Took a little shakedown cruise up to Immaculate Heart Retreat Center. It's quite a different ride than the XtraCycle (which weighs close to 60 lbs). Clipless pedals are new to me as well, so there were some exciting moments along the way.
Thanks to Tomas at Two Wheel Transit for getting me all set up with this very sweet ride (Masi Speciale CX).
Now I have to hook up FUN UNIT 3 to the XtraCycle and go buy some manure and stuff.
We all headed out to Fish Lake yesterday. It was a great bike ride (about 26 miles roundtrip from the house). The weather was perfect. The picnic at Fish Lake was great in so many ways. Even ran into a friend on the lonely trail, where running into anyone is a major event.
Ike rode the XtraCycle for quite a ways. He and Aidan are both in need of new bikes. They have outgrown them, for sure. So when Ike wasn’t riding the XtraCycle, he was on my mt. bike.
My first bike was one that I couldn’t ride. My dad was in between flying jobs and was working as a cop. I think we were in Colorado. He brought home a bike from the police station that had gone unclaimed long enough that he could lay claim with good conscience.
To a 3 or 4 year-old, the bike was a colossus. The top tube loomed over my head. My dad picked me up and placed me on the seat. While he held me, I looked at the pedals below. My legs would never be long enough. The bicycle hung around for a couple of weeks and then it was gone. I don’t know if he sold it.
My first real bike was a Super Spyder 500 – a Sears Stingray, basically. It had a silver metal flake banana seat, shining chrome and a gnarly five-speed shifter. With its green flake paint, it was a beauty.
My sisters received Spyderette bicycles and my parents each received a three-speed from Santa that year too. Not bad, considering the financial straits we were in.
There were occasional family forays around the block, but mostly it was me pretending my bike was an airplane, a race car or a spaceship while tooling around the neighborhood.
Later, as a teen, when I went through flying lessons to earn my pilot’s license, I was surprised at how unlike bike riding flying is. You are pretty busy all the time, and if you’re daydreaming when you’re flying, you are probably screwing up.
Yesterday, I was doing a lot of daydreaming about my dad while riding. He always had a soft spot for bicycles. I think part of it was he really liked gadgets (yes, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree). He would never admit it, but he was an environmentalist who always drove the smallest cars he could find. He owned one of the first Honda automobiles in the US. I remember him buying it at a motorcycle dealership.
My dad was the one who introduced me to science fiction. Later in life, fueled by an unfortunate religiosity, he denounced science fiction. He had come to believe that UFOs and so many other things were “demonic.” Very sad.
Dad had come from very humble, very heartbreaking circumstances. His dad was taken away from him (due to mental illness) at a very young age, and his family remained very poor. He did a very good job as a father considering what he had.
My dad and I also shared a passion for politics. Unfortunately, later in life, we were at opposite ends of the spectrum on most issues. But, sometimes we would both surprise ourselves at having gone so far to each end, we were both in the same place.
Dad often talked of opening up a bike shop on the Newport Highway, not too far from where we lived. I would tell him that no one bicycles the Newport Highway. His response was that people would if they had a reason – his bike shop.
Dad was a veteran of the Hiawatha Trail and he enjoyed the Centennial Trail. He was always geared up to the max – spare tires, tubes, lights, cell phone, first-aid kit. He needed an XtraCycle. Too bad he never got a chance to see one.
After Dad retired from being an airline pilot, he tried selling Dahon folding bikes. I don’t think he sold any, but he really liked talking to people at trade shows and on the phone. And he bought a few to give away. He was a generous guy to very many.
He never really liked riding in traffic of any sort. I really do. But when I am riding on a trail, I can let my mind wander a bit, and I always think of my dad. I think about how much he would have enjoyed the scenery. I wonder about the advice he would dish out and what plans were in the works. We would have argued about politics for sure – proclaiming each other – CRAZY.
Mostly, I would’ve liked to ask him about the flying and bicycle thing. Isn’t riding a bicycle more like what you would have thought flying would've been like? Hoped it would be like? Carefree, fast, elegant and natural. I really don’t know how he would’ve answered.
