Spinning

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!

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.

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.

Bicycle Porn

So what does one (me) do when it's 30 degrees outside and there is ice and snow on the ground and one wants to go for a long bike ride? If I were a total rock star cyclist I'd put on my long fingered gloves and 14 layers of breathable yet windproof protective clothing and go for a ride. Sadly I'm not that guy. I just read in the Adventure Cyclist magazine that a guy rode across a stretch of Australian desert with his only water source being what he could carry and the rare well he would stumble across. He lost 30 pounds in that 40 day ride and probably whatever sanity he started with as well. People have come up to me since the SE Asian ride last year and said how intrepid or brave I was to have done that. I'm not sure how following my bliss and working a daily diet of great vegetarian food and cold Beer Lao after a hot day on my beautiful bike deems me studly but I'll take those empty compliments. Memory is a funny thing. It's so true how we forget the pain and remember the beauty and fun and joy of past experiences. Life can be crappy at times so it's a nice touch that god threw this wrinkle into the mix and let's us remember the past with longing and fondness. Now, as I look out the window and watch the snow fall and pile up in the streets, I don't remember the crotch rot or the loneliness or the long smelly bus rides or the misery of the humid mid-day sun. I think of friends and people I met and bonded with or of the beauty of the strange vertical mountains of Southern Thailand. I even think fondly of Khao San Road in Bangkok. That overly dreadlocked and body pierced orgy of alcohol and Euro-youth looking to get laid...or at least a tan while munching on a bag of fried crickets.
The snow here acts like a blanket of Versed causing event memory loss. For my non medical friends Versed is a drug given for short term medical procedures that hurt like hell. Things like setting a dislocated shoulder or cramming a three foot long camera up your ass (aka colonoscopy). It is a great drug to have before these procedures as it not only really helps you relax, it causes amnesia of the thing just performed. I always smile when a patient who just minutes before was screaming out in pain and misery awakens and asks when we're going to begin the procedure. It can be hard to convince someone that, yes, that tube really did go that far up their rectum when they have no memory of it at all. {That was a hideous tangent...I'm so sorry} So the snow removes the pain of the worst of last years ride and all I remember is being warm and enjoying it all. Craziness to be sure but I can't even get outside now without feeling the bite on my skin as the wind blows in from the north. So, to get back to the original question of the blog... what to do now? I'm stuck on the computer reading about other people adventures or looking at bike porn. Its a sickness I have to admit. Something I'm really not proud of...and something that can be very addictive. Bike porn. Looking at photo's of bikes and the gear just stripped from their sexy frames. Panniers pulled off like lingerie or racks just waiting to be mounted onto that frame. The pictures are endless and there are so many things to look at and desire that I almost feel dirty. Lighter pedals, stronger wheels, bigger bags, softer seats, beefier panniers, the list goes on and on. As does the ever present desire. When I can't look at any more pictures I'll spend time cleaning my bike. My bike is clean...really clean right now as I've rubbed my deraileur too many times. My chain shines right now. And chains should never really shine. But all this loving care has changed my relationship with my bike. The love affair is back and after taking her for granted for so long, I love my bike. She is strong and beautiful and black and with a little TLC she treats me like a king. If I could only get on and ride!! Yeah, my stepson Julian and I went for a ride a few days ago but the numb fingers and ears made it kind of painful and I couldn't conjure even a drop of sweat from my frozen body or my fading memory. So I come in from the cold and go back to the bike porn. I guess looking at a hot bike is better than sitting on a cold one...OK not really but all I'm trying to say is I'm missing Kauai and Thailand and Laos and.........

