I've been reduced to riding indoors. I've caved. I ride the spinning bikes at the gym and sadly I actually enjoy it. The machines are comfortable, I sweat like a pig and I feel like I've actually ridden a bicycle. Forgive me Jesus for I have spinned. I even looked on ebay the other day at dvd's that show a road slowly passing by at about 10 mph. Put your bike a foot away from your TV screen, push play and start pedaling on a trainer and suddenly you're riding up a Colorado mountain pass or down a quiet New England lane in the fall or along a stretch of California coastline. A fan can give you that headwind feeling and all that is missing is that little cafe up ahead waiting for you to pull in and have an iced coffee. Oh, there it is right behind me in the kitchen...the fridge.
OK, what I'm trying to say here is how many times or in how many different ways can I complain about the cold weather here in NW Washington state? I know riding indoors is lame and I know that I have the freedom to chose to live wherever I want. And since I actually do chose to live here, then why complain about it? My only answer (also lame) is that it helps. Misery loves company. And if I want to bitch about being cold all the time (and yes Margaret I do) then I have to come to the sad realization that life has been reduced to writing about the weather. It's now 45 degrees outside, overcast with a chance of showers later in the day. Highs expected to reach 49 with a low of 37. If your from anywhere else in the world multiply those numbers by 5/9 and add 32...or is it divide by 9/5 and subtract 32...oh how I miss those metric days of anywhere but here. It's hitting me hard today. I want to ride my bike. Not just spin in a health club and not just around the island on a nice warm day. I want to ride my bike around the world and eat weird food and meet amazing people and be uncomfortable and smelly and strong and breathe the warm humid air that is dirty from slash and burn and too many cars. I want to be with people that forgo working for living. People that have a retirement plan that includes Alpo for dinner instead of 401k's. I just met a guy in the ER that had chest pain. He was worried because his dad dropped dead from a heart attack at 69 years of age. One year after retiring. Life is short and fragile and wasting any of it seems like a crime... and if so, I am a serial criminal. Sheryl tacked up a scroll on our bathroom wall the other day that we found at the dump. "Every day, think as you wake up...Today I am fortunate to have woken up. I am alive, I have a precious human life. I am not going to waste it." It was written by the Dalai Lama and I love it. Of course it goes on to talk about helping and benefiting others and not getting angry at anyone (which may be why it was at the dump) and I kind of blow that off but hey, half of a great message is better than none. It's kind of how I approach the bible or any religion too. "OK, I kind of like that section here but, ooh, this part...not so great."
So, back to spinning. I guess the fact that I sit in a room and spin my wheels while going nowhere is a pretty good analogy for my life right now. Hurry up Spring, this is getting old!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
8 freaking hours!
My friend and constant motivator for all these recent blog entries, Margaret, commented recently that I should "quit yer bitchin" about my latest random complaint. After doing a quick mental calculation I realized that fully 89.65% of my blog entries were bitch sessions. I got kind of sad realizing that all I do is sit in front of my laptop and come up with funny ways to complain about the events or people in my life. The sadness lasted for 2 maybe even 3 minutes until I realized how much money I was saving in psychotherapy bills. Airing my dirty laundry (bike shorts) and neurotic foibles in front of whoever is bothering to read this far is strangely satisfying. Plus I just re-read an entry from Thailand (where I was sitting next to some guy who was oozing his fat ass onto my lap) and actually laughed out loud. That was very cool...entertaining myself like that and sitting in a room all alone chuckling out loud like a nutter. So bitching I will continue to do while pondering new names for the blog like "the curmudgeonly cyclist" or "crusty bike man" or "nasty attitude on two wheels" or "my ass hurts and I want you to read about it"...you get the idea but that isn't what I wanted to write about today...at all. I want to complain some more.
Try this. I dare you. There is a door. And behind this door is a room of people that are all sick. Babies are crying next to people who have migraines next to people vomiting into ridiculous "emesis basins" designed to hold just slightly less vomit than your stomach can. Invariably there will be sitting nearby someone who has reached the end of his rope and can't take much more...suicidal or homicidal, it could go either way at the moment. Next to him, well not really next to but as far away on the other end of the couch as possible, are the two-fers...family members who, since they had to bother bringing in a loved one might as well get checked out too. All of these folks have been waiting for over an hour (OK, two or three) to get through that door to see a doctor. You hold the key to that door...You are the triage nurse of the Emergency Department. You are the gatekeeper. Opening that door you grab the next chart from the pile and all the expectant eyes in the room look up hopefully like you're Jesus. But you have no miracles. Instead of passing out fishes and loaves or even some great advice on how to live and not be so judgmental, you shout "Bob Smith"over the din. One man stands up and walks toward you...too sick or angry or resentful by now to even smile at his change of luck, as all the other eyes change from hope to disdain. That is the easy part. Now, sit in that room behind the door for 8 straight hours and listen to people explaining (often in graphic detail) about their physical problems. But you don't just listen to their ordeals... aches/pains/drainages/sores/bowel movements/urinary flow rates/oozing body piercings...oh I could go on (and will in the future believe me) you inquire about the details. If "tell me about your bowel movements" doesn't elicit the response needed (and if they're over 70 don't worry, it always does)you have to pry further. No one really likes to ask another fellow person if their poop is bloody, tarry, smelly, stringy, hard, soft, pellet like, mucous tinged, lighter, foamy or diarrheal. For me however, it's my mantra...my money maker.
There is a special room reserved for me when I get to hell. It is the triage room and I'll be the triage nurse. I really haven't lost my compassion for the suffering of others. I feel badly for all those poor people stuck out in the lobby, feeling like death, or maybe wishing for it, and waiting for the help they have come looking for. But to be surrounded by the constant pain and the constant crying babies and constant NEED effects me and I get resentful. The antidote is humor and it is in laughing at the absurdity of human existence. And of course, complaining about it all.
Try this. I dare you. There is a door. And behind this door is a room of people that are all sick. Babies are crying next to people who have migraines next to people vomiting into ridiculous "emesis basins" designed to hold just slightly less vomit than your stomach can. Invariably there will be sitting nearby someone who has reached the end of his rope and can't take much more...suicidal or homicidal, it could go either way at the moment. Next to him, well not really next to but as far away on the other end of the couch as possible, are the two-fers...family members who, since they had to bother bringing in a loved one might as well get checked out too. All of these folks have been waiting for over an hour (OK, two or three) to get through that door to see a doctor. You hold the key to that door...You are the triage nurse of the Emergency Department. You are the gatekeeper. Opening that door you grab the next chart from the pile and all the expectant eyes in the room look up hopefully like you're Jesus. But you have no miracles. Instead of passing out fishes and loaves or even some great advice on how to live and not be so judgmental, you shout "Bob Smith"over the din. One man stands up and walks toward you...too sick or angry or resentful by now to even smile at his change of luck, as all the other eyes change from hope to disdain. That is the easy part. Now, sit in that room behind the door for 8 straight hours and listen to people explaining (often in graphic detail) about their physical problems. But you don't just listen to their ordeals... aches/pains/drainages/sores/bowel movements/urinary flow rates/oozing body piercings...oh I could go on (and will in the future believe me) you inquire about the details. If "tell me about your bowel movements" doesn't elicit the response needed (and if they're over 70 don't worry, it always does)you have to pry further. No one really likes to ask another fellow person if their poop is bloody, tarry, smelly, stringy, hard, soft, pellet like, mucous tinged, lighter, foamy or diarrheal. For me however, it's my mantra...my money maker.
There is a special room reserved for me when I get to hell. It is the triage room and I'll be the triage nurse. I really haven't lost my compassion for the suffering of others. I feel badly for all those poor people stuck out in the lobby, feeling like death, or maybe wishing for it, and waiting for the help they have come looking for. But to be surrounded by the constant pain and the constant crying babies and constant NEED effects me and I get resentful. The antidote is humor and it is in laughing at the absurdity of human existence. And of course, complaining about it all.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Bike On My Car or I'm a Deep Person
There's a bike on my car. Once again it sits on my car more than I sit on it. 1) I feel like I look really cool with an overpriced bike on my car...like people will say, "Whoa, that guy must be intense if he's riding in this stinky weather". 2) I live on a small island that is dependent on ferries for transportation to the mainland. This can be a major pain in the ass. The ride across the straight is beautiful but makes a trip to a bigger store or dentist an all day affair. Just the ferry unloading process can feel like a Costco check-out line. Car after car crawls off the boat turning your one hour and ten minute ride into a 90 minute test to not go postal. It's the sitting. The interminable sitting. In the summer you sit in the ferry line for up to 2 hours to get on the boat then up to another 1 1/2 hours on the boat as it goes from island to island dropping and picking up other people not going postal. The first few times it can be "quaint". That's what people think and it's why they buy WAY overpriced homes here (sorry Samantha you know it's true). The patina of quaint wears off eventually...somewhere after you're into year 3 or so of an astronomical mortgage. By the time I get to my car I'm really done sitting. So I fire up my car and, breathing someone elses exhaust, impatiently sit some more. And in a circuitous route I'm back to the subject of my bike on my car. Having a vehicle with a bike on it makes me too tall to get stuck over in the side lanes. It gets me into the center of the boat...the coveted middle lane. First group off the boat. So not only do I get the hell off the ferry sooner, I look intrepid doing it.
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