit of their efforts to someone who hasn’t worked for it. This, too, is meaningless, a great tragedy. 22 So what do people get in this life for all their hard work and anxiety? 23 Their days of labor are filled with pain and grief; even at night their minds cannot rest. It is all meaningless.

24 So I decided there is nothing better than to enjoy food and drink and to find satisfaction in work. Then I realized that these pleasures are from the hand of God. 25 For who can eat or enjoy anything apart from him?^[b] 26 God gives wisdom, knowledge, and joy to those who please him. But if a sinner becomes wealthy, God takes the wealth away and gives it to those who please him. This, too, is meaningless—like chasing the wind.

****

It has been a while since I've update you all on what we've been doing and how we've been adjusting to life in D.C., so there's a lot to catch up on.

Allyson and I had a vacation and went to our favorite spot, California! Clark, my youngest brother, graduated from military training in Monterey on April 17th. Allyson and I took off from work for the entire week. Ryan is a good friend from our days in Spain. He took us hiking and rock climbing at one of his favorite childhood haunts. We spent three wonderful days in the northern California mountains, hiking through fresh snow, and drinking our favorite Spanish dry sherry. Allyson was a natural rock climber. I wasn't as eager to scale up the faces of these rocks, or to watch her do it either. We were going to spend the night at the top of the mountain but the weather turned bad so we headed down early, and enjoyed an easy night by the campfire.

We dropped Ryan off at the airport on Wednesday morning and headed south to Monterey. I wanted to talk to my brother before the rest of the family arrived because I knew his time would be short. He told me his life since he joined the Air Force. I met his new wife, Nicole. We talked excitedly about having the rest of the family there, what we would do, and where we would eat. He was also in the middle of making his travel arrangements because he was going to ship out the following Monday. It was an emotional time for him, but he was handling it amazingly well.

The rest of the family showed up, and the next three days were some of the best we had all spent with each other in 15 years. My mother and father in one place, with all their children, and wives in that beautiful place and to celebrate such a huge achievement for Clark. It just has happened so pleasantly since things fell apart all those years ago.

Allyson and I love Monterey. It's where we got married. We made a lot of decisions on that peninsula on faith. The place has a mythical quality, and is covered in a perpetual mist; half fog and half cloud. The land itself can transfix you. We like to think about living there, and how if we could find a way our lives would reach some perfect equilibrium. They say that when Jimmy Hendrix returned from Morocco he stopped first at the Monterey Pennisula's Pacific Grove, before he went on to Berkley to help spawn the sixties enlightenment. I've also seen Monterey put a spell on people in a negative way. People get drawn into a search for beauty that isn't quite ever achievable for them on the inside. It becomes a place of discontent sometimes. We all know what happened to Jimmy after all.

My birthday was February 18th and we spent it in Boston with Allyson's sister. We love Boston, but Cat showed us a side of it that we'd never seen before. I've mentioned Allyson's sister before. She is a wine director for a number of restaurants in Boston. These are really nice places that allow Cat to express her artistic vision. Cat has complete purview to bring in whatever she thinks is interesting, and when she can't find it, she'll team up with a vintner and make her own wine.

We had that culinary experience that people dream about. Every meal was an adventure. Not just because the food was so special, but because these chefs really thought about the wine menu. The first night we ate at her friend's restaurant on Commonwealth Ave. The meal was better Spanish food than we ever ate while we where living in Spain! I know that sounds so American, but it's true and after three exquisite bottles of Rioja I was able to support this assertion with not a bad philosophical premise. One of the waitresses was getting her graduate degree in philosophy down the street at Boston U and assured me that my Rioja consumption notwithstanding, I was right, and that was the best Spanish meal I had ever experienced.

The following day we ate at two other of her restaurants. The first was the Oyster Bar, where you could handpick your dozen oysters from a cooler in front of where you sat. They came from a handful of prestigious fisheries on the Eastern seaboard. And if you're wondering, there really is a difference in how they tasted. I would tell you what my favorite oyster region was because although I can't remember that oyster's name, I was inspired enough to write it down. Sadly, my dog, Daisy, has a voracious appetite for knowledge and often eats my notes. My weekend eating notes fell victim and so I can't tell you what they were called, but they were good.

We finished the weekend with a grand finale: dinner at The Butcher Shop. I ate a steak from a specific farm in New Hampshire. My steak had a name. Thanks to the machinations of Cat's Pan-like luck, and the recommendation of our waiter/restaurant owner/friend, Cat was able to share a special bottle of Bordeaux with us. I'd tell you what that bottle was, but I feel like that cheapens my experience somehow. Never mind. Point being: we laughed and talked and ate. Cat looked us both in the eye, and said things to us that we'll never forget.

This weekend, I finished my first triathlon of the season. I started a new triathlon training program this year and I've been hitting the bike and pool pretty hard. It helps me focus. It's the little part of my routine that I feel I can still control.

I took Friday off and drove south to Smith Mountain Lake so that I could prepare. I don't plan on doing these short sprint distance triathlon's forever, but they are still hard work for me. I spent the off-season doing a lot of running. The run training culminated into a 50k (32 mile) ultra-marathon with a friend of mine. I made it 17 miles in 4 hours and then had to call it quits. Not a great performance, but not bad either for my first marathon.

I was confident about this race. I sat in my tent and listened to music. I listened to the wind blow through the tall oaks. I dozed in and out of sleep as the trees cast unfocused shadows against the top of my tent. I had a lot of time to ask myself why I was working so hard for this.

I did pretty good. It's no use telling you my total times. Every course is a little different. I felt really strong through it all. I was slowed down because I spent five minutes looking for a lost chip that was attached to my ankle. It came off when I was taking off my wetsuit. Me losing the chip could mean that there won't be an official record of my time. I'm ok with that. I ran a good race.

So we've been busy, and sometimes it feels like we are going in so many different directions.

We're heading off to church now. We've been going in the afternoon. It's time to wrap up the weekend and sign off. I hope you all are well, and that I haven't bored you. I had a lot to get through because I haven't written in a while. I just happened to have a chance today. Sometimes I have these moments, on Sunday afternoons, when enough of the work-week has washed away, that I can figure out what I have to say.

But, alas, all good things must come to an end. It's time to pull up the boot straps, and pray to God, I'm not just chasing the wind.

Board Meeting

2008-01-29T16:40:00.002-08:00

I've been jonesin' for some surf lately. There are three reasons for this. First, I just have a latent need to get in the water sometimes as a result of a couple decades of chasing waves. Second, my buddy Lucas, the anthropologist, has enlisted me to help him with a research project on surfing as a subculture. This has nudged me to dust off my surf library of books, magazines, and videos. Third, another friend, George, is a budding surfer and has been good about hassling me into the water.

George really has his work cut out for him. I'm a little more picky than he is about waves, we live four hours away from the beach, and its cold, in the middle of the winter cold. He tries anyway and I thank God that he does. Last weekend, he finally convinced me we needed to make our peace with cold water surfing.

