Unforeseen Benefit of Biking

I’ve written a number of times on the health benefits of giving up my car for my bike. I’ve dropped a few pounds, sleep better, and feel more alert at work. I’m finally at the point where driving makes me feel lazy which is a great because it means I’ve developed a healthy habit.

But one of the best benefits had slipped my mind till today.

The last couple of weekends I’ve taken Lincoln with me on longer rides along the interurban trail that connects north and south King County. As we rode along the trail this afternoon I noticed a women picking blackberries.

 blackberries

Lincoln pulled up alongside me as we stopped to watch. The woman asked if we’d like to pick berries and offered us a plastic bag. We got off our bikes and began carefully plucking blackberries off the bushes lining the trail. If you’ve ever picked blueberries it’s similar except the blackberry bushes have sharp little teeth that latch on to your fingers, hands and arms when you get close. They really are nasty little buggers.

We didn’t fill our bag, but we had enough to show the girls what we’d accomplished which was our goal. We jumped back on our bikes and rode along the trail, stopping only take a few gulps of Gatorade.

Up until now, the strongest connection I’ve made with Lincoln came last spring when I taught him how to solve the Rubik’s Cube. I know he also enjoyed the time we spent preparing his pinewood derby. He’s not a demonstrative young man most of the time which makes it difficult to gauge his interest in my hobbies.

That’s changed this spring when I biking because it’s an activity we can do together a few times each week and for more than a few fleeting minutes.

As we rode through town I asked Lincoln if he’d like to take the longer but easier route or try the shorter but more difficult route up Lea Hill. The shorter route includes a tough right turn that requires some speed. The last two times have resulted in disappointment as he’s nearly fallen off his bike by taking the turn at too sharp of an angle.

As we got closer to deciding what route to take, I told Lincoln I was sure he could do it. I explained how I’d ride ahead of him. We’d make a wider turn than before giving us a few more feet to accelerate. He nodded without saying anything. 

He made it around the turn without a problem, and we continued up the hill together.

Normally, he doesn’t say much when we’re riding. I don’t either but that’s usually because I’m out of breath. But today he couldn’t stop talking about how great it felt to conquer the corner.  He couldn’t wait to tell his sisters and mom what he’d done.

Down the road I’m sure I’ll appreciate the health benefits I’m experiencing through cycling. But today what mattered most to me was connecting with my son while doing something he enjoyed.

From the Byrds to the Eagles

I found a link to this BBC documentary about the Los Angeles music scene in the 70’s on the Bob Lefsetz site.  Someone uploaded the entire documentary to YouTube where you’ll find all seven parts.

There are so many parts that made me smile, but I’ll mention just one because it’s in such sharp contrast to how much of the music is made today. Kids with marginal vocal talent and no song writing skills believe they can become superstars if only American Idol will take notice.

Contrast that to what Jackson Browne said, barely out of his teens:

There was a couple of years that I had offers but didn’t feel I was really ready….it was demonstrated to me early that it took a lot of intention to make records…and that one couldn’t just drift into the studio like our legendary heroes did and sit down for $250 and make a masterpiece.  

It’s not difficult to appreciate the greatness of the Beatles music today, but what many overlook are the eight years they spent honing their craft in Germany. Eight years. And these were some of the most talented musicians in our lifetime.

If you love music set aside some time and enjoy every minute.

What I Learned on Capitol Hill

Years ago, after I’d moved from Utah to Seattle I interviewed for a job that consisted of managing a 20 unit apartment complex. Before the interview, a friend warned me that the complex was located in the gay district of the city, two blocks below Broadway on Capitol Hill. At the time I lived in a tiny apartment near the University of Washington.

The initial interview went well. A few days passed and I decided to follow up with the woman who interviewed me. I had no apartment management experience, but I explained to her that I needed the job and would work my butt off. I don’t know if she had planned to give me the job, but I was persistent. She told me to drive by the apartment complex to get a feel for the area and then, if I was still interested, to call her again.

I knew exactly what she meant when she told me to get a feel for the area. Capitol Hill is an eclectic and densely populated area just a short walk from the city center. Like any neighborhood that borders a major city, it’s full of diversity, especially to a kid who was born and raised in Utah.

When I called back and told the woman I was still interested in the job, she was genuinely surprised. The apartment was the perfect size for me, my cat and my computer. I had little else to my name having just come off a divorce. But I didn’t need much.

I eventually got moved in and settled. I loved that I could walk to my full-time job located in the city. On Saturdays, I walked to the bagel shop on Broadway to people watch. There was also a great newspaper shop that carried all sorts of rare computer magazines. I spent so many hours in that store they should have hired me.  And I don’t want to think about all of the money I dropped at the used CD shops. You know, the ones that only play Velvet Underground over crappy JBLs.

