Dessert on the House

Today after our ride, several of my teammates and I headed over to a local restaurant for some food and beer. As we straggled in, a woman asked us if we had been cycling - it was that obvious. Awhile later, she returned and said, "Are you all part of Team in Training? I want to thank you. My daughter is a survivor of ALL (acute lymphocytic leukemia). They tell me that the reason the survival rate has increased from 40% to 90% is because of all the treatment that has been funded. Dessert is on the house." We learned that her daughter was diagnosed at 5 and is now 14 years old and doing amazing.

The girl to my left was nearly in tears. The girl to my right noted that she didn't actually know anyone with blood cancer, and that this really brought home the importance of what she and her husband were doing as part of the team. I did not know anyone with blood cancer when I first joined the team either, but unfortunately now I know several. We all have so much fun on the team, most of us would do it even without these reminders. I generally feel as though I don't deserve to be thanked for spending my time having fun.

But I do want to thank all of you who have generously donated to my campaigns over the last several years. Even if you do not know anyone with blood cancer, there are real people whose lives are being saved by the money LLS raises and you never know who they might be. In fact, in the last decade, half of all new cancer therapies were first approved for blood cancers! Thank you!

A San Francisco Evening

This past Sunday evening, we had a true San Francisco experience. First we attended the members' opening night of the California Academy of Sciences' new earthquake exhibit. We watched the planetarium show, which featured amazing images and animations of the earth, plate tectonics, and earthquake action. I loved the overhead view of Tomales Bay, Point Reyes, and the entire Bay Area. The show was narrated by San Francisco local Benjamin Bratt.

After that, we lined up for the shake table, which replicates the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake as well as the infamous 1906 quake. Apparently the 1906 quake lasted 90 seconds; the table only replicates 30 seconds, and even that seems like forever. If only my house contained hand rails and had everything bolted to the wall the way the "dining room" on the shake table does. We waited about 30-40 minutes for the shake table, during which we enjoyed complimentary cocktails. After that, we had to head out for our next adventure, so we have to return to check out the actual exhibits, including live ostrich chicks, as well as the 3D show on other planetary geology. If you are in San Francisco, you should definitely go check this out!

The next adventure was a celebration of the Golden Gate Bridge's 75th anniversary - a fireworks show. I was not sure if this would be worth the adventure in getting there, but we figured since we were in town, we should go check it out. After being passed by several chock full buses, we managed to flag down a taxi, and flew up to the Bay with remarkably little traffic. As soon as we started walking toward the Fort Mason hill, however, we realized we were joining forces with untold numbers of other pedestrians. They were streaming in from the Fisherman's Wharf area, lining the hills and the path. We managed to get a pretty good vantage of the bridge, behind only a couple of other people. Soon, the lights on the bridge turned off. The crowed oohed. And suddenly, a cascade of fireworks falling from the entire span of the bridge - an amazing sight. The rest of the show was also spectacular; the best fireworks I have seen in ages. I do wish they had the bridge towers lit up the entire time, as you could not always see it. The fireworks that lit up the towers and the span were the best. I shudder to think about all the chemicals falling into the Bay. The fireworks were the talk of the office today, two days later. It seems at least half the populace must have seen them.

Well, happy 75th GGB. Thanks for serving the community well and looking so good in the process. As for you earthquakes, I hope the 4.0 near us on the Hawyard last fall is the worst I have to experience when not in the comfort of a shock table. The magnitude of such an event is truly terrifying, but it is all the good things about the Bay Area that keep us here.

Ephemeral

This weekend, local sailors participated in a race around the Farallones, islands off the coast north of San Francisco. This water is known to be difficult - windy with large swells. On Saturday, one boat did not make it - three people were rescued, one was found dead, and four are missing. The Coast Guard called off their search Sunday night, saying the window of survivability had closed.

One of those missing is my co-worker. He sits in a cube catty-corner from mine. I do not know him well, other than to smile or say hi as we pass, but he is close with others here. His cube remains with his belongings strewn about, just as he left it, although someone has laid flowers at his keyboard. It is hard to comprehend that he will not be returning; that we will not hear his Irish brogue.

I think it is the suddenness that is baffling. I have been lucky enough to not have been touched my too many deaths in my life, particularly unexpected ones. In college, a friend went on a solo-backpacking trip in Zion and was found dead. It was hard to comprehend that I would not see him at the next party or adventure.

These two young men were doing things they loved - enjoying the outdoors. One could say, "Life is short, do what you love," but that context seems perplexing here. Perhaps you would not choose to do what you love if you knew it would be your last time to do anything at all.

Obviously we accept risk in many of our daily activities. I have to constantly remind myself that driving is more dangerous than most things I do. It is probably more dangerous than sailing or backpacking. And still most of us choose to drive on a regular basis, primarily for the convenience. Here, the risk is accepted; why not in the other areas of our lives too? Are the rewards for driving greater than the rewards for things we love?

Perhaps the aphorism that applies more appropriately here is, "Life is short, love hard."


UPDATE: After I wrote this I went back and looked at the news from my college buddy's death and realized that I totally mis-remembered it. What I wrote about is what I imagined had happened when I first heard he had died, but it was not true. The memory is a strange thing.

The Great Abandon (Part II)

It has now come to the time of hanging, stagnant heat.  Approaching mid April, the temperatures are surpassing 90 degrees, but the air conditioning in our apartment is not yet on.  The screen door gapes, all three windows are open, and two fans spin languidly.  Today is the first day a pleasant breeze has not been blowing.  So the heat settles.  Mid-afternoon was like a long summer day in the Midwest; it seemed noise had stopped.  The stillness surrounding me was surreal, and the heat drew me into a restless sleep on my bed, waking only to the phone, a pierce to the not-quite-summer day. 