When George, Carl and I go to the beach we usually go to Ocean City, New Jersey. Its takes the same amount of time to get to the beach in Deleware from here, but Deleware doesn't have our secret weapon: a ball of fire named Mike.

Mike is a native of Ocean City and a close friend of ours from the Navy. Mike and I spent many sessions exploring seldom ridden waves in southern Spain, and searching out remote spots in Portugal. George and Carl and I also met in Spain, and I introduced them to surfing there. It was in Spain that Mike introduced me to a great surf writer named Allen Weisbecker.

I've always had an interest in surf journalism, but I've always found it came a little short. I was reading surf mags before more mature titles such as "The Surfers Journal," and, "The Surfers Path," came out. Most of surf journalism seemed like surf porn to me: vapid, mostly photos, sexist, and totally incapable of capturing the true spirit of the lifestyle. I later realized that its just the subject matter and its complexity that's the problem, rather than a legion of inept surf journalist.

I abandoned surf print media, but I found refuge in surf videos. The Malloy Brothers and Kelly Slater and others from the Moonshine Conspiracy were making videos that captured the essence of the sport in a way I wanted to convey to Carl and George. It truly said in pictures what sounded only campy in words.

Then I met Mike one day in Spain and he turned me on to some videos, music, and even books that sent me searching once again for a decent body of literature on the sport. Actually, his recommendations are only a fraction of our story. Mike is a walking adventure story. His escapades are common knowledge throughout the Med. and in some parts of southern Germany. But that is for another day. The book he turned me onto was, "In Search of Captain Zero," by Allen Weisbecker. Now here was a guy who could write, and was recognized as a writer in a couple different genres. He was also someone who had lived on the edge. I could go on for a long time about Weisbecker, but instead I'll just recommend all of his books: In Search of Captain Zero, Cosmic Banditos, and Why Can't You Get Along with Anyone?

My search was re-energized once I saw there was hope. I started to collect all of the surf novels, surf histories, and surf videos I could get my hands on. I have a library that I still haven't completely read through.

So we are all out of the Navy now and George and I have the 9 to 5 routine and are land-locked. But Mike is back home, doing his own thing, surfing every swell, and doing great things with his life. George, his wife and daughter, and Allyson and I, all rent a car, reserve a room, and head to Ocean City.

We leave before dawn, and make it into town by 10:30. We check the surf and its nothing to write home about. This was actually a good thing because it gave us a day to take our time and shop around for wetsuits--a daunting task. It wasn't as easy as buying a 3/2 full suit. The water wasn't 60 F, or 54 F. It was 45 F! When you go to buy a wetsuit for wintertime surfing you don't mess around. You just have to get the best that you can. And that takes some local knowledge.

We call Mike, give him the surf update, and arrange to meet at a local shop to begin our search. At this point I wasn't prepared to shell out the $400 for a new suit, gloves and boots. I thought I would just be borrowing a suit from Mike. George, on the other hand, was determined.

We ended up going to three different shops. Mike knew everyone in all of them. George of course found a suit. It was fun to watch him struggle trying to get in and out of them. He made his purchase, comlete with shoes and booties. We decided to switch gears, take it easy, and get a cup'a'joe at the local coffe shop.

We sit down and start chit-chattin. George, Mike and I all have writing projects we're working on. It was good to hear some ideas that Mike was working on. I wanted to run my research by him that I was doing for my anthropologist buddy. What he had to say was so spot on, and the more I research the more it echoes what respectable surfers have said in the past. "I hate thinking of myself as being in that group, as a surfer. I just surf, but there is so much that goes along with that that is just ridiculous. I heard a couple young kids talking the other day and they had that long drawn out surfer drawl and I was just like, 'Shut up man, you're from around here just like me.'"

Finally George says, "Heath, are you sure you can't get in touch with that guy who was selling the used suit?"

"Yea, I emailed him but he never replied. He left his number, but I just didn't call."

"Dude, why don't you call?"

"Yea man you should call. What'd you say? He's in Cape May, right, thats not far from here at all," says Mike.

I look over at Allyson to see if this is a possibility. The mood must be contagious because she seems encouraging. I call Tim a few minutes later, and sure enough he has two wetsuits for me to choose from. They are half the price of what I would be paying in the store. Mike makes arrangements with Tim (Mike knows a handful of this guys friends of course) and we are meeting him an hour later on a rest stop off the parkway.

The next morning we are pulling up to a deserted surf spot. A real swell is supposed to come in on Monday, so we have the thigh high glassy swells to ourselves. I had never been in water this cold before. The water temp had dropped to 36 F. There was snow on the ground. George and I echanged nervous laughter. There was nothing to do but to do it. We stripped in the 40 F air temp and put on our wetsuits.

The three of us rush out into the surf and were treated to some tasty little waves. George had bought a new camera and Allyson managed to get a picture of me on the nose of a tight little left. Mike was rockin' his long-board. George was standing on every wave that he caught. We were toasty, and all smiles. I couldn't believe how comfortable I was out there. Wetsuit technology has come a long way. I can't wait to get out again. I feel like I can surf anytime anywhere now. It was awesome.

We finished that Sunday with meeting all of Mike's family. The treated us to meatball sandwiches and hot showers. Their house felt like a refuge. We hope we can take advantage of their offer and return. We had to say goodbye pretty quick though, load up the baby, and the boards and the babes, and drive back to DC. We were smiling the whole time, confident in the knowledge that we would be back, and nothing could stop us from getting in the water.

I get home from work on Monday afternoon, and my mailbox is bursting with three different books I recently purchased on surf history and writing. I put my stuff down, open up one package and find "Zero Break: An Illustrated Collection of Surf Writing 1777-2004," by Matt Warshaw. I scroll through the table of contents and stop, slump in my chair, and stair off in disbelief.

One of the articles is entitled, "Jock's Night Trip." Jock's Night Trip was the one article that I saved when I was 15, now 15 years ago. I remember I tore it from the Surfing magazine I had and I would read it over and over. I was stuck in Kansas City for a few years because my parents were divorced, but I would dream about the surfing every day. I kept this article in a file to help me stay sane. The piece was about a man on the North Shore of Hawaii who seemed to have abandoned the day-to-day, was doing his own thing, in his own world, and surfing every day. The article seemed a little out of place, and I considered it fun to read. Some sort of diamond in the rough of the normal slash and burn surf media.

The author of that article was Allen Weisbecker, the same author that Mike had turned me onto during our crazy days in Spain. I had no idea at 15, what an effect the author would end up having on me, and how much surfing I really would be able to do once I was old enough to make my own choices, and live my own adventure. We are put in each others lives for a reason. So thanks Mike, for helping me put all the pieces together. And thanks George for getting me off my butt. Thanks Allyson for letting me push the envelope of our budget. And thank you God, for all the people you've put in my life, and for all the adventures there are yet for me to discover.

