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Farewell to an Old Friend

November 30, 2007 / Jim

You have been good to me all these years. I purchased you in the fall of 1993 in Maryland while I was attending my Army Officer Basic Course at Aberdeen Proving Grounds. During that time, we toured the Chesapeake, navigating the hidden inlets, enjoying the beautiful fall colors. There was such a rush of freedom and headiness in those early weeks that I got carried away and wiped out. You carried a ding in the top tube until the very end.

Later I moved to Boston and commuted to work from Mass Ave, left on Commonwealth Ave and straight on out to Brighton (if I recall correctly). I lived in an Apartment in the South End, and you were my ride. Life was good. I had my panniers, a Star Market 20 minutes away (kept me in shape), and a beautiful town. I used to tool around the city on weekends, making sure to take in the way along the Charles River.

Next we went west, San Francisco, Noe Valley… way the hell up in the clouds. It seemed we lived on a 90 degree grade. Those were the times I was in the best shape of my life. If only I was still competing, I lamented. Those San Francisco hills exacted a heavy toll from my ride to the ~~24th Street Bart Station~~ Embarcadero Bart Station. Okay it wasn’t to the Bart Station, because duh, that was downhill, but coming home, the ride was brutal. Sometimes (err… frequently) I would wimp-out and ride the bus. I still did my shopping and around town errands on two wheels. Good times, those were.

After Laura and I got married, we moved to Oakland. We got a place on Lake Merritt. Here’s a shot I took back in the day. Beautiful. I loved Oakland.

I used to ride my bike to the nearest Bart Station and catch the train to San Leandro. There was no shower at my workplace, so pedaling to work was not a viable option. I’d ride home though. It was a good way to finish the day. I’d stop off in a park in Lake Merritt and do some pull-ups, push-ups. Then I’d go for a 3 or 4 mile run with the neighbor.

1996 rolled around and we were off to live in Spain. My bicycle got to pedal around the Basque Country, the south of France, and even a stage in the Tour de France in 1997. We did the first stage of the Pyrenees. The ride wasn’t so bad, but I got the worst sunburn of my life. Ouch.

I took classes in Spanish at the university in San Sebastian. Rode my bike.

I did some of the shopping on my bike.

And I rode for fun. It was always fun, even in the rain and the chill.

Around this time, the paint was looking a bit ratty, so my friend Iker and I cooked up a paint plan. I worked in their little bike workshop (avid racers all) removing the paint bit by bit with some sort of sulphuric acid compound. Later, the father of Mari Fran (Iker’s girlfriend), sweet man that he was, did an awesome paint job with in a metallic forest green. Iker and I drew and cut out some vinyl lettering that read "Askatasuna" or "Liberty" in the Basque Language. It’s a political slogan, but I latched on to it because my bicycle has always been my liberty.

We left Spain in 1998 and came to Puerto Rico. My bicycle has continued to serve me well since that time, but alas, the brutal heat and humidity, salty air, and my prodigious quantity of sweat had caused my Liberty to develop this:

I discovered the hole while I was scraping the paint. This August I attempted to patch areas of, what I thought were, surface rust. The problem went way beyond the surface, though. Now, I know this looks bad, but I still had to go for my morning ride. There were eggs, milk, diapers to be bought. I wasn’t going to let a little structural deficiency stop me. I will continue to ride you, Mr. Bike, while I cobble together parts for a transplant. Besides, if I remember my engineering properly, the top tube resists a compression force, not really any shear force. It should be good, I hope.

Good God, what was I thinking?! I am an idiot. You see? This evidence reveals two important aspects of my personality: I love my bike… can’t get enough riding, AND I can’t throw shit away. Sigh. By the last two days of its existence, the frame was making strange noises like those in a disaster movie.

"Did you hear that?" an unsuspecting character asks.

"Hear what?"

BAM! – the walk way collapses, the wing snaps in two, the floor crumbles, the wheels fly off, or cargo bay 14 decompresses violently.

Fortunately for me, Ebay came to my assistance in the purchase of the following (including shipping):

Aluminum frame – no more rust, yeay! – $100
Front derailer – old one was rusted to hell – $60
Stem – new frame needed a different size, and besides it was rusted to hell – $25
Fork – frame required a new size – old one rusted to hell – $55
Headset – needed for new fork and stem which were 1 1/8" instead of 1" – they were rusted to hell anyway. – $20
Seat post – slightly different size needed for new frame – $20

I bought some cables and housing at my local bike shop. Actually, I tried to get all of it at my local bike shop, but they never had anything. I’d rather buy local, but everything I needed/wanted was old-school. Ebay is the only place you can find vintage new old parts. Anyway, for around $300, I built a new (mostly new anyway) bike. And it’s just the way I want it.

Lovely, just lovely. I saved the thumb shifters because Jose Mari, Iker’s father and fellow hardcore bicycle enthusiast, once told me, "Those thumb shifters are the single greatest piece of equipment to ever come out of Shimano." The thumb shifters are dead simple, convenient to use, durable, and work well. I agree, but I also keep them around because every time I look at them, I now think of Jose Mari and his general loving adoration of bicycle equipment. Gets you right there, it does. Brings a smile to my face.

I also saved the brake calipers and cantilevers. They’re aluminum and pitted a bit but still work as well as the day they were new. Maybe I’ll change them at some point, but for now, they work just fine.

Now, after this little eulogy, and nearly 75,000 miles in nearly 15 years, I bid my former ride a fond farewell.

I know I am a dork.

My Brother and I – Part II of Iraq Memories

November 25, 2007 / Jim

My brother and I played a lot when we were young. I was sometimes mean and teased him too much.

I suppose I was writing just the absolute first thing occurred to me, keeping in mind that Olaia and Jaimito were only 4 and 1 at the time. Was it a lesson for them in case I never came back? Don’t tease your brother/sister. Play a lot together. Or maybe you should tease each other, just not too much. Chuckle.

Probably it was because the hour of my departure drew near. I was tired and anxious. I scribbled it down, stressed, worried, and in the process of re-evaluating everything in my life.

Olaia Turns 9

November 20, 2007 / Jim

What is she doing turning 9 already?! I’m traumatized. The flip side is that she has been and continues to be a lovely little girl. I guess I’ll just try to enjoy every one of these moments.

I baked her a Rainbow cake. It’s a tri-colored/flavored cake in with lemon, almond, and vanilla. The frosting is butter, confectioner’s sugar, with the skin and juice of 2 lemons. It is so good.

Look at that beautiful cake. Yum!

The funny thing is that the food coloring does funny things to your, ahem, excrement. Turns it green, it does. I can imagine a few surprised parents later in the week. 🙂

They Will Burn Your Body Any Time of Day or Night

November 17, 2007 / Jim

"Hey, hon. Does the word cremación mean something different in Spanish than it does in English?"

"Um… no," Laura paused unsure. "No, it means cremation, just like in English." She seemed puzzled. What a bizarre topic of conversation. How does this stuff pop into your head, dear?

"Well, like does cremación mean to burn paper to dispose of items other than bodies? Could it be document disposal or something?"

"No, you would use incinerar for documents or trash."

I nodded toward the van in front of us. "Get a load of that, then. Cremation service 24 hours. What would someone need with a 24 hour cremation service?"

"Maybe the bodies are piling up in a drug war. That is bizarre," she agreed.

"Do they come to your door or something, and you just disappear in the night?"

My Favorite Things – Part I of Iraq Memories

November 16, 2007 / Jim

When I was mobilized to go to Iraq in 2003, Laura put together a series of little cards of recordatorios (rememberances, keepsakes?) for the kids. I’m going to post them here, because they seem poignant to me as I read them. These were the exercises I was going through days before I was to leave and potentially not come back.

My favorite things:

Animal: Froggies
Smell: English leather
Ice Cream: Cookie dough
Food: Hamburgers
Snack: Popcorn/Cheetoes
Candy: Nestle Crunch
Chocolate: Dark
Drink: Cuba Libre
Restaurant: The Waterfront (where I proposed to Laura)

A Ben Stiller Moment

November 11, 2007 / Jim

This story starts out with some little details. I can’t really make them up, I wish I was that smart. These little details, represent metaphors for life in Puerto Rico, things that make up the backdrop of our lives. I’ve touched on them before. Flat tires is one good example.

This time, at the top of the hill exiting our urbanization, there was a backed up sewer. It had been spewing funky toilet paper laced waste water for the better part of a week. Each morning as I climbed the hill on my bicycle, I would gingerly pedal through the torrent, careful not to splash any of the filth on me or my bike, my poor bike. I was reminded of Jerry Seinfeld removing and discarding shoelaces which had touched the floor of a public restroom. I could do no such thing with my tires. Ay bendito.

Thankfully, I had avoided the dreaded splash from cars or my own bike for the past four days. Cranking slowly up the hill increased my exposure, but I gaged my ascent carefully and with a bit of luck managed to avoid cars. I was ascending, however, where I would spend more time dancing on the razor’s edge, taunting fate as zippy cars raced off to the day of labor, their windows rolled up tight.

Coming back down the hill should have been a breeze, a smelly breeze, but a breeze nonetheless. The shoulder is wider, and the rivulets of dung laced paper mache ran farther from me. If I took to the shoulder, I was on dry pavement. Hurrah!

Fancy my surprise as a Toyota Corrolla flew past me at a breakneck pace, sending a tsunami, a cascