I just got back from one of my favorite bike rides, known locally as the Lucas Valley Loop. It includes a five-mile stretch of country road that climbs gently from the tiny West Marin town of Nicasio up to Big Rock, where the pavement plummets down into Lucas Valley on its way toward Highway 101. On any day, this section of Lucas Valley Road is an ideal place to ride – not too much traffic, a rolling ascent, and beautiful scenery, too. On a hot summer day, the redwood tree-shaded lower part of the climb usually has a mini-climate that is many degrees cooler than almost anywhere else in Marin. I like to imagine the roads in Heaven will be like this.
Today, as the miles passed beneath my skinny tires , I thought about how many of life’s lessons I’ve learned while on my bike, but two stand out in my memory. Coincidentally, they both occurred while ascending this same gentle climb.
My first Lucas Valley lesson was during high school, back in 1973. Instead of regular gym class, a handful of us lucky cyclists would earn our P.E. credits by simply signing in at the beginning of seventh period and then going for a long afternoon jaunt. On this particular day, we headed north from Mill Valley up to Fairfax and west out to Nicasio, being led by Marc Horowitz.
Now, as far as we were concerned, Marc was the Real Deal. He rode a British Ron Cooper racing bike with a full Campy Record group (the best stuff at the time) and his hands seemed to be permanently tattooed with chain oil from fine-tuning his steed. He held the national junior record for the 10-mile time trial, I believe, and had even won a stage of the Tour of Mexico in a solo breakaway. Like I said, the Real Deal.
As our group rode along, Marc would impart wisdom, encourage us and provide a helping push if one was needed. That afternoon, as we approached the crest at Big Rock and sat up in anticipation of the swooping downhill, he chided us. This, he said, was the perfect time to attack in a race. Just as your opponents are catching their breath and grabbing for their water bottles, you have a real chance to open a gap. It was an opportunity not to be wasted. Then he suddenly sprinted out of his saddle and bombed the twisty downhill, with the rest of us trying desperately to catch up to his fast-disappearing Ron Cooper.
I learned the second lesson by myself, lower down on the same road and several years later. Riding solo one afternoon, I punctured and pulled off to change my tire. In those days, we all rode “sew-ups” or tubular tires. These enclosed the fragile rubber inner tube completely, thus requiring an entire new tire to be mounted on the rim after flatting. After a few minutes, my spare tire was installed and inflated, and I was back on my way. Unfortunately, I suffered a second puncture not more than a half-mile further up the road. Now, this was embarrassing, since I never carried a second spare. There was nothing left to do but get off and hitch a ride.
I tried to flag down passing motorists, but they were few and far between. And the ones that did pass never even slowed down. After half an hour of this, I had a flash of insight: Maybe they just thought I was a lazy cyclist, hoping for a free ride up the hill? To test my theory, I took the front wheel out of my forks and held it up in one hand as I raised my other thumb in the universal signal of the hitch-hiker. The very next driver stopped and gave me a ride back into town.
So there you have it. Nothing earth-shattering, but then, most of life’s teachings can be fairly subtle. The first lesson taught me that when you are just about tapped out is the ideal time to reach deep and find that hidden extra gear. It was a much better illustration of than the old saw of “giving 110 percent.”
The second one was at the opposite end of the spectrum, a lesson in humility. Simply said, when you need help, make it clear to those who might be inclined to step in. So many times, we suffer in silence, yet are incensed that no one hears our unvoiced cries. In my experience, there is a surprising amount of compassion in the world, waiting to be tapped.
I've lost count of the number of times I’ve climbed up to Big Rock, but I’m always aware that the next lesson may be just around the bend.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Peaches and Towelettes
Getting my teenage daughter to eat fruit can sometimes be a chore. For a vegetarian, she is a particularly picky fruitivore. But, yesterday, as we drove home from school, she resurrected a "pluot" (a plum-apricot hybrid) from her lunch bag and bit in. The smell of ripe fruit and the warm afternoon brought back memories of fruit stands and long family car trips.
The following narrative is not contemporary. In fact, I wrote it during my college years at UC Davis. But it certainly fits the theme of Bourbon and Bitters, since it does describe an actual event from my early childhood. I have transcribed it verbatim, even though the punctuation is somewhat haphazard. For me, it is fascinating to peer into my young adult mind from 35 years ago.
Incidentally, at the end I wanted to describe the image of a shaft of light squeezing between two objects, like the summer solstice shining between the enormous blocks of Stonehenge, in England. So, I just made up a word, "stonehenged." I was marked down for that. Oh, well. I still like it.
Great orchards - peaches, oranges, walnuts - swept by the highway. Rows of trees spun like helicopter rotors past his car window, flickering. As each row came into view, he saw something past it. Something; then it was gone. A tractor, a car, a man walking (or was it a woman? too quick to tell), or maybe nothing. Just another ordered mass of trees beyond, rotating in unison with the nearest, yet slower (why always slower?).
Sitting, melting on the hot vinyl bench seat, the family station-wagon, forest green. The plastic sweated a greasy-feeling substance (why?) that refused to be wet. He folded his arms in his lap, rested his head upon them, and tried to doze. Whether he succeeded he didn't know. Be he woke up soaked in perspiration, a womb-like wetness that was, at the same time, both stagnant and comforting. Vaguely, he remembered the others talking of road signs, orange-juice stands, and blackbirds, all this while in a sleep-like stupor. They played Highway Bingo on little cards with sliding glass windows that were red. He lost, unable to find an s-curve sign.
The highway rose slightly, skirting some hills. They were naked except for the golden grasses on which herds of dairy cows grazed (didn't they get tired of standing like that all day?). Pavement mirages mouldered ahead of the car, always out of reach. He looked down at the roadway where the mirages had been (where had the puddles gone to?). His mother was doing a crossword from the Sunday paper. Her glasses were tipped down on her nose and every so often she would stare off into the distance, resting her eyes. He tried to read some of the words (m-a-n-d-a-t-e, man-date, man date, mand ate?). She gave him a scolding look, so he sat back and gazed out the window. At least the window seat was his for this portion of the ride. It lacked support on the ends yet it was better than sitting in the middle. He hated being there, his legs astride the center bump, the hard seat torturing his butt and, worse, nothing to lean on (why were car seats always like that?). But the window was his and the telephone lines sped by rhythmically. Wires crossing and recrossing, rising and falling, crossing-recrossing. They abruptly veered away from the highway and rushed off towards the horizon along an irrigation ditch between two fields. He slept.
The sign said "Freshest Peaches in the Valley - 500 ft. on right." To his surprise, the car was slowing down, pulling off the road onto the shoulder, stopping. He opened the car door and got out, pulling on his shirt-tail to unglue his back from the dampness. A zephyr spun through the parking lot, cooling the perspiration on his back like a refrigerator. He ran the back of his hand down his spine and looked at it: dripping. His shirt had a peculiar feel to it, cool, wet, dirty. He took a pre-moistened towelette from his back pocket and tore open the metal foil. It smelled good, clean and moist. He stood there and just held it unfolded over his face, enjoying. Then he cleaned his hands, his forehead, his mouth with it, and looked again. It was soiled and didn't have any more of that perfumey scent that he savoured. He folded it and put it back in its wrapper.
The fruit stand stood beneath two large oaks, the ground around it was littered with spoiled fruit, but its cement floor had just been hosed down and looked cleaner than any he had seen in the past (hadn't they cared?). A No-Pest Strip hung in either corner of the building, apparently doing nothing to get rid of the countless flies that were present. The fruit stand was a strange place: in addition to the produce there was Mexican papier-mache pottery for sale (did anyone ever buy it?). His father handed him a washed peach; it was bigger than his outstretched hand. A chill went through his body when he tried licking the fuzz. He rubbed it on his shirt and bit in. The juice trickled down his chin, into his palm, and down his forearms. He sucked up what juice he could, bit at the yellow flesh, sucked, bit again, till he came to the pit, wrinkled and red. Bits of peach clung tenaciously to it and he nibbled free each strand, that is, until his mother took it from him and gave him another towelette. He held it over his face again and walked back to the car, peering through the paper. His sister held the car door open and he got in, luxuriating in his perfumed world, imagining himself in an all-white room, air-conditioned and faintly feminine. The motor started and his sister got in, nudging him into the center. He feinted fastening his seat belt and lounged backward on the seat, face covered, imagining. After they got under way he washed himself and stuffed the used towelette into the litter bag. His ear hurt.
DIP (that was a silly sign!). The dip make his stomach feel funny, like turning somersaults. He and his sister giggled. Billboards flickered by, advertising hotels, motels, restaurants: forty miles, thirty miles, fifteen minutes, five minutes, just ahead, turn left here, a blaze of light, clusters of buildings and then, You just missed... There was a Travelodge sign with a sleeping bear in a nightshirt, holding a candle with one hand and yawning with the other. He yawned; dusk fell.
The pain woke him up. It seemed to come from inside his head, like in the television commercial (why does it hurt so much?). He whimpered, and his mother turned around. Just a little farther, dear. It's his ear, I think, said his sister. We'll give you something to make you feel better when we get to Grandma's, she said, frowning sympathetically at him and turning back around. Streetlights, neon signs and brightly lit billboards leered in at him. Minute scratches in the windshield made long-rayed stars out of approaching headlights. The rays spun as the car flew past. It ached, it ached, it ached, it ACHED.
He opened his eyes and he was in bed at Grandma's. The light show on the highway had stopped. His mother took his temperature and sat on the edge of the bed. It made him feel secure when she did that. She gave him half of a medicine capsule covered with jelly on the open end. His sister arranged his toys on the windowsill by the bed. The ceiling light was on, but it was alright since it didn't move. He watched the plastic dinosaurs on the sill. They were marching in a line: Brontosaurus, Stegosaurus, Tyrannus Rex. He knew their names and slept. He awoke the next morning feeling better. The sun coming up across the street between two houses stonehenged a gold and silver arc through his window...
February 1976
The following narrative is not contemporary. In fact, I wrote it during my college years at UC Davis. But it certainly fits the theme of Bourbon and Bitters, since it does describe an actual event from my early childhood. I have transcribed it verbatim, even though the punctuation is somewhat haphazard. For me, it is fascinating to peer into my young adult mind from 35 years ago.
Incidentally, at the end I wanted to describe the image of a shaft of light squeezing between two objects, like the summer solstice shining between the enormous blocks of Stonehenge, in England. So, I just made up a word, "stonehenged." I was marked down for that. Oh, well. I still like it.
Down the San Joaquin: A Descriptive
Narrative of a Non-event Remembered
Narrative of a Non-event Remembered
Great orchards - peaches, oranges, walnuts - swept by the highway. Rows of trees spun like helicopter rotors past his car window, flickering. As each row came into view, he saw something past it. Something; then it was gone. A tractor, a car, a man walking (or was it a woman? too quick to tell), or maybe nothing. Just another ordered mass of trees beyond, rotating in unison with the nearest, yet slower (why always slower?).
Sitting, melting on the hot vinyl bench seat, the family station-wagon, forest green. The plastic sweated a greasy-feeling substance (why?) that refused to be wet. He folded his arms in his lap, rested his head upon them, and tried to doze. Whether he succeeded he didn't know. Be he woke up soaked in perspiration, a womb-like wetness that was, at the same time, both stagnant and comforting. Vaguely, he remembered the others talking of road signs, orange-juice stands, and blackbirds, all this while in a sleep-like stupor. They played Highway Bingo on little cards with sliding glass windows that were red. He lost, unable to find an s-curve sign.
The highway rose slightly, skirting some hills. They were naked except for the golden grasses on which herds of dairy cows grazed (didn't they get tired of standing like that all day?). Pavement mirages mouldered ahead of the car, always out of reach. He looked down at the roadway where the mirages had been (where had the puddles gone to?). His mother was doing a crossword from the Sunday paper. Her glasses were tipped down on her nose and every so often she would stare off into the distance, resting her eyes. He tried to read some of the words (m-a-n-d-a-t-e, man-date, man date, mand ate?). She gave him a scolding look, so he sat back and gazed out the window. At least the window seat was his for this portion of the ride. It lacked support on the ends yet it was better than sitting in the middle. He hated being there, his legs astride the center bump, the hard seat torturing his butt and, worse, nothing to lean on (why were car seats always like that?). But the window was his and the telephone lines sped by rhythmically. Wires crossing and recrossing, rising and falling, crossing-recrossing. They abruptly veered away from the highway and rushed off towards the horizon along an irrigation ditch between two fields. He slept.
The sign said "Freshest Peaches in the Valley - 500 ft. on right." To his surprise, the car was slowing down, pulling off the road onto the shoulder, stopping. He opened the car door and got out, pulling on his shirt-tail to unglue his back from the dampness. A zephyr spun through the parking lot, cooling the perspiration on his back like a refrigerator. He ran the back of his hand down his spine and looked at it: dripping. His shirt had a peculiar feel to it, cool, wet, dirty. He took a pre-moistened towelette from his back pocket and tore open the metal foil. It smelled good, clean and moist. He stood there and just held it unfolded over his face, enjoying. Then he cleaned his hands, his forehead, his mouth with it, and looked again. It was soiled and didn't have any more of that perfumey scent that he savoured. He folded it and put it back in its wrapper.
The fruit stand stood beneath two large oaks, the ground around it was littered with spoiled fruit, but its cement floor had just been hosed down and looked cleaner than any he had seen in the past (hadn't they cared?). A No-Pest Strip hung in either corner of the building, apparently doing nothing to get rid of the countless flies that were present. The fruit stand was a strange place: in addition to the produce there was Mexican papier-mache pottery for sale (did anyone ever buy it?). His father handed him a washed peach; it was bigger than his outstretched hand. A chill went through his body when he tried licking the fuzz. He rubbed it on his shirt and bit in. The juice trickled down his chin, into his palm, and down his forearms. He sucked up what juice he could, bit at the yellow flesh, sucked, bit again, till he came to the pit, wrinkled and red. Bits of peach clung tenaciously to it and he nibbled free each strand, that is, until his mother took it from him and gave him another towelette. He held it over his face again and walked back to the car, peering through the paper. His sister held the car door open and he got in, luxuriating in his perfumed world, imagining himself in an all-white room, air-conditioned and faintly feminine. The motor started and his sister got in, nudging him into the center. He feinted fastening his seat belt and lounged backward on the seat, face covered, imagining. After they got under way he washed himself and stuffed the used towelette into the litter bag. His ear hurt.
DIP (that was a silly sign!). The dip make his stomach feel funny, like turning somersaults. He and his sister giggled. Billboards flickered by, advertising hotels, motels, restaurants: forty miles, thirty miles, fifteen minutes, five minutes, just ahead, turn left here, a blaze of light, clusters of buildings and then, You just missed... There was a Travelodge sign with a sleeping bear in a nightshirt, holding a candle with one hand and yawning with the other. He yawned; dusk fell.
The pain woke him up. It seemed to come from inside his head, like in the television commercial (why does it hurt so much?). He whimpered, and his mother turned around. Just a little farther, dear. It's his ear, I think, said his sister. We'll give you something to make you feel better when we get to Grandma's, she said, frowning sympathetically at him and turning back around. Streetlights, neon signs and brightly lit billboards leered in at him. Minute scratches in the windshield made long-rayed stars out of approaching headlights. The rays spun as the car flew past. It ached, it ached, it ached, it ACHED.
He opened his eyes and he was in bed at Grandma's. The light show on the highway had stopped. His mother took his temperature and sat on the edge of the bed. It made him feel secure when she did that. She gave him half of a medicine capsule covered with jelly on the open end. His sister arranged his toys on the windowsill by the bed. The ceiling light was on, but it was alright since it didn't move. He watched the plastic dinosaurs on the sill. They were marching in a line: Brontosaurus, Stegosaurus, Tyrannus Rex. He knew their names and slept. He awoke the next morning feeling better. The sun coming up across the street between two houses stonehenged a gold and silver arc through his window...
February 1976
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