Right Here, Right Now

2008-01-20T18:47:00.000-08:00

Its cold up here. The New York Giants are playing the Green Bay Packers in the playoffs and its -20 degrees with the wind chill. Its in the single digits here in Washington. We switched from coats, to the heavy down jackets. We brought out the gloves and the hats. We finally got motivated this morning to get outdoors and enjoy the crisp air for a walk, and made a beeline for the local coffee shop.

We've had some good news in the last few weeks. First, my little brother Clark got married! He was married while at the language school in Monterey. Allyson and I remember being married in Monterey ourselves, and it made us nostalgic to hear Clark break the good news to us. We wish them all the best. Second, another friend, my oft-mentioned co-conspirator Carl, was engaged to his long-time girlfriend in Scottland over the holidays. They are about to set off on a real adventure and I get a kick out of being there for Carl for these days. Third, our good friend Scott has helped put his band back together (the White Oaks) and one of their songs was played on nationally syndicated radio. Congrats guys! Fourth, another friend and travel partner, Mike, has found a gig playing guitar on the weekends in his hometown in NJ. Rock-U-Rock-U-Rock. And then another couple that are our friends have found out they are pregnant! The new year is looking up.

As I sat in the my living room staring out the window into a sunny, but freezing day, I found myself feeling lonely for all of these friends and family. I have been working really hard lately, just hitting the books, and generally in my own little world. I've snapped out of it and the yearning that reared its ugly head was that for a surf. I started to miss the good times with all of these people that go along with memories of me hitting the beach with them. I could really use a surf. It didn't help that Mike told me he had head-high surf in Ocean City this week.

I had all of these friends to depend on before. They made it so easy for me. I met Scott by providence after only a couple weeks of being at my first duty station in the Navy now seven years ago. All the others the Good Lord put in my lap just as easy throughout my travels in the Navy. I was blessed for that.

Carl, Allyson and I went down into Georgetown and ate in a great Italian restaurant called Papa Razzi. It reminded me and Carl of a favorite restaurant that our whole crew used to go to on special occasions while we were serving in the Med. We ended up reminiscing about great conversations over large glasses of wine in cafes overlooking ancient ports. I was able to pick the wine. The Barbera D'Alba proved to be a winner.

Allyson and I went to church tonight. We've gone to Frontline for about six months. Tonight we decided to stay after the service to attend a newcomers meeting. We both felt so refreshed by all the opportunities to serve and get involved. Its good to come one step closer to finding a church home. We went to the bookstore afterwards and I couldn't resist but to buy a surf mag...which had came with a DVD profiling exotic Portuguese big-wave spots...which inspired me to look up the wave scenario for the next week...which looked good and gave me an excuse to recruit a couple buddies for a surf trip. I hope to be indoctrinated next weekend into the truly breathtaking world of cold-water surfing.

Allyson and I are here just chilling now, drinking Trader Joe's Bavarian beer. Allyson is rooting for the Giants on TV. It looks like they are about to win in overtime and go to the super bowl, but it looks freezing cold. So I hope you find some friends, or a loved one, and find a place to gather around the fire, or the bar, and are staying toasty. I'm wishing you all a truly blessed week!

The White Oaks

2007-12-16T16:58:00.001-08:00

http://www.myspace.com/thewhiteoaks

Sometimes its just better to shut up and listen.

Dollars for Scholars

2007-11-24T08:29:00.000-08:00

Dollars for Scholars is the name of a scholarship I won in high school. It was an academic award. I remember the day I won it fondly. I didn't know if I had won until the awards ceremony. My whole family waited in anticipation with me. I knew at that point I was going to be ok--that I could figure things out.

Dollars for Scholars paid the biggest chunk of my tuition, but it was only one of a couple scholarships that were available to me while I was working my way through college. It has led me to take the stance that anyone can do anything they put their minds to. I believed that in this country anyone can take advantage of the high school education they have been given and use it as a launching pad. The opportunities are out there, right?

If anyone had any doubt about the lingering existence of inequality in our education system, they didn't see what I just did on TV.

Saturday morning has become a quiet ritual for me now that Allyson is working Saturdays at the bank. I made myself an egg sandwich like my brother-in-law Jeff taught me. I put on some good music, watched the weather, and read. As I was trying to finish up this bear of a financial history book, I look up to find that the weather has given way to some sort of local programming game show, so I tune in.

The show is an academic challenge between three high-schools. I had seen these in the movies, but I guess you have to move to a place like Washington to really believe that they exist. The host was a 60-something, tweedy looking gentleman. He wore over-sized glasses and the timeless grey suit, red tie combo. He felt very smart. The audience was a hodge-podge of high-school administrators and family members. Apparently these are weekly episodes, and the contestants are all from local high schools. The game started with an introduction of the teams which were as follows.

Falls Church High School was represented by a tall, blond-haired white guy who introduced himself as a student athlete and gave a shout-out to the school football team that was playing that morning. He was a member of the model UN, a captain of the baseball team, and was accompanied by two bespectacled girls whom he never allowed to answer a question the entire game. To the opposite of Falls Church was Suitland High School.

Suitland High School is situated to the North West of DC in Maryland. Three young men represented them, all black. I missed their introduction. Now this high school has an impressive web page and boast many academic and athletic programs. They have an IB program, which is like AP and honors on steroids. They web page also conveys a community involvement in the high school and that community appears to be mostly black.

Finally, in the center of the room, and slightly raised above the other two teams is Gonzaga College High School. Gonzaga is a private Jesuit high school in the District. Can you see where this is going? Gonzaga is represented by three males, all white, all already very tweedy. Did one of these kids have on a bow-tie? I don't know. It was all a blur. They strategically placed a guy in the center--and on the mike--who wasn't the smartest one, but who had already developed a commanding presence. The smart one was off to the side wearing his hair oh-so-fashionably long and rough looking. In totality they reminded me of Andy, from the Office.

What a blood bath: Gonzaga, 1200, Falls Church, 800 (I forget really what the scores were, you get the idea), and Suitland, 300. I am sure the boys from Gonzaga were making somebody proud. Suitland, despite having an IB program and a better website, was losing. They were losing to the point that it started to make the audience-- which was entirely white except the two Suitland supporters in the front row-- a little self-conscious.

I'm pretty sure that the host started using an alternate set of questions when addressing Suitland. Every time Gonzaga received questions, they were really hard, and they would ring the little bell while the host was still mid-sentence. Of course, Gonzaga got the bonus points because they answered 8 questions in a row. The Suitland guys started to go down hill, "What would complete the square in following equation?" "Two," "No, the correct answer is 36." But you know what, they kept ringing that bell anyway.

One of the three Suitland guys really made an impression on me. He was the smallest physically. The other two, who were answering most of the questions, started to shrink in their seats under the weight of embarrassment. But this one dude, just sat upright, with his head held high. That to me, is what it means to be Olympian.

I'm in fifth gear by the end of this program, "Silly, materialistic, fascist, education system....got these kids worked up about some WASP asshole game-show...shit!" That's ok, I am sure that Falls Church gets their butts handed to them when they play Suitland in football, and I am sure that Gonzaga is too busy playing field hockey to care.

But you know, this is DC. This is the Rome of the modern day. If smart, preppy teen-agers are going to be anywhere its going to be here; the sons and daughters of the leaders of the free world. And you know, this is DC, and there are going to be schools of all academic levels, in depressed neighborhoods, that don't have all the support that the guys in Falls Church and Gonzaga have. I shouldn't be surprised by a reality that I see everyday in my life just walking the street or going to work. It just seemed like a vulgar scene to be playing out so starkly at the high school level.

You know at that point, I just didn't feel like reading anymore. I felt like stewing. So I continued to watch TV. The very next show was a cartoon. "Ok, this will be good. What are they teaching these kids anyway."

Jacob Two-Two was on next. Jacob Two-Two is an urban white boy, age about 8-10 I would guess, who lives in an urban part of Montreal. The art was edgy and the themes were pretty sophisticated. It was the type of cartoon that I would like for my kids watch some day. This episode dealt with Jacob never passing his teacher's oral geography quizzes in the morning. Jacob devised a system were he breaks the cryptology of how his teacher picks cities for the morning quiz, and starts studying the ones he anticipates she will ask. This landed him a reputation as a star student, and a spot on the schools academic team, which was to have a televised competition with another local high school the next day. The name of the contest was, "Dollars for Scholars," because the winning team brought home a cash prize for their school.

This of course puts him in a moral quandary because everyone thinks he knows something (geography) that he doesn't. So his mom sits him down. "Mom, I can't do this. I have tried and I just can't learn by memorizing." "I know Jacob. Not everyone learns the same. You have always learned more by doing." "But how do I do Geography?"
Jacob's mom gives him a strategy that helps him act out words physically.

When Jacob's team goes to the TV set for the contest, his school gets introduced as, "Swampville," while the opposing team were the standing champions were introduced as, "Egglitin." The champion team from Egglitin all wore glasses and had disproportionately big heads. Is it bad that I found the satire amusing?

Jacob almost pulled it off. He answered correctly all but the last question, which was about rivers instead of cities, which he hadn't studied. Egglitin won. But the cartoon highlighted some of life's other rewards. Everyone was proud of Jacob anyway. Even his mean teacher came around. Everyone recognized the steps he had taken and the fears he had stood up to.

My only hope, is that there are friends and family hovering around that guy from the Suitland team to say, "Don't sweat it man. You held your head high. Now you know the competition. You can get them next time. You held your composure against overwhelming odds. That's what being a man is all about."

Taste the Rich

2007-11-22T06:10:00.000-08:00

You can't help but get caught up in the wave of the holidays. We are doing the normal stuff this morning: watching the Macy's Day parade hosts interview TV stars I've never heard of, Allyson is brewing Costa Rican coffee in our French Press, our neighbor Lindsey is picking up a couple donuts for us from Dunkins. Even though we have a dinner to get readyfor this afternoon I just feel at peace. Today is a nice mid-week reprieve from the past couple of weeks we've had.

Allyson's Mom, Darlene, and her friend, Charlene, visited us on the Veterans day weekend. We started the weekend with Allyson taking them to Mount Vernon while I finished my work week. On Saturday we went to Old Town, Alexandria. We found a nice cafe for some late dinner (soup and sandwiches). After dinner we walked down towards the river to meet Lindsey and her twin boys and then hurried off to check in for the main event of the evening: A ghost tour through Old Town. I was trying to listen to the stories, but I was mostly paying attention to the boys and letting them take turns sitting on my shoulders so they could listen. It was fun to watch them get a little spooked or say something to make everyone in the group laugh.

On Sunday morning we went to the National Mall via the metro. It was the first time Darlene had been down there. We got off at the Farragut West metro stop, so that we could walk in front of the White House, before continuing on to a tour of the monuments: from the WWII, to the Lincoln, to the Korean, and finally to the Jefferson. We ended up walking 9 miles and everyone was wore out by the end of the day.

The last time I went to the mall it was in the middle of the summer and miserable hot. This time the air was a crisp 60 degress, there was no wind, the leaves had all turned to their fall colors, and hardly anyone was around because the Redskins were playing. It felt like we had the place to ourselves. The Korean War memorial took the show. The fall light gave life to the platoon of soldiers on patrol through the cold woods of Korea.

On Monday morning we said goodbye to Darlene and Charlene after an impromptu exchange of Christmas gifts in the lobby of their hotel. We had an awesome time, and Allyson and I have many pictures, memories, and a new pair of snow boots thanks to their generosity.

We ended the three day weekend with a big event. We said goodbye to the 4Runner. It was an emotional move for us. The truth is that the 4Runner had engine trouble since we got it in 2000, but it has always worked for us so the extra exhaust was never a big deal. The head gasket fails often in this engine series and we had to have it fixed once already, but the cold snap in Northern Virginia must have constricted the gasket because the symptoms returned and were much worse. There was a lot of white smoke and water coming out of the tail-pipe and we knew that the truck would not pass the Virginia emissions inspection without major work. We went to sell the 4Runner and we realized that although we loved it and knew that it would keep running despite its problems, it really was of little value to anyone else. The paint was shot, the electrical system had a short, and the transmission would need to be replaced soon. We totaled up the cost of making the Toyota good for the next 100k miles and found it would be more than $5K. It was time to move on. By the end of the weekend, the red 4Runner, which had been our companion in mountains and in deserts, on the beaches of Florida and through the tight streets of Arcos, through 10 different residences and three different countries, was out of our life. We are still in mourning.

Carl and I went camping last weekend. We defied all the naysayers who pointed out that Saturday night was going to be one of the coldest nights so far this season. Carl didn't care that most people think its important to sleep in a tent when you go camping these days. We didn't care that we really didn't know where we were going until Saturday morning. What we cared about was getting outside and into the fresh air. We found our way out to Skyline drive by 11am and to the Rocky Mount Loop trail by noon. We hiked out to the top of the mountain by 130pm, back around to the other side to set up camp by 300pm. By 7oopm, we were freezing our asses off, and it only got colder throughout the night. We started a fire, which was a challenge in the damp conditions, but was a fun diversion for a couple hours. The fire was out cold by 300am in the morning, but I was wide awake as the warmth was being just sucked out of our shelters. By the time we got moving we were happy to get the blood flowing again. We made short work of the hike back, and made it back in time for pizza, beer, and football.

That is our update. As you can see we have a lot to be thankful for. I hope you are all having as good of a Thanksgiving as I am. My coffee is here now and getting a little cold, the Macy's parade is showcasing the Broadway play, Marry Popins, and we are starting to get phone calls. It is time to get the day started. Until I see you all again, HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Robotica

2007-11-04T15:48:00.000-08:00

We've had a fun couple of weeks here in Northern Virginia (NOVA). Though, I have felt sleepy lately. I think its because of the time change. It throws everyone off kilter. The weather has changed too. The skies stay a little more overcast. The temperature struggles to reach a high in the 70's even between the cold spells. So, I think this has driven Allyson and I into hibernation mode.