It is past six o’clock now and the sun still hangs in the sky like a child refusing bed.  Birds cheep-cheep, children laugh and chase outside, cars rumble down the road.  The world has awakened from the oppression.  It is only early April. 

The heat of the desert is sometimes agreeable, like being wrapped in a warm blanket with a cup of hot cocoa.  Spending a summer in the high desert of Utah accustomed me to 85 degree days and 30 degree nights, but a trip to St. George brought back the pleasantries of home.

            “That thermometer just said it is 108 degrees.  This is stifling.”

            “I love it; it isn’t too hot yet.”

            “Let’s get back into the car and the air conditioning; my feet are sticking to the asphalt.”

I could not put into words how the heat made me feel alive again, the sun testing my skin to see if it still functioned properly.  Somehow, for that moment, I was happily hot.  A few days now and I have had enough.  But every so often, it feels just right.

The Great Abandon (Part I)

I think I have figured it out. That is, the reason Phoenix holds no place in my heart. I always feel I am a stranger here, though I’ve been a resident for four years. I love the Sonoran Desert; I am attracted to this land. The desert lies naked, quivering with heat, calling to me. The wide, embracing skies and rocky mountain walls stand testament. To something. I am drawn to the starkness, the great abandon. I cannot take water for granted, but rather search it out, pleadingly. A tinaja hidden among the rocks. A spring daring to rise above ground, filtering quickly back into the land. I felt it for a moment, just now, the reason I love the desert.

Tucson was my home for eight years, my middle childhood, played out in the foothills of the Santa Catalinas. I sprawled outside on our concrete pool deck/backyard and watched the monsoon roll in over the mountaintop nearly every summer afternoon around four. I transferred to the front porch to watch the lightning show from under the relative safety of an overhang. The rain came down and turned our perfectly landscaped yard into verdant fields of Texas Ranger, bougainvillea, birds of paradise. The natural desert portion of our land heaved with saguaro, palo verde, mesquite, cholla, prickly pear. If only the lightning came and the rain forgot to make an appearance, I watched the side of the mountain turn orange with flame, slithering like a snake, while the Forest Service decided whether or not to let it burn.


The mountains near Phoenix are far off in the distance; here I can never watch the storm come rolling in. The Valley of the Sun is not like the Old Pueblo, filled with native plants and visibly surrounded on all sides by mountain ranges, though development there is spilling out the passes, striving, always striving to become a second Phoenix. The desert here hides at the edge of town and sulks somewhere beyond the grass and shade trees. Here the desert is the enemy. Native cacti are ousted by plants from around the world, a usurpation of the native ecosystem, known as the ASU Arboretum. Snowbirds and displaced Midwesterners plant the vegetation of their childhood. Green grass is good memories brought to life again. Phoenix is not the Sonoran desert.

Tom's Race

This past Sunday, two of my TNT XC Ski teammates and I headed up to Bear Valley to participate in Tom's Race, a 10k striding-only event. Four of our other teammates head up as well, but they just skied for fun, partly because the race involved a rather crazy hill.

This race was totally low key and showcased everything that is great about Bear Valley. There were only 30 participants, yet the course was amazingly groomed and marked with care. After the first loop and at the finish, the race organizers cheered all the skiers by name. They didn't care how slow we were, and I managed not to finish last! At the awards lunch, they provided us with a free drink (beer!), food, and door prizes enough for everyone. Erin and I won matching hats filled with Clif product, and Ron won a great Mountain Hardwear backpack. Paul, the proprietor, even thought to mention our adventures in Anchorage and our fundraising for blood cancer. There he is handing out hot buttered bread:

In an interesting ski race phenomenon, Erin and I finished first and second in our division - because we were the only two people in it. Most of the participants were middle-aged men. I managed to fall on my butt twice - on the same steep hill on both loops of the course. But the butt-fall choice worked out better than our other teammate who fell on his face on the same hill and knocked some teeth loose...

We skied in 50 degree temperatures and drove home through the even hotter places where we actually had to turn on the air conditioning. Next weekend will be the last weekend of the ski season for Bear Valley and most other XC venues. We had an amazing experience with Bear Valley this season. The first time we went up, Paul found a softball field with enough snow on it for us to learn how to ski. Another time when it rained over night and prevented grooming the trails, he worked with the Sheriff's Department to groom a town parking lot for us. And when we finally got to ski on trails, they were busy grooming and pumping out water to try to make the best of a not so good situation. Have I mentioned there was hardly any snow this winter?

If you're in California and looking for places to XC Ski next year, I highly recommend visiting Paul at Bear Valley.

[Photos courtesy of Peggy. Thanks!]

Mexican Vignettes

It was easy to go to Mexico, to the big flowery city, to the Orozcos, to the beaches where an ocean view costs change.  It was easy to love from the beginning.  

It was the frogs on the curvy mountain road in the midst of the storm.  It was La Ciudad de Dios, mini-Rio, where El Cristo Rey and los apostolicos watch over Ejutla.  It was seduction in Spanish, because everything sounds better in a language that is not your own.  It was the late night, the rain, and the fuzz in my head.  It was the songs in the streetlight and the supportive adobe wall. It was okay to say nothing in the morning. 

It was riding in the back of a truck, jostling out of town onto the cobblestones of Puerte in the obscurity of 1 am.  It was drunkenness off good tequila that remembered me in the morning.  It was the mariachi sitting next to me, picking la guitarra.  It was the low slung brick house and the night-time serenade.  

I emailed no one, called no one, missed no one.  Perhaps you would say I did not love enough.  But it was only that I loved Mexico too much.