Day 8.143 Almost Trumped by Smoke

I sit in the tiny Medford, OR (MFD) airport sipping a tasty locally brewed pilsner, waiting for my veggie burger. I should have done this off-site but I wanted to get here, sit, relax and debrief.

I has been a long couple of days. Yesterday was a wash. The smoke from the surrounding fires, contained to a paltry 10% this morning, pretty much diffused everything I was trying to film with a layer of brown haze. Not exactly the way one want to film a treasure as true as Crater Lake (shown at left from the Lodge).

After the futile attempt, I drove 100 miles to sleep at a place they call the Crash Pad. Owner-Operator Christina was elegant, delightful and sexy as all get out. I almost went directly into AFib the instant she smiled at me. I gotta knock this shit off or its gonna take me out.

Did not sleep well despite her cordiality and was up and running at 0345 heading back up to the Lake in the hope of a better day and some time-lapse video at sunrise.

Got it in.

If it process as nice as it looked live, we got ourselves a winner.

I just asked the waitress if she is a hard-line right-winger. She looked at me funny and laughed. No was all she said.

Then could you please turn that shit off?

I was referring to a live feed of D. Trump in Atlanta.

He makes a great case, without spewing a vowel, for gun rights.

Can't wait to get home.

See you tomorrow.

Day 8.142 It will be OK

You simply need to relax. It will (always) be OK.

I was thirty seconds late.

Sorry, sir, this is peak season and you need to be at Sea-Tac two hours prior to your flight.

That would have been 0500. Impossible when the first ferry pulls anchor at 0445. I am way too cheap to drive around or spend another miserable night at the Jet.

So I gambled. I got to a self-service kiosk with forty-five minutes before take-off. I am caring on all I need.

We'll get you a seat on the next flight.

But my connection in PDX?

You will miss that.

OK, I'll deal with that in Portland.

I can book you direct.

Really? What time?

8:05 tonight.

No thank you. I'll take me chances.

I get on the later flight. There is a head count problem. I had a slight chance of catching the connecting flight but now…no way.

They march up and down the aisle counting as they go. The agent comes aboard and announces that they need to do a roll call to figure out the problem. My first time for this.

Anderson? Here.
Beaty? Present.
Collins? Here.
Davenport, two? Yes and yes.
Fredrickson? Yo.

By this time I am hiding my face in my hands because I know that I will soon be "that guy".

And I am.

The agent runs to 16D and asks if this is my original flight.

No. But here is my boarding pass, remember me telling you the story ten minutes ago at the gate?

OK, thank you.

We get to PDX. 

I hurry by the Bombardier turbo-prop that is going to MDF. I think that I should just hop on because that is what happened in Seattle and I made THAT flight.

I decide to play the game and hustle to the gate. I tell the agent my story and that I do not have a boarding pass but I am booked (with frequent flyer miles) and I we still have five minutes.

She sighs deeply and opens a new computer socket.

OK, here you are, but hurry down to Gate Two.

I know where it is, thank you very much.

They are pulling back the stairs as I make a high speed right angle turn from the walkway.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, gentlemen, I am on that flight.

The ground crew look at each other and shrug.

OK.

And OK.

Medford, Crater Lake and Jacksonville, where I am spending the night, are surrounded by fire and smoke.

I shot 35 miles of Rim Road and am heading back to try again in the morning at first light.

It will be OK.

Day 8.141 We Have A Winner

Many a spin class I have asked for enhanced focus from the participants. I have on occasion, turned down the music volume to emphasize the distraction potential or, on a few very special and rare sessions, hammered the mute button like tenderizing abalone.

There is the argument that music IS a distraction, and that the pure, true and fearless athlete needs only the sound of wheels turning and heart beating. The theory being that a minor-key dirge during an up-tempo sweet spot attack will do more harm than good, limiting, dumbing down the output, intentional or otherwise. The beat becomes the goal when it shouldn't be, and we default to the safety our comfort zones.

I get that. I have spent many, many hours lost in the zen ozone (ozen?) of the groove zone with nothing to augment (diminish?) the suffering but my desire to rise above and improve by speed, power or fitness.

Interestingly, I am the first to reach for the volume slider when I recognize the beat, time signature or familiarity of a great tune. And there are many. As one example.

Somewhere between these extremes lies a place we all subliminally seek. We want the groove, we want it to be a dance, we want it to rock. We want the inspirational motivation of a classic song at high decibels. We also want the purity. The complete tuning out of anything the slightest bit distracting. I do not want to be in competition with ambient cacophonous noise. Same goes for screeching teens, squeaky wheels or complaints of any nature.

There is a balance we seek.

Often I intentionally create a set-list that will offer examples of what we are trying to achieve. I will mash-up an hour of Motown, Blues and classical ballads. During all that wonderful harmony I ask for top-notch effort. As measured by watts. There is a fascinating synergy available for those that have the ability to combine these extremes.

Imagine my surprise and absolute joy this morning, when one of our regulars, an ultra-fit mother of three, had this to say when asked how she preformed our second week of Super Eights.

"I had to work real, REAL hard to keep my power up, because, and I know you did this intentionally, there was no beat to spin to today."

We have a winner.

Day 8.140 Fooled again (My Stage Win)

We won't get fooled again (no no).

As much a I like The Who, we will get fooled again.

Because we want to be fooled.

I am not speaking about politics (I played this anthem every day in spin class during the voting period prior to our foolish election of that guy before Mr. Obama).

We are human. We do silly things. We get fleeced. We elect village idiots to the highest office for the sole purpose of enriching those already in the top 1% of Americans. Fool me twice he tried to say.

Hollywood knows this, as does any good magician. I don't know, maybe even Trump knows it. PT Barnum and Charlie Chan did. Hunter and Garcia did.

It is the Hollywood fool, as tool, that I reference today not the Capitol Hill shill.

I had to take a couple of days off between season 2 and season 3 of 24 in order to digest it all. As you know this is my third consecutive viewing of all episodes of all seasons. I probably don't need to tell you why I am doing this again in detail, so here are the Cliff Notes:

1) Crisply written
2) Adeptly produced
3) Well acted, scored and edited
4) Relevant
5) Dramatic

It is the last of these that I detail today, The Dramatic.

We, as audience love to suspend belief. We love to get tricked and we adore the sensation of plausibility. I, perhaps desperately, want to see the heroic. I want to follow the lead of a person I completely trust and respect. I want to fight for a cause so important that I will do whatever it takes to accomplish the mission. I also would really like to be a bad-ass.

Jack represents all of the above. In spades as card players like to say. He is everything we (or at least I) would like to be.

There is a fine line however. The jumping of sharks. Once you go TOO FAR, it is almost impossible to return. You cannot insult a sophisticated audience unless you are in the comedy genre. Your protagonist must become our hero, and therefore above the normal laws governing our definition or current understanding of reality. THAT is another fine line that all artists walk, How much is too much? Where will they stop buying into the premise? How outlandish, ridiculous, impossible or implausible can it get before the dreaded 'no way' reaction?

The current rage of Super Hero movies is a perfect example. Remember the first time you saw Super Man fly? Jackie Chan fight or John Wayne shoot? How about 007, Captain Nemo or Iron Man? Too much?

Jack is hanging, tied by his wrists, naked. He has info that the bad guys want. He is being tortured by a sadistic enemy combatant terrorist mercenary a-hole. Jack is being cut open with a heated scalpel. He will not talk. The bad guys cuts some more. Jack won't talk. We hear again that everybody has a breaking point. They hook up electrodes to Jack and pump 1,000 watts of hurt into him. No talk. They inject him with a pain inducing drug. Jack screams but says nothing else. They repeat this until Jack is dead. Then they panic because he is the only one who knows the location of the computer chip that incriminates the whole gang, including Mr Big.

So they get the handy AED and hit him with 360 joules. Nothing. The lead bad guy yells for his toadie to get the epinephrine. They shoot him up with 200cc's. Nothing. More joules, more drugs. Nothing. Jack is gone. The clock counts down and we fade to black. Jack is dead. I might as well start watching The Wire.

But we know he won't be dead be for long. We have suspended believe and love the drama that we missed something, that one small detail, that will allow Agent Bauer to return and thoroughly kick the asses of all those responsible. Not because they almost killed him, and he wants revenge, but because it is his job and he loves his country.

Next episode opens with Jack laying on a gurney. They give one more jolt and one more injection and Jack is back. We breathe a sigh of relief.

And than he does what he does. Not longer than five minute after all this trauma he kills all the hostiles, steals a car, makes three phone calls, re-loads, finds where the latest lead has led and speeds off in that direction.

All I can do is sit and watch, happy for the opportunity to be fooled, again.

Day 8.139 Cedar and Stone

It is a hot Sunday in late afternoon.

I sit on 'my' bench in the park, listening to the audio mix of gulls and jets overhead, people and cars on land and children screeching as they dip toes into the cold Puget Sound water. It is a harmonious mix and I sit cross-legged with eyes closed.

I have been trying to ease the discomfort in my legs and hips using a combination of self massage, Tylenol and Session IPA. The massage feels fine, although I wonder if it would be finer with another set of arms applying the pressure. The beers are cold and satisfying after our trail run. On the run I re-injured my left hip flexor and iliopsoas I am feeling very much like taking a long nap.

I read some, then stumble towards the shoreline, cross-tie walk a driftwood log of about twenty feet and return to my bench. I make a cheese sandwich and sip from my beer. I am feeling odd and I suspect the medicinal combination I have select for this ailment has, in synthesis with the meds I consume daily, created a unique and interesting sensation. Like being stoned out of my gourd.

I see a piece of cedar and pull my knife from pocket to whittle. I spot a smooth and colorful stone, reach to fetch it and sense something cosmic. I have unwittingly connected two powerful natural elements and they vibrate in my hands like an electric toothbrush.

Deep into Tom Robbins mode, I consider the connection between the wood, the rock and my soul. My breathing has slowed as has the volume of merriment behind.

I decide to conduct an experiment. A precise test of the human spirit and our ability to sense vibrational awareness - conducted to the strictest standards of the scientific method.

I will put my handiwork atop the smooth stone on the bench, take a seat at the picnic table some twenty feet behind and see who is attracted to this red-hot vibrating calling card.

The sun falling through the cedar trees at my back casts creeping shadows towards the laboratory.

I sit stealthily and motionless in wait, deep into the tao of the now, much like a mouser waiting for her mouse. Or like a moose waiting for his muse.

Without turning my head I hear voices from three o'clock. A group. Walking my way, two girls and maybe three guys. I guess college age. I hear one of the girls complain about the heat, and I think, I hope, that she isn't the catch.

Sure enough they walk towards my bench. It is hard for me to keep from smiling, laughing out loud because I am virtually guiding them in as an airline traffic controller might.

The two girls sit to the right of the bait. All three of the guys are wandering around looking for something to occupy their need to be doing anything constructive.

Finally one of the guys walks towards the bench and in a swift, thoughtless, feral movement sweeps my artwork and dazzling display off the bench and into the dirt. Then he sits.

Bastard, I silently hiss, raising to go take another log walk and decipher the meaning of this unexpected twist.

When I return they are gone.

I flip-flop shuffle to the picnic table, still analyzing the puzzling round-one results.

From four o'clock comes a soft crush of dried leaf and pea-gravel. Someone is walking my way. Someone petite and in absolutely no hurry.

I turn my eyes to the direction of the footsteps and they immediately widen. I gulp.

I have attracted a hippie-chick. She is beautiful and brown - modeling cut-off Levi's with the pockets showing and a tie-dye bikini top. She is alone. I go into tachycardia.

I watch her every move as she dances into my field of vision. She is going to sit on my bench. I consider calling 911.

As she sits I can hear a collective sigh from every angel in heaven. There is no other sound except that of my arrythmatic heart and a gentle sympathetic wind. I hear a butterfly pass. I now know what inspired Poe to pen The Tell Tale Heart.

She walks directly to the carved cedar, grasps it and returns to the bench, absorbed in close scrutiny.

Day 8.138 Hal on Wheels

Sufficiently advanced technologies are indistinguishable from magic.

So said Mr. 2001 A Space Odyssey, Arthur C. Clark. With kudos to Stanley Kubrick, who, although uncredited, I am sure shared Mr Clarke's understanding of science and magic, It is time to look a little closer at the brilliance of this concept.

I think about this every time I fly. I am sitting in an aluminum tube with fixed wings, sipping a cold beverage, taking notes on my computer, at over 500 miles per hour. Surely the airline industry recognizes this and adds a 'magic tax' to their basic fare structure.

Cellular telephones. No cords, cables, rotary dials or party lines. I can be (almost) anywhere and talk to (almost) anyone I choose. The sophistication of the latest phones, including wi-fi, bluetooth and GPS, is truly phenomenal. Seriously borderline magic. If the carriers weren't so over-filled with greed (I must buy a two-year contract?) I would answer every call with hocus-pocus instead of hello, but every time I pay my service bill I feel like I have been sawed in half.

Computer tech. Off the charts magical. The things we can do these days, that we couldn't dream of doing five-ten-twenty years ago are just as amazing as making an elephant disappear. In my little genre of video editing, I can do as much as my imagination allows. Yes, Final Cut Pro non-linear editing suites are a grand, my G5 (going on six) was almost three large, and my cameras, storage units and peripherals another couple of K's, for me to 'compete' with Hollywood, at home, with a zero budget, is like pulling a daily bunny out of my beret.

My bike. I have said this before and I will most likely say it a few more times before I am done, but the bicycle is arguably the most magical of all inventions. With it's (relatively) simple technology, utilitarian design ever increasing range of use, and zero fossil fuel consumption, it gets my vote as 'most magical'.

Granted all of the above take some human connection to be considered complete, but that is part of the magic, too.

They need our consciousness and awareness to properly reach the lofty goal of magic.  The case can be made, therefore, that we are all, those of us who fly, surf, chat, edit and ride, magicians.

These magic words being said, I will never name my bike HAL.

Day 8.137 The Sugar Cops

There are a couple of basics that often get overlooked.

Caught between the rock of diet and the hard place of exercise, two elementary, yet omnipotent elements demand your attention.

Air and water.

All well and good you might respond but what about fuel and thermal regulation?

I counter your inquisitiveness thusly, did you know that your body stores fat to satisfy both of those concerns? Should you so desire, you could run TWO MARATHONS (or one Ironman) using only your stored energy, further, should you need less insulation (that layer surrounding your center) all you have to do is keep at it. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Try that without air and water and you will quickly join the ranks of those of us who know the eeriness associated with a bonk.

You can get by without an expensive bike, a wetsuit, $200 running shoes, a gym membership or, dare I say, a CompuTrainer, but trying to maintain a serious exercise regimen without breathing or hydrating is much like trying to eat soup without a spoon or driving your car blindfolded.

So breathe and drink up. Use your nose and drain the hose.

In between deep diaphragmatic breaths, chased by satisfying sips of cool, clean water, we do need to fuel. Fuel bats third, right after oxygen and hydrogen2-0. If we are shooting for optimum health, fitness, body mass index and improved performance, our choices of fuel are crucial.

I have been experimenting with this for thirty years. I have tried everything from a spinach and peanut butter diet to ketosis, low carbs, no carbs and all carbs. I have used high protein - low carbs and low fat - high carbs. I have supplemented. I have gone off grains, off dairy and off meat. I remain to this day off meat, but that is for a different reason altogether, and for another post altogether.

Through all that experimentation I have come to one conclusion, air and water aside.

You might say that we have found the enemy. And it is us. The us that likes sweet things fried in saturated fat.

If you would like to experiment along with me, I am starting today, here is the protocol:

Breathe right. Drink often.

And no sugar. (I am hearing the Guess Who)

No sugar tonight in my coffee, no sugar tonight in my tea.

None.

Should you decide to take this ride, please know that a referee sits on a moto WATCHING.