Allyson is working Saturdays although she is off an additional day in the work week to make up for it. But that splits up our weekend. By the time Sunday rolls around we don't want to do much but veg out together. I have been in a veg out mood in general because Carl introduced me to the TVseries, "The Office," and now I'm addicted. I have been devouring episodes by the season thanks to NETFLIX, Blockbuster, and NBC online webisodes.

This Saturday at work was challenging for Allyson. I was vegging out again to yet another episode of The Office when Ally came home. Admittedly, I wasn't very attentive when she first walked through the door; a quick hello was about all I managed. Ooops. She was not her usual self. She threw her left-over chicken fingers from the afternoon meeting onto the entertainment center. That was my queue to finally get up off my ass.

After a little probing I figured out that she was having a weird day:

"F__ will just walk all over you until you put her in her place. It just gets exhausting to fight with her all the time. I'm just a laid back person, and everyone else in the bank is too. They all know the way that she is, but nobody does anything about it."

Apparently, her co-worker wasn't the only drama she had to endure.

"Then this guy comes in and he was just a weirdo."
"Really, how?"
"He was just weird. He stayed like and hour and just talked strange. He talked monotone like he was a robot."
"What did he look like?"

"He was just normally dressed, khakis or whatever, with a plain zip-up jacket. He was an Asian guy in his early fifties or something, and he was just annoying."

"Why?"

"He stayed for too long, and he wouldn't leave or stop talking. He must've been highly educated. He kept talking using these big words and we were like, 'ok, whatever.' He wouldn't get any of his info online. "

"That sounds pretty annoying."

"Yea, he started complaining about how there weren't any brochures. He wanted to know a lot of just basic things about the bank; our assets, number of members, aspects of different accounts. We told him he could get all of this stuff online. But he goes on about the current generation and how no one is going to know how to do anything anymore because we rely on the internet. He was using very high language the whole time he is doing this. He was saying he never went on the internet because he didn't want to leave his information on there at all. I told him he wouldn't have to put in any information to access the site but he wasn't having that at all."
"He didn't raise his voice, just talking even, but what he was saying was rude. I had another customer walk up and he stopped and gave me permission to help the next person in line. My friend, K___ , started working with this guy and she regretted it. After a few minutes he had her asking for permission to speak. "

"This guy sounds like a real asshole."

"He just went on and on about society and the state of things while he was waiting for us to gather the hard-copies of all the info he needed. He was saying people don't do business with each other and that things were really bad. At one point I said to him, 'Well, I think you have a good point there.' Just to be nice. And he like looks up and into the corner of the room, kinda rolling his eyes and says, 'I know I have a good point.'"

"What a jerk!" I was getting mad.

"He got really weird though in the end. He started to talk about the human race instead of society. He was saying the human race is doing this wrong or that wrong. And then, he was saying 'you' or 'you all,' or he was talking about the human race and then talking about you all as if he wasn't on the same plane or something. And he was talking the whole time in the same monotone voice, a detached voice."

"Dude, this guy really is a robot! Maybe he is artificial intelligence or something. Or an alien." Now I was trying hard not to laugh.

"Finally we gave him all the forms we could find for him and he stormed out bitter. He was so smart, but I remember thinking to myself, 'How could this guy be so unhappy? All the knowledge that he has and this is how he spends his Saturday?' He just complained about human society and human life the whole time."

Specimen A appears to be a man of knowledge and of science but with no social skill programming who hates to use computers and longs for human interaction. I guess even robots get conflicted sometimes.

Epilogue: The Humans Are Dead

Did I ever mention what a ringer Allyson is at the negotiation table? You know the Toyota Matrix we recently bought, do you think I got the best price for that thing? That was all Allyson. No one can say no to her when she gets on a roll.

We spent Sunday at the local outlet mall. I needed a new suit and there is a Brooks Brothers there. On the way we were passing by a Restoration Hardware and decided to check out what kind of furniture they had. After poking around a couple minutes I found a brown leather chair, sat down in it, and almost instantly drifted off to sleep. I ran five miles that morning and I was anxious to get off my feet. Allyson walked up and also fell in love with this modern leather chair. She checks out the price: at this outlet store it was $2,000 and it was originally $2,500 at the retail store! I was floored. How does a mass produced chair at Restoration Hardware cost $2,500? I mean, this isn't a low-production custom piece of furniture here. Maybe I am just naive. I did recently see a movie where a guy casually wore a $6,000 Lois Vuitton belt.

Anyway, the back of the chair was scratched. It looked like a kid had scratched a cross-hatch pattern on the back of the chair. The scratches were repairable, but probably made the chair hard to sell for such a premium price. Allyson's eyes lit up and she's like, "Maybe they could discount this chair because its all scratched up." I was skeptical.

She walks right up to the lady, gets her groove on, starts talking about the scratches and how she was wondering if she could get a discount. The lady looks at the chair, and on the spot, drops the price from $2,000 to $800. The drop in price almost matched the drop of my jaw. Of course, it was still out of our price range, but I was impressed. A few hours later, after we got a bite to eat, we returned to Restoration Hardware and Allyson starts haggling again. She couldn't get the manager to come down any further, but it was fun to watch.

We finished the weekend with laundry and a movie. We are looking forward to having Allyson's mother, Darlene, come visit us next weekend. Its the first time we've had company from out of town so we're going to roll out the red carpet. In the mean time, we are making the most of it here in NOVA, defending the world from evil robots, and haggling at outlet malls for premium leather furniture.

Sinners Crown

2007-10-21T17:15:00.001-07:00

"Critter whole!"
Lord be with that guy

"Are you coming back with us?"
"Are you crazy?"

"Have I done something wrong?"

"What a crazy little town."
CLAP CLAP CLAP
"....from now on I'll be part of you
I'll be the story that you tell
Let my life inspire you....
fare thee well...don't fear death my Aaay-drien."

"I talked to some of my girlfriends and they said pole dancing was a great workout. What about you huh?", said an Indian chick.
"No, no. I don't pole dance." said some Northern European dude.
"Next Stop L'Enfant Plaze" crackled a speaker.
"Yea, I heard in some country, I think it was the Netherlands, they made it an official art form. They tax it and everything."
"Really?"
"Yea, the Netherlands, because it so much a part of their culture, you know?"

"Critter WHOLE!"
"A black panther with yellow-gold eyes!"

"We mights as well go, there's no reason not to."
"I hope Daisy and Sneakers will be ok."
"High fives you guys."
"Your conversation is great but I'd like to hear the music."