Occasionally I was reminded by friends that I lived in the gay district.  I suspect they were looking for a reaction from me. If they were, I’m sure they came away disappointed as I didn’t have a single salacious story to share with them. Since I walked to most places, I got to know my neighbors well. In a short period of time, I came to love Capitol Hill and couldn’t imagine moving away. Kim loved it too, so when we were married, we decided to stay in the same building for another four years.

I made a number of good friends as well. One of the tenants told me about a job his employer had recently posted. I applied and landed the position. We’d worked together for a year when he told me I was the only straight person in the apartment complex. When I see him today, we still laugh about that.

Maybe I was naïve. I’m sure I was. Yet I don’t recall anyone judging me for who I was while I lived on Capitol Hill. One meets a number of good and not so good people trying to rent apartments close to a large city. But, for the most part, people were incredibly kind to me at a time in my life when I had no family and few friends to fall back on.

I’m thankful for that experience living on Capitol Hill because my uncle recently announced that he is gay. Like me, he was raised in a Mormon family and served a mission. Unfortunately, he lives in a part of the country which is known for being hostile towards people like my uncle.

I’ve wondered how my family would take the news, but that’s not something I can control. My uncle didn’t have to come out to me. But I appreciate the time he took explaining how he’s continuing to figure out what this means for him while respecting the beliefs of his friends and family.

What I can control is how I treat others, and that’s the lesson I want my children to learn. When I was a young boy, it was OK to play games during recess called “Smear the Queer” and call people “faggots” or refer to someone “being gay”.  I hope such games and language are no longer tolerated.

When the president of a popular fast food establishment comes out in support of traditional marriage he has every right to make his beliefs known. But when profits from that business are funneled to groups that continue to promote inequality and hatred, those same owners are responsible for how their words and actions damage their reputation and make expansion into some cities more difficult. I will vote with my wallet to make sure none of my money goes to support these groups.

I postponed writing this post for a few days while I gathered my thoughts. Last night I’d decided to keep my thoughts to myself. But today I decided to write. My aim is not to change minds as I know that’s impossible. No, I decided to write because I’d like my children to know where I stand on the issue and learn from the mistakes I made when I was their age.

I look forward to the day when I tell people I lived on Capitol Hill they ask me about the bagels.

More Questions Than Answers

I don’t have all the answers, although to my children, it may seem like I do.

Children are naturally curious. It’s not uncommon for our family to sit around the table for dinner while Kim and I are peppered with so many questions that keeping up is difficult.

Luca often asks me, “What’s your worst favorite color?”

What does that even mean?

Lincoln often asks questions I don’t have the answer to or have no idea how to answer. I’m still not sure how to answer this question he asked three years ago: “What’s under the ocean?”

I could Google for the answer, but that might spoil the reminder of my son asking one of his many off-the-wall questions because those questions reflect his personality. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lincoln has already Googled the answer and wrote a report on it. That’s just how he is.

Sometimes the questions feel overwhelming and I try to run from them or ignore them. But there are many questions from which I cannot nor should I run from.

The morning after the shooting at the Aurora mall last week I sat in front of the TV trying to comprehend the horrific scenes I was watching. Police and sirens and chaos filled the screen when my daughter pulled up a blanket and sat next to me.

Looking back now I never considered changing the channel over to Nickelodeon. No, I put my arm around my daughter and stared straight ahead. Between the reporters blathering on about the gunman and the text which scrolled along the bottom of the screen, it didn’t take long for her to figure out that something awful had taken place. 

My earliest recollection of publicized violence was the night John Lennon was killed because it was announced on Monday Night Football by Howard Cosell as I watched.  I was old enough to understand he was a member of the most famous band on the planet, but didn’t fully comprehend his importance to his fans or his eventual place in music and pop culture.

A few minutes passed before my daughter asked, “Why would someone shoot other people?”

I don’t know why a man would dress up like the Joker, head to the theater and gun down 12 people and send dozens more to the hospital. Like most people, my mind can’t comprehend that level of evil or insanity. The mind tries to make sense of it but can’t.

The best I could muster for my daughter? “Some people are very very sick.”

I wish I had a better answer for myself and my daughter.

But I’ve learned that answers that encourage more questions are often as good as right answers when it comes to children.

Meguiar’s Headlight Restoration Kit

Both of our cars are a few years old now and their headlights were looking cloudy and a bit yellowish. When I took our Honda Odyssey in to have its oil changed last weekend, the cashier recommended Meguiar’s Headlight Restoration Kit.

That night I checked out the few reviews on Amazon. Most were positive so I decided to give it a try.

The kit contains two sanding disks, a hand pad (on which you attach the disks), buff pad you attach to a drill, microfiber cloth, a bottle of polish and a bottle of plastic restorer.

The entire process is quite simple. I filled a small bucket full of water and used the sanding disks to remove most of the oxidation on the headlights while keeping the disks and the surface wet. I then used my drill and the buffing pad to polish the lens for a few minutes before wiping everything clean and applying the plastic restoration solution.

In less than an hour I had cleaned four headlights. Below is a picture of the first lens I completed on the Odyssey. I can actually see the bulbs through the lens now. The results were even more dramatic on our Nissan Maxima where both lenses had turned yellow. They look nearly brand new now.

Highly recommended.

*I do not use affiliate links.

odyssey

600 Miles

After nine weeks of riding my bike to work I hit the 600 mile mark, and it feels great. Instead of finding excuses why I couldn’t ride to work (it’s raining, it’s too far, it’s too dangerous) I decided to find ways to work it into my job and family’s schedule.

Overall it’s been a welcome lifestyle change. I started out just biking to work but that quickly changed into biking anywhere I need to go. I’ve biked to church each week with at least one of my kids and across town to catch a baseball game or school play.

Nearly everyone I meet while on my bike has offered encouragement and support. On my ride home last night I stopped to rest outside City Hall.  A man in a suit approached me and explained that he sees me riding around town and wondered where I was riding my bike each day. He mentioned that he had just begun riding his bike but was frustrated when he wasn’t able to make it up Lea Hill without walking.

I recall having the same thoughts when I first began biking and Ben Talbert encouraged me to keep going and ignore the hecklers. I decided to share that with this man I’d just met. We shook hands, and I told him I hoped to see him on the hill.

I filled up my car for the first time in six weeks. Any savings I’ve experienced by not having to purchase gas has been put into biking gear to make my ride safer and more comfortable.

I feel as though I’ve acquired a good habit. I still have a number of bad habits to get rid of including drinking too much Diet Coke and staying up late. But this biking is a good habit and one I plan to continue for a long time.  Thanks for Ben for the continued example and to my family to being patient with me as navigate my way around Auburn and hopefully beyond.

Return the Hat

For the second year in a row I attended a day of scout camp with my son. Last year was the first time he attended the full week of events. After the first day he didn’t want to return, but each day improved a little more than the previous. By the end of the week, he was sad to see the camp come to an end.

Last year I didn’t let my son out of my sight. It’s not that I don’t trust Lincoln. Of our four children, he’s known as the one who not only keeps rules but reports himself when he trips up. When the boys split up into groups to play Red Rover.  I worried he might turn his arm or wrist. I checked in with him dozens of times throughout the day to make sure he was having fun.

But this year I decided to take a few steps back from, and give him some space to navigate his way through camp without my influence.

I don’t know where his self-confidence began to take root, but I’ve noticed he’s more sure of himself since he began playing baseball. He also speaks his mind more often and carries himself with more confidence.

Near the end of the day, a much larger boy swiped Lincoln’s hat and held it just out of his reach.  Last year I would have got involved and demanded the boy return the hat.  When I was about ten years old a teammate grabbed my hat and wouldn’t give it back until I hit him in the groin with a baseball. Effective but not the best way to treat a teammate.

But yesterday was a reminder that my son doesn’t just have my DNA, but that of my more rationalized, evenly tempered spouse. Lincoln realized the other boy was looking for a reaction, but he didn’t go looking for a baseball. He looked at the boy, held out his hand and said, “Please return my hat”.

His hat was returned, and I came away from the experience with an increased appreciation of my son’s maturity.

Disruption

Here’s the stock performance from Microsoft, RIM, and Apple since June 29, 2007, or the same day Apple released the first iPhone.

In just five years, Apple released a product that has become a larger revenue and profit machine than all Microsoft products combined.

But at least Microsoft has Windows, Office and many other products to lesson the blow, and is down less than 5%. But RIMM, without another cash cow, has been decimated, having lost nearly 90% of it’s value in five years.

This is what disruption looks like.

stockchart

–Link to full interactive chart

Getting Passed

As I’ve written before, I’ve been riding my bike to and from work each day going on just over a month now. Some days I fly up the hill to my home and some days I barely make it home.

Who am I kidding, I never fly up the hill. I still use the lowest gear possible and there are many days I feel like my heart is going to explode if I don’t pass out first.

Last week I was making my way up the hill after a couple of days of bad allergies. I was tired and groggy and having a difficult time keeping my bike in line.

As I considered dismounting, a group of cyclist rode up behind me. My initial thought was, “Great, they are going to be pissed I’m slowing them down” as there’s only a few feet of shoulder making it difficult to pass.

I moved over as far as I could to the right. They were wearing matching jerseys and rode fancy bikes. As each of them passed me they didn’t make me feel stupid or sigh loud enough to let me know I’d slow them down on their training climb.

Instead, many of them encouraged me to keep going. A few smiled while giving a thumbs up.

They quickly sped ahead of me, and in less than 30 seconds had disappeared from my sight.

I thought of the many times I’ve stood behind someone in line at the grocery store tapping my foot. Or waited impatiently for the pedestrian to get to the curb so I could make the right turn to get to my destination 15 seconds faster.

Thank you to the cyclists for reminding me that a few words of encouragement go a long way.