WORK

Be careful what you ask for. As for me, I've always been afraid of the 9-5 work week. It's not that I'm lazy and don't want to work (OK, it's not that I'm super lazy and never want to work) it's just that I've always thought that work was a means for getting some money together so I could enjoy my life. It seems like we have lost the idea that life is rich and multi-layered and fun and an exploration for learning and growing...like a field trip for the soul. "OK everyone, you've just been born so get your things together and get on the bus, and don't forget your lunch bags...we're all going to planet Earth this lifetime...should take about 70 years, so if you need to pee just go ahead as we all seem to have diapers strapped to our asses." I rather like that analogy. It beats the current paradigm of life as a shop-a-holic frantically rushing through a Wall-Mart on December 22nd. At the risk of sounding like a Chicken Soup for the Corporate Wage Slave book I'll shut up. I'm just saying that when I work day in and day out I get that glazed look of subdued panic in my eye and wonder ...isn't there more than this? DRIVEL!!!
It's pathetically awesome. I love sitting here at "work" listening to myself whine and moan about things most people have dealt with a long time ago. Or at least they buck up and do what they need to do to feed their family. I am so spoiled and so privileged to be able to "blog" about how much I don't like to work. As a kid I often heard how Bryner (my last name) rhymes with whiner. Hmmm, those kids were pretty astute.
So I have asked the universe/god (who in my head sounds like a British James Earl Jones) to NOT be a 9-5 wage slave but make money in a more creative way. So I'm proud to say that now I'm a slave to my credit card debt and oh, the freedom that I get from that is astounding. I chuckle at how I once worked 40 hours a week. I feel so much more free than my friends who say, "Oh, I'd love to go on a walk with you but I have to work." And I casually and in a sly knowing way say, "you mean it ISN'T the weekend?" What I am trying to say is that I'm an idiot. Freedom isn't free. I saw that on a bumper sticker between an NRA sticker and a support our troops sticker and always thought it was a comment on how we have to kill other people so we can continue to shop and drive unabated. Now I really know what it means. Freedom costs 9.9% (minus the air miles) and at the rate I'm going into debt about $150 a month in interest fees. 'Cause here's the part I forgot about. If you chose to work a whole lot less you actually have to spend a whole lot less. Dammit!! Math was never my forte'. You see, I'm not the sanctimonious snob I appear to be in this blog. I buy crap. I am a consumer and as much as I'd like to seem "evolved" both spiritually and ecologically, I'm a hypocrite. I am conscious of my actions and try to limit my impact on the earth but let's be real. Anyway...
I'm sitting here at "work" this morning looking out the bay window at the almost-full moon shaped like a dropped melon, shining on the oily black waters of the Puget Sound less than 30 meters away. Across the channel are the lights of Vancouver Island and Victoria. I can't hear a sound in this darkness and I'm rested from a full nights sleep. It's the end of my shift. Without any details, I get paid to be on standby. Thirteen hours of night shift and I can sleep when I want with a pager on. So NOT working the 9-5 gig means that I juggle. I juggle 4 jobs that have hours all over the map and yet it seems like I still have a lot of time off to spend getting deeper in debt. I'm also an EMT and even though it is technically a volunteer position it has its benefits...like all the Raisinettes/M&M's/Kit Kats (the perfect trifecta of chocolate treats) you can eat. I also am working at a spa in Friday Harbor as a massage therapist. I know, I know, and before you get all freaked out let me say there are no nail techs or eyebrow specialists anywhere to be seen. It's all about the healing environment and not so much the pampering of the rich and spoiled. There's nothing like a good massage to get you back into your physical body and out of your busy monkey-mind. And lastly I'm back in the ER working 12 hour hell shifts running non-stop to pay that credit card bill down a bit. An added bonus is that the ER will provide hours of blogable material (I thought I was messed up) when things get a bit dry around here (yes dry, like the second half of todays blog). The nice thing about the ER is that it is only on-call. There is something so powerful for me to be able to say, um, "NO" when the hospital calls and asks if I want to work today. It's funny but I often say yes...there is just a bit of breathing room there when I have the option to say no. In many ways I wish I could just be happy doing the 9-5 thing like so many others seem to be. The water cooler thing, the discussion of last nights episode of American Idol, the cubicle with pics of the kids etc. I'm getting an upset stomach just writing about it!
Sure, I know I'm crazy, absolutely nutters. Aren't you too?