I do know that I felt pretty close to my dad while my family and I pedaled our way to Fish Lake and back. Later in the day, we went to visit his grave like you’re supposed to do on Memorial Day. He couldn’t have been further away.
"Hello, I dropped off some stuff to be recycled and also some stuff for the tipping floor today. First, let me say what a great job your staff does. They are always friendly and helpful. But there is, as usual, one "downer" about the waste to energy plant. The dozens of bicycles that are in the appliance area, waiting to be disposed of, is an appalling sight. Some of these bicycles look almost new. The rest have salvageable parts.
With the price of gasoline being what it is, there are many folks who could use a bicycle at little or no cost. There are some organizations that are trying to help put bicycles into people's hands. One that comes to mind is Pedals 2 People in Spokane.
Is there any chance of having a recycling spot where people could drop their bikes off? It could be much like the household chemicals thing, where if someone needs a product that someone has left at the recycling table they take it. If too many bicycles stacked up in your recycling area, they could be brought into town - the West Central, East Central or Hillyard neighborhoods, where they could be put to good use.
I am sure you see a lot of good items go to waste out there, but for some reason the mound of bicycles always gets me!
Thank you!"
This picture is NOT of the bicycles, but it is rather nifty. Also, if you want to contact the waste to energy plant, here is their email: solidwaste@spokanecity.org Or click here!
Are something to see right now. The Arrowleaf Balsam Root is so much in bloom that it is almost blinding. I don't know if I have ever seen so many in bloom at the same time. I think, like us, the native flora is ready for spring - even if the weather is unrelenting.
Ironically the factory uses the same slogan "Our kids: Our business."
Can I prove this? No. But, let's face it, there are probably no pinwheel factories left in the US of A. Spokane lost its pinwheel plant back in '57.
This SR campaign really bugs me. I think it is very self-serving in that they create their own "news." Even the great Cheryl-Ann Milsap has been forced to write about the pinwheels... in the sun... with the wind.
More than anything, I know, from my job, that there are many kids whose future is quite bleak. It makes you sick and sad when you meet these children who really have the deck stacked against them.
Yet, the Spokesman-Review continues to endorse political candidates and political positions that have a direct correlation to the crappy conditions that these kids find themselves in. Instead of changing their political stance to help these kids, they give us pinwheels.
It's much like the SUV drivin' folks who voted for Bush not once, but twice, and are directly responsible for sending our kids to war. They will put a made-in-china "support the troops" magnet on their SUV and call it good.
Spokane lost its yellow ribbon magnet factory back in '73, I believe.
In other countries, do you think they placate the masses with magnets, ribbons and pinwheels as an answer to real problems, or do they act with political resolve to fix the problem?
Sorry about the political rant. I know that's not why you read this cyber-rag, but I feel better now.
Every year, I do the same thing. I tell myself - Hey, this is just the way it is. Get used to it!!
When we have a day where the temperature scratches 70 degrees, I make sure I am outside all day. More importantly, I tell myself - 70 degrees today "don't mean 'nuffin.'" Tomorrow we could have another blizzard - even if it is April, May or June. We need the rain, the snow. Owww - blue skies are hard on the eyes.
I tell myself this, but WTF? I think if these crocus (croci?) had middle fingers, they would be extended.
Sure there are others- "Ripley's Believe It or Not" type places. Trees of Mystery in Northern California. Sea Lion Caves in Oregon. The Stink Hole in Idaho. But here is a mysterious place that is easy to get to, and it's free. See where 13th Avenue intersects 13th Avenue - right where 700 West meets 700 West!
Bring a recently deceased pet to this intersection, and it may come back to life. It might take a while, though.
Last week, a slew of these school speed limit signs went up in the neighborhood. I like them. It looks like they took old poles from god-knows-what and slapped solar panels and LED flashing lights on them. They activate when the kids are going to school or coming home. The LED lights really get your attention, and seems to really slow the cars down. And they are built to last - well into the post-apocalyptical nuclear winter.
There is something very soviet about them, with a lot of steampunk overtones. It would be cool if they had big steam whistles on them that would randomly toot. Maybe that will be in the next version.
Well, I don't know if I believe Latah Creek... yet. It was beautiful on Sunday though.
The muddy churning creek empties into the Spokane River, and for a while flows in its own separate space in the river. Two rivers flowing side by side reigned in by a pair of snowy banks. After a while, gray Latah gives up and gets absorbed by clear Spokane.
And on Sunday, Lots of families with little kids intermingled with the usual denizens of this confluence. You can make your own analogy.
Again this is one of the many payoffs of walking Spokane. Out and about on foot - it's easy to make very poignant detours - visit places you will never see in a car. And even the places you can "see" in a car, you really never "see" until you are on foot or on a bicycle.
Having walked or ridden my bicycle all through the winter, I think I am really going to appreciate doing both in the spring. Luckily, on Sunday, I took my walk with my best friend.
Mister Yuke has discovered You Tube. And if he says, "Yuke Tube" one more time, I will garrote him with his own ukulele strings (perhaps in A - minor - a very sad chord). So, to get him off my back, here is his, as usual, very sensitive take on life and living. He calls it "Front Butt." Presented in exciting slideshow fashion.
Some of you who know me know of my affinity for Spokane's shopping carts. I have snapped many a shot of them interfacing with us and our landscape. Are they the modern equivalent of the buffalo? Are they a glimpse into the future of what awaits each of us?
All I know, is that they turn up in the darndest places, in many manifestations - in the river, in people's living rooms, as makeshift bicycle trailers, as ersatz BBQ grills, even as traveling shrines of the impending rapture - you name it.
And then when you see one, a young one like this, so full of promise cast into the icy bank, you can almost hear its crash into the imprisoning snow - a thunderous cry and quaking thud of today's chromed mastodon.
It seems like all I write about anymore are my trips to and from work. But that is not the rut of which I speak.
Yesterday, ON MY WAY TO WORK, I navigated through the vast ice canyons and meandering rivulets that are the streets of Spokane. At one point, I found my tires in a thin ice floored ravine. My pedals were barely clearing the ice bluffs. It was like riding a low rider, I guess. So, that's the rut of which I scribe. Oh yeah, and I am in the other rut too.
Ditched the bike this morning and walked instead. I had to leave about an hour before I wanted to be at work (3 miles or so). What a great morning! As usual, Spokane shines in the early morning. The river changes a lot. You will never really see this stuff from behind the windshield of your car.
On a bicycle, you have to stop sometimes to really see it too. But like riding the bicycle in the snow, I never got stuck, never t-boned another pedestrian/cyclist, never had to be pushed, never became high-centered, never got pissed, never had to wait for the heater to kick in, never had to fuel the tank, never had to scrape my windows. Best of all, my IPod is a much better sound system than my car's!
The Shriner was looking quite feztive.
The Monroe Street Bridge right before dawn. Remember when they were going to shove that Lincoln Street Bridge down our throats? How they said we would be turning down all that construction money and how it would bring ruin to Spokane? Well, here's a picture or two of the great Monroe Street Bridge. How great would it look with a crappy bridge right next to it? Well, it would look better than the crappy bridge. But, that's not the point. Remember the Lincoln Street Bridge when they try to shove the NorthSouth Freeway down your pie hole!
When I was walking up Monroe, the snow on the ground looked very blue with lighter blue sparkles - kind of like a blueberry-flavored breakfast cereal. I looked around for a neon light that might have been doing this, but it was just the morning sky. Wow. Grows our crops. Holds up airplanes. And now it turns the snow blue. Sky - you are too much!
A source of controversy at one time, now look at Riverpark Square. It looks so innocent when it's asleep.
One of many cement warning symbols posted on the Monroe Street Bridge. Strange that none of the usual guardians of morality protested these horned skull adornments.
A cheery greeting to bus passengers this morning.
So, if you want to get out there and enjoy the beauty of the snow in Spokane, you better hurry, there are only a couple of more months left!
Thanks to the contributor who sent me this pitch that he had made to the Spokesman-Review a year and a half ago. Apparently, it went nowhere. Maybe that's for the best!
Dear Editor - Mr. Smith, if that really is your name,
The same thing happens to me time and time again. I open the S-R, and it’s like looking into a reflection of my own heart.
The debris of personal memories from one of your writers is often an emotional-beachcomber’s delight! The commonplace becomes a rare gem, and a spiritual touchstone.
Some favorites:
Us moms are protective of our kids, much like a mother bear. I had a crazy uncle that drank too much. Clothes smell better when washed. Cheese and me. I wish I had stuck with French in college.
I think there is one thing missing from this emotive oracle. How about letting a male have a shot, once in a while, in sorting out the self-reflective silage?
I humbly submit my first column. I have some good working names for this endeavor. In the past, I've made a living as a professional writer. I have never missed a deadline!
Please, let me know what you think!
Column follows….
Yes, something was wrong with the lunchbox. Maybe there was something wrong with me, too. I gently dabbed the pieces of milk-sogged salami. Their white wetness reminded me of the tears I was now fighting back.
The first day of school, so many years ago. My oldest son, Kurtz, had been gifted with a lunchbox that I had made as a woodworking project. It was, according to my counselor, a project that would help me with my anger and abandonment issues. However, this labor inadvertently caused me to pass these issues on to my son, via ¾ inch plywood, one hinge and still-sticky varnish. It was this varnish that held his lunch fast within the box. As he told me later, most of his classmates enjoyed the chips in their lunches, while he had to chip his entire lunch out of the therapy-project-lunch-container.
He later said that what I had actually built was a coffin for his self-esteem. The next year was to be different.
The cartoon show “Transformers” was very “in” then. So, I knew Kurtz, now in 8th Grade, would appreciate the new lunchbox I had just crafted for him. It was metal - a silent protector I could send with my son, as he faced the perils of middle school. And like a cartoon Transformer, a twist here and a push there transformed the steel lunchbox into a metallic robot crab - complete with ersatz gun barrels where the claws should be.
It took a few times for Kurtz to get the hang of transforming the box into the crab. When I was satisfied with his performance, I bequeathed him with the lunchbox, along with the knowledge of what it was, and an assurance that it truly was his!
He seemed worried. But, wasn’t there just a glint of joyful pride in those soulful blue eyes of his? “Yes, MY dad made this… For ME!”
I didn’t know about the strict code of “no firearms” in middle school. And apparently, the crab claw gun barrels fit the description.
Kurtz was waiting for me, in the principal’s office. As we walked to the car, I couldn’t help but notice a stream of milk pouring out of the now-bent and irreversibly-stuck crab claw barrels. Apparently, a student panicked at the sight of the transformed crab gun and instinctively disarmed it with a container of milk. And with a pack mentality, other students joined the milky shelling of the metal crab. Kids can be cruel - even more so, when frightened.
That night, after I dried the lunchbox and my eyes, Kurtz and I had a very good heart-to-heart. I was to pack his lunches in a brown paper bag, from now on. As Kurtz pointed out, a neat lunchbox is nice - but lunch is even better.
A week or so after Mister Yuke released his epic Millsap Monday ballad, Cheryl-Anne's column went MIA. No explanation. No "she'll be back next week." Nothing. Then her column returned. And it was completely different. No stories about her kids. No advice for the masses derived from her personal ponderings. Her first column out of the chute was even somewhat ribald. She did seem to be still making up stories, but they were now about "friends" not family, not herself.
Weeks ago, as Mister Yuke was filling me in about this turn, he didn't seem the least bit concerned. I reminded him that if she kept up this tactic, his work would be invalidated. He just laughed. "She can't help herself. She'll be back." His confidence was somewhat unnerving.
He called up this morning. "Did you read it? I told you! Gawd, I wish I had bet you some money. Hah!"
And I picked up the paper and he was right. So here it is again. You can hear the song by clicking the title above. You can read her column by clicking here.
I hope this will satisfy the ukulele playing fool and shorten his gloating hangtime.