"Be here now....no other place to be..."
"You were falling out last night. I went upstairs to bed and saw it was like three thirty when we crashed. I was like, 'No wonder this dude is tired. He woke up early and went on a million mile bike ride, partied all day, and then stayed up till three.' "
"Are you sure that everything is all right?"
Yea
ok
Fluttering Hands
The lights dim on a Sunday evening in October
Songs of praise rip through the air like NAPALM

"In wrath remember mercy"

Hammer Time

2007-10-14T07:24:00.002-07:00

What a crazy couple of weeks. Things have been going good for us. The end of the year is quickly approaching. Allyson is settling into her new job. I have not had hardly any time to ride my new bike. It seems like there is always some pressing social engagement around the corner which is stressful in the planning, but is worth it in the end. Last weekend Allyson and I attended a formal wedding. We rushed to find clothes and shoes. It had been a long work week. I had trouble peeling myself from the bed on a Saturday to get up and go. But once we were parked things went along easily. The ceremony was held at St. John's Episcopal church in the heart of Georgetown. St. John's was not large but it had character. It was designed by Francis Scott Key and Thomas Jefferson. I easily picked out Jefferson's octagons everywhere.

The couple that were married are new friends of ours here. They were actually the first people we met as we pulled into our new apartment. They have been gracious from the beginning with us, although they are a little more wild than we are. Lauren is an artist and Chris works in human resources. Lauren and her mom had thought out every detail of course. Lauren's mom actually left her home of three years in Northern Italy to be a part of the wedding planning. The preparations took six months. I guess they both thought including their dog in the ceremony was charming. I will never forget Lauren taking a moment as she walked down the isle to get a kiss from Maggy the doggy.

Another nieghbor of ours, Lindsey, has blonde-haired twin boys that are hard not to want to take home. They were the ring-bearers. There was an opera singer who started things off with Ave Maria. Chris and Lauren's families come from different parts of the world and it was very colorful to see these folks come together in the name of love.

After the ceremony we moved on to the reception, which was a full three course meal event at The Fairmont. All the luxuries were accounted for: valet parking, open bar, hors d'ourves, and fancy dresses. We moved into the main room and there was a large band, dancing, speeches. The planers did an excellent job spacing things out so that the event lasted all night. Everyone had a good time. There was dancing between the food courses. The twins were literally rolling around on the dance floor. Young girls were trying to hook up with young guys. It was a classic wedding.

Lauren didn't know where the honeymoon was going to be but everyone had dropped hints about the beautiful beaches in Florida. I can't wait to hear about her surprise to be boarding a plane to Mexico.

Then, on Sunday, Allyson, Carl, and I went to a small independent theater and saw the movie "The Darjeeling Limited," by Wes Anderson. Amazing. That is all I can say about his films. I can't wait to own it. Carl, Allyson, and I all went to see the film and it made for a great afternoon. Visually explosive movie about three brothers trying to find their mother.

Church last weekend was about faith, and I really needed faith last week. I need it this week. I need it everyday. I have a spent some time this week really taking to heart some aspects of that sermon and putting things in God's hands.

Then there is this weekend. The hits keep coming. We were invited to a wine tasting last night. This was another one of those events that can stress you out if you're not careful, and I wasn't careful. We spent Saturday trying to find good Italian wine from Northeast Italy, and preparing a side dish. Cheese and olives wasn't going to cut it. We settled on an Amorone, the Masi Amorone, and gourmet pizza.The tasting was hosted by a reserved guy from work named Jim. I was surprised by Jim's willingness to play the host. I knew that he was not pretentious or I really would have been skeptical about this whole thing. It seemed formal when I heard about it. When we showed up we found out that it was pretty formal, but still fun. Jim had printed off a sheet of all the wines and vintages so that we could rate the wines.

The star of the night though was a 1988 Amorone. What a treat! I had heard that these wines could age and I was not let down; rusty color, complex taste, mellow tannins. I felt pampered. We tasted 13 other wines and it went a long way to expand our pallet. The group just has great chemistry and it was a good time. Jim treated us all at the end of the evening to some banjo playing and singing. The group formed ten years ago. We are looking forward to being regulars. The next tasting will be Piedmonte wines! Can't wait.

Next weekend we are going to a Mason Jennings concert. Life is accelerating a little out of control. I am taking the day not to make any real plans, but to just sit around, watch Allyson do her homework, watch sneakers get fatter, and maybe sip on the rest of my left-over MASI Amornone.

A Precious Piece of Earth

2007-10-01T08:52:00.001-07:00

It was a good week: Auburn beat Florida, temperatures are generally dropping to relieve us from the heat, and I continue to pedal away the miles on my new bike. The big news around here though is that Allyson started her new job at Navy Fed Credit Union. Its amazing all the benefits that come along with it: 401k contribution matching, med/dental/vision, daycare, a large workout facility with three full-time trainers, lots of room for promotion, and a nifty gym bag. Its a pretty sweet deal for us, for lots of reasons, but especially because its only 10 minutes away from our apartment. Others don't have it so good. It's not uncommon for her co-workers to live hours away; West Viriginia, Pennsylvania, you name it. This is pretty surprising considering that Navy Fed HQs is not in a commercial park, but in the middle of a large residential neighborhood.

Neighborhoods like the one Navy Fed HQ is in, look pedestrian but are fetching top dollar, and that is not changing any time soon. The DC area is expensive with the median home costing three times salary, but in the next 20 years it could be three times that according to the Washington Post. The price increase will be due to the stability in the US federal government and jobs connected to it.

Allyson and I this Sunday went to visit with a couple we had recently met. They live in Old Town Alexandria, which is one of the most historic, and expensive, neighborhoods in this area. Think cobblestone streets leading down to the Potomac, good restaurants, and antique stores, all looking across the river at the capital. We walked around the river and talked about the future before we were due at our friend's place. Instead of the excitement of expectation of living in a place like this one day that I normally feel, I just got a little bitter. "Why should I have to break my back to live in one of these old houses?" We continued on to meet our friends, who lived in a neighborhood almost as cute as you'd expect. This couple both work, and get paid at the top of the federal pay system, but they can still barely afford their 900 sq ft. townhouse. Children are out of the question for them. They are considering leaving the area for more affordable pastures.
I left that evening still feeling a little bitter. Was I really going to have to think about moving out to the suburbs and face a two hour commute? Was I going to have to be a part of the evil SS (Suburban Sprawl) empire?

All these ideas were swirling in my head before I drifted off to sleep when my friend Carl called me. I vented a little bit about my evening and I could tell I was getting real boring real quick. He said, "I don't know man, I love going to your apartment. You have made a nice space there, and I love coming over and it feels like home to me."

My grandfather used to say, "I wonder how the poor folks are doing?" The irony was that he was not always rich in a material sense, but would say this when he felt rich; at family BBQ's. If you've got friends, family, and some food, then you have a home. So maybe a precious piece of earth is not always one that you own, but one that you work. The kitchen in my apartment works just as well as the one in my house in Florida. The fresh air comes through the sliding glass door leading to my patio as easily as it pushes through windows up the hill. And I get to live with Allyson. So pretty much, I win.

Piedmonte

2007-09-24T05:37:00.000-07:00

Ah, northern Italy, Piedmonte. I have many visions about what it must be like; between the mountains and the Med, between haute couture of Milan, and the summer craziness of Nice. I would love to spend some time there. Right after I left the Navy I worked in a wine store called The Bottle Shop, as a wine consultant, as many of you know. I gravitated towards the Italian wines in general because of my heritage, but I settled on Piedmonte wines in particular. There was a lot to learn about all the little villages to the southeast of Tourino that produced these masculine, complex yet affordable reds. The Barberas were the first to draw me in because they were cheap and I was sick of Chiante. After that first plunge I was inspired. For example; the blue label Barbera from Marchesi di Barolo; under 10$, are you kidding? What makes a great wine to me is not a certain type of taste, but for the wine to have its own taste. I want to be transplanted when I taste a wine and say, "That is from Piedmonte," and then associate it with certain visions in my head about how fantastic that place must be. My love of Italian wines was building steam before I tried my first Barbera. Jeff Silirie, my brother-in-law from Atlanta, and Cat Silirie, my sister-in-law and wine director at No. 9 Park in Boston, gave me a book for Christmas, Vino Italiano. This could be the best book on wine period. It was half atlas, a quarter farmers almanac, a quarter gourmet and highly recommended.

When it came time for me to put together my own wine tasting in February at The Bottle Shop I felt inclined to do a Piedmonte tasting. We talked to one of our distributors and started picking out some names. I would take the names the distributor recommended and check them out in my new book, Vino Italiano. I would ask to taste the ones we wanted and then we made some selections.

This was kinda a big deal. This was John and Kathrine Feurstien, the new owners, first wine tasting, and more of a grand opening since they had just bought the place in January. It took a lot of faith in me on their part because I was the main wine guy and it was also my first wine tasting. John had it catered by the best place in town. We brought in patio tables for our courtyard. Let's not forget that buying a supply of these wines cost a lot of money.

There were some wine fans in town who could appreciate this selection, but most were used to high priced California Cabs. We were going to be introducing Vero Beach to many of these wines for the first time. We were a little nervous. The evening came and went without a hitch. Everyone had a good time. People were laughing and talking with each other. I had memorized some anecdotes about the different labels to entertain and instruct. We made money. What more could we ask for?

Last Friday I was reading Washingtonian Magazine. Let me back up. Last week I am getting the land-bug again. I became really interested in wine while living in Monterey, California. After a few years I got a real itch when we were living in Augusta, Georgia. They have a neat little wine scene near there in Dahlonega. I was determined to have my own vineyard, and still am, for reasons I won't go into here. I have been riding my bike out to the country on the weekends, and I have been falling in love all over again with rolling hills and wildflowers. When Allyson and I went out there last weekend we started playing around with the idea of buying 10 acres. So, I am reading the Washingtonian this Friday and I find an article on Virginia wines, and I am left sitting there with my mouth open.

Barboursville Vineyard in Barboursville is owned by the Zonin family of Italy, and they decided in 1976 to take Piedmonte vines from Italy and try to grow them in the Virginia Piedmonte here in the US. This was against the grain then because the eunology department at Virginia Tech was pushing for the development of native american vines. Twenty years later they are still growing Barbera and Nebbiolo grapes right in my backyard.

We woke up early on Sunday and headed out to the Piedemonte country. For $4 dollars you can taste a dozen wines and take the tour. It was pretty grand. The wines were good. The had a great un-oaked Chardonnay. But the Barbera fell a little short of its $23 price tag. The Nebbiolo nailed the signature tar taste of the varietal, but needed a couple years to open up. No harm there, it is made to age after all. The Cab Franc ended up being the big surprise because it tasted the most like other Piedmonte wines I had tried in the past, and it isn't even a Piedmonte varietal. You never know what you are going to find when you head out your door. We finished up the afternoon with some Virginia BBQ that we picked up from a little place off of Route 29. A crew of motorcycles throttled through the intersection across from us, each raising one hand in the air with the rock and roll sign as they passed by. You won't find that in the Italian Piedmonte.

A Fair Wind Blows

2007-09-16T13:01:00.000-07:00

My friend Carl is from North Dakota and has seen his share of seasons come and go. When we left for our Saturday morning workout he said, "Yea, this is the first day of Fall." He said it the way a farmer would say it, as if this was a sure thing based on a hereditary knowledge and that it had special value too. The wind was kicking up and sent in lower temps. It got right down to the 40's around here at night, and the mercury only slowly work its way up to 70 by the dead of the afternoon.

This is a novelty for the Florida boy. We don't have a change of seasons in the same way. Sure, it gets colder from time to time, but everything changes further north. I realized on my drive to Carl's apartment, watching the wind blow, feeling the sunlight hit me at a strange new angle that makes everything seem the color of burnt orange, that it had been a long time since I experienced an all American Fall. The last time was during high school when we were living in Kansas City.

We had a great three day weekend though. On Friday I went on a 50 mile bike ride out into the country. I really took the time to notice the wildflowers. I studied in the afternoon a little bit. I made Allyson dinner: steak potatoes, mushrooms and wine. It sounds easy but I make it pretty delicious. On Saturday Carl and I hit the pool. I swam a mile and got a little cold as I walked up to the pool in short sleeves and shorts. We ate lunch with Carl at a cool Lebanese market named Al Nakheel. We tried to do some more studying at my house but ended up taking a nap and then watching football instead. Texas barely beat UCF this weekend. That has to be one of our best games ever. Carl went home, Allyson and I went to the Triathlon store so I could get a new water bottle (Profile Design Aero Drink, stay in aero pozish and still drink) and then went to the mall so she could use an Ann Taylor Loft coupon.

This Sunday has been the type of day that makes you want to smooth out your rough edges. You are too relaxed to want to do anything but be cool with people. We decided to go to church in the evening. We haven't left yet, but so far the change in the Sunday schedule is working out great. We slept in as long as we wanted, got dressed in our favorite comfort clothes, and went to Tyson's Bagels to drink coffee and read the well used newspaper. Allyson had a dream the other night that we had a vineyard, and I always take her dreams seriously. I had wanted to show her some of the countryside that I'd seen while riding the bike these past few weeks. After very little deliberation we finished up at Tyson's Bagels and went out West into the hills of Purceville. Its a neat antique shop sort of town with rolling landscape and lots of farmland. We visited the local bike shop at the end of the WOD trail. The cold weather biking cloths was half price and we had fun trying them on. I bought an outfit that is sure to keep me warm during my winter rides and could easily double as a uniform on a Mexican pro wrestling team.

We drove up and down the rustic country roads. Honestly, Allyson got a little sick. We decided it was time to head back and take Daisy for a walk so we returned to the highway. Allyson put in the sound track from French Kiss. We sang along and decided it would be cool to take French classes again. The tempo of the songs timed perfectly with the tempo of the road congestion that increased as we headed back into town. The last song was a french-punk-ska melody that said, "Hey, your back in the big city now. So get on with your life."
Let's see, I have one more load of laundry and five shirts to iron for the workweek. I wonder how long it will be this good.

Bike Crazy

2007-09-09T16:40:00.000-07:00

It was a pretty fun-filled week for us. I put in 80 miles on my Felt tri bike this first that I owned it. I have redoubled my efforts for the triathlon training. I wake up at 5am so that I could get some time in with my new wheels. A jolt of inspiration seems to come at the end of every race season but this time I really feel like I could finish and compete in longer distances so I am gearing up for Internationals next year. Just as a sidebar, I was born on the day the first Iron Man competition was ever held, 18 Feb 1978.

Allyson and I have been doing all those things you do once you get a little more settled into a place. We have our favorite tex-mex restaurant nearby, we went to a house-warming party for new friends of ours, we have a workout routine, we go to concerts, we shop at Trader Joe's grocery store on Sundays, and we have found a church that we like to go to.

I finally got my act together two weeks ago and rounded up a couple of my old Rota, Spain, friends to go on a weekend road trip to visit another one of our crew, Mike Tolsen, in Ocean City, NJ. We had an awesome time surfing in the day, drinking beers at Yesterday's overlooking the salt marsh in the evening, being serenaded by Mike in the late evening as we drifted off to sleep, and filling up for breakfast with a belly full of Taylor Ham breakfast bagel sandwiches. You gotta love New Jersey.

So, short-story long, I was standing there this Sunday, ironing some shirts for the work-week, getting into the USA-Brazil soccer match and the Redskins game with Allyson, and just thinking to myself, "Wow, this is pretty nice. I wonder how long its going to be this good?"

You Can Help Save An Orphan

2007-09-02T11:32:00.000-07:00

I guess I have always felt that warm fuzzy inside when I gave something to charity or to the needy, but the internet has made the give-away a big event.

I have been pretending to follow a rule about my consumption lately. I have been trying to get rid of one thing for every one thing that I buy. Its mostly because I am poor right now and live in an 800 sq ft apartment. I have a storage unit to hold everything that the apartment won't and I am penalized by the sq ft for having too much junk. Also, I think its just good sense. It forces me to think about a purchase before I go impulse buy. In truth I have actually only done this about 5 times in the last 3 months. I gave a bunch of clothes away when I bought some new work outfits. Those clothes and linens and towels I quietly dropped in a collection box. This time was different.

It was time follow my rule and let go of the Millennium Falcon (If you want to know why she's named the Millennium Falcon, read my first post). It wasn't altruism that brought me to this point of getting rid of this bike that was now a lame duck, but Allyson, who pointed out that we just didn't have the room for a third bike. I decided that the only respectable way to say goodbye forever to the Falcon was not in a nameless grave next to the dumpster (from the dumpster she came, to the dumpster she would return?) but to post her for free to a good home on Craigslist. Boy was that fun.

Instead of me quietly making a donation and never seeing the result, I was the main event. It took about 15 minutes for me to have 20 emails in my inbox. I have never had so much celeberty in cyberspace before. I kinda liked it. I have to give stuff away more often. I got all these stories from all over DC: recent grads from Georgetown, undergrads from George Mason, a Virginia Tech student who wanted to get his brother into biking and had a hook-up for parts at an REI. There was a guy who claimed he rebuilt bikes for the old, infirm, and children and could easily make this one work. There was a agency that begged I donate my bike so that it could be sent overseas to a third world country. I received an email from a bike shop mech that said he had an old grupo ready to go on it. There were so many worthy voices all asking me to decide which one deserved the bike the most, and frankly I started to stress out. I wanted to make sure I did this right. At first.

As the emails just started to pile up I grew a little more panicked. I realized that this could go on forever; the longer I waited to decide the more worthy applicants would fill my inbox. I just needed to make a choice an keep it simple. In the end I kinda closed my eyes, and picked a guy who seemed to have a plan for the bike. I am finding lately that it always works out when you approach things with faith.

I called the guy feeling like Ed McMann. I told him he was the lucky finalist. He sounded really cool. He happened to live 5 minutes from me. He had a wife and kid. She was out doing errands and could swing by my place. And that was it.

I started to scramble trying to figure out how to turn the fire hose off on my inbox. I updated my Craigslist post: "Gone, thanks everyone for your interest, the bike went to good home!"
Fame is a fickle lady. I checked my yahoo account 20 minutes later, and no new messages had come into my inbox.
So the guy's wife shows up. She says that its a good thing the bike is so big because her husband is a big guy. Perfect. She drives up in a white car, wearing a white shirt, and I take it as a sign. The Millennium Falcon will fly again. Bet on it.

Take the Plunge!

2007-09-01T18:12:00.000-07:00

Now for some breaking news: After a valiant effort to keep spinning on my 20 year old Cannondale I took the Millennium Falcon on her last voyage with me today. Jeff, my brother-in-law, helped me salvage this bike from a dank basement in Atlanta. Jeff's brother-in-law, Chris, is a pro dumpster diver and pulled this thing from a trash heap somewhere. There is still nothing wrong with the frame. What is wrong with the Millennium Falcon is that she is four sizes too big for me and her components are finally gone for good. An upgrade would mean just too much money. She earned the name Millennium Falcon because she is all white and has down-tube shifters. On a local trail, the WOD, Carl was drafting me and told me to, "hit it!" in order for us to make a quick pass around some joggers before a large pack of bikes squeezed us in behind them. I pumped down on the shifters to hit the high gears and it looked like I was moving the throttles forward on the Millennium Falcon; it was pure hyperdrive after that moment. I was a white blur.

But in truth the Millennium Falcon is tired. No amount of attention with the spoke wrench can keep the wheels round. The shifter cables are stretched. The chain slips right off the rear cassette. I would have to stop at least once every ride. I knew things were on there way down hill when Jerrod, my road bike Jedi, said the it was time to think about a whole new grupo. Then I did a tri and couldn't shift onto my big chain ring for the entire race! The final straw came this morning. Beautiful weather should have meant an awesome ride. I got six miles before my chain came off and my shifter cable broke free from the front derailler. I had just had that fixed too. It was finally time to put her out of her misery. She served me well.

Allyson, my friend Carl, and I all went straight home, freshened up, and drove to the local triathlon store. I bought a Felt S32/2007/54. I know it sounds easy but I had done a lot of research and put in a lot of miles before this and I knew what type of bike I was going to get. My choice had been made long ago, it was niw time to pull the trigger. Its hard to believe that I have a new tri bike in my kitchen , but there it is. The component mix is good: Dura-ace shifters, ultegra rear derailler, 105 front derailler, aluminum frame, and carbon fork, Shimano R500 wheelset. The guys in the shop were very cool. They had one bike left in my size. The bike happened to just be adjusted just right when I did the first test run. The deal is coming with a free sizing in a month, and a free full service tune-up every single year! They also took 10% off for it being the end of the year. Its good to have zero buyers remorse. Yes, this bike is worth more than the blue-book value of my first car. I think that is a pretty good rule of thumb for your first tri bike. Like a engagement ring being worth three months salary.

I have found a couple great online resources to up my tri game and I'm ready to start training hard for next year. I am determined to leave the world of Sprints and head into the longer Internationals next year. Its all over but the crying.