Missoula, Spandex capitol of Montana

I was just in Montana. I have yet to see Brokeback Mountain so my preconceived ideas about rednecks and cowboys there were still intact. The fact that Missoula is a university town and that there are more bikes than cows there has me thinking that this may not be your average Montana burg. What made it special for me (and the reason I went there) is that the epicenter of the self-contained long distance bicycle touring world is here. Adventure Cycling Association headquarters here was giving a seminar on bicycle tour leadership. Hmm, you mean I might actually find a way to get paid to naval gaze and wonder why I was born if only to cycle and die?
Sure I'm barely employed and broke but did someone say "road-trip"? It was weird to be on the open road again after being 'home' for the past few months. Actually it was awesome and I love the way a road, yes even I-90, lays out ahead of you into the distance like a long welcome mat. "Come on in the adventure is right this way"! The weird part of it was having the bicycle over my head instead of under my butt. I kept looking up longingly through the sun roof (OK for all you people who actually like to drive safely with your gaze fixed ahead...or for any liability attorney's...yes I realize driving is an inherently dangerous activity and one should drive with both eyes on the road at all times and with the utmost prudence) as bugs splattered my bikes head tube and handle bars. I thought about the difference between travelling by car and by bike and wished I could have pulled over and just started pedalling. Smearing moth and yellow jacket carcasses across my windshield I felt my sore back and flat ass melting deeper into the seat as I brushed off the crumbs from my most recent snack. I used to get a sore back and sore ass from cycle touring too but felt alive getting them. In my Subaru I felt like the passing scenery was a TV show behind the windscreen as my heart rate stayed steady at 60 beats per minute. And there is something that happens on long car trips that hasn't been discussed much. Something that I'm willing to risk embarrassment and self exposure to get out into the open. After a few hours in the car it feels like something foul has crawled into my mouth... and then died. It's weird. I can go a whole day on a bike without brushing my teeth and feel fine...OK, looking for a toothbrush by then but not desperately. But travel by car for over 6 hours and I begin scanning for the next rest area and a razor as my teeth have grown a five o'clock shadow! Is it just me? Maybe it's that cheap greasy-spoon Folgers you had two hours ago (Seattle coffee snobs, just say no). Maybe it's the 5th Hostess Ho-Ho you just ate justifying it as "energy" to keep going. Whatever, it's wrong and it had me once again wanting to be cycling instead of driving up those rolling hills of Eastern Washington.
But that's not what I wanted to write about...at all. It was great to be surrounded by people who not only wear lycra shorts and really loud jerseys but who talk eat drink dream discuss (ad-nauseum) and obsess over bicycling and the world of bicycling. I'm still not a gear head, nor in the same league as most of these folks, but what a joy to be discussing the finer points of packing a pannier or the road conditions of Malaysia with people who have been there and packed that. We spent a lot of time in the class room going over the finer points of touring and personality conflicts that arise when people are pushed out of their normal routines. We talked about how to organize camping gear and how to find the next campsite. But the big issue of cycle touring seems to revolve around food. People need to eat...a lot apparently, when they ride thousands of miles in a summer. Five thousand calories/day to be more scientific. We learned by doing. We had a budget and went to the store and shopped for the number of cyclists in our group as if we were on a tour. We prepared the food as if we were on a tour...2 cooks per meal. The problem arose when we ate as if we were on tour. Five thousand calories per day is a lot of food. Especially if you are sitting in a classroom. By noon after gorging a huge multi-course breakfast, my belly would just begin to feel normal again. LUNCH TIME! By the time dinner came around we were all feeling bloated. And yes we then overate again. For three days the food orgy continued until we finally went on a 35 mile ride with the group. I can blame the massive meals or I can blame the strong headwinds but I think I need to come clean and blame my lack of riding the past 2 months for feeling so wimpy on this ride. It's not like I was the last to arrive or that one guy on a trip that everyone is always waiting for (while passively-aggressively glancing at watches as he crawls in). It's just that I felt weak. It happened when I was leading the pack into the wind. I was starting to breathe really hard and must have been a bit wobbly because Rod (who is the director of the tour dept. and also a bicycle racer so give me a break already) blew by me. It's not the fact that he blew by me that had me going...it's how. It was no stomping/standing move where a guy throws his bike side to side to fly uphill. That would have been easier to take. It was subtle and beautiful and so relaxed that was devastating. I realized right then how hard cycle racing must be. When you are suffering and hurting and working at a maximum it can't be good to see someone just slide by as if they were sauntering past your dinner table with a martini in hand. I wondered just how many more journeys must I take until I can look so smooth on a bike. Apparently, a lot more journeys and a lot less 5000 calorie food days!

This is it

Today is the last time I'll set foot in a spa. That is until I make it big and can afford a $135 hot stone massage and a $75 pedicure. My nails will look like crap for a while and that thought wrecked my sleep. I'm up early and putting on my 100% polyester uniform also for the last time. A person should never wear polyester against their will. Actually upon deeper thought, a person should never wear 100% polyester at all. The slinky way it rubs against my skin. The way it avoids wrinkling even though I ball it up and stuff it in the envelope drawer at work every night before closing only to put it on unwashed the next morning. The passive aggressive little bitch in me actually likes this feature because I somehow feel subversive and alternative by seeing how long I can wear a uniform before washing it. I know this is a rather disgusting and inappropriate {and pointless} thing to do but I like the cognitive disonance of it all. Like in the opening scene of David Lynch's Blue Velvet where the camera shows a normal "beautiful" suburban scene and slowly pans down under the perfect lawn to the slithering wormy substance it's all built on. A perfect analogy for the spa. So I stand behind the counter in my own little personal funkiness to remind me that it's all a sham. There is so much toxic energy and stress behind the thin veneer of polyester and fake smiles that my cheeks (and soul)hurt just thinking about it. That's what really has me running for the exits. I want a life of authenticity. I want a life not veneered over by "niceness" and pretty smells. The stench of an open sewer in some back alley of Phnom Penh isn't my favorite thing either, but walking through it I knew I was alive. Better yet so were the people living in it. Not just existing but living and selling and buying and hustling and bustling and laughing and crying and crapping in the streets. People there hang out with family...and struggle. The cake eaters (thank you for that term 'anonymous islander') here don't really struggle and still feel the need to take a "spa vacation" to get AWAY from their kids. Again I think of the words of the Dalai Lama who notes that income level and happiness are inversely proportionate.
But back to polyester. It's an amazing substance and so unnatural I can feel the sking tumors growing, slowly growing, throughout the day. It also reminds me too much of my first "real" job at Jack In The Box. But instead of coming home smelling like a double cheese bacon jack and french fries, I arrive home to Sheryl smelling of canteloupe/lime infusers or jasmine/burnt sugar candles. Agreed, it is a step up but if I account for inflation I probably made as much or more at 16 years old than I do now. The deep fat fryer is looking better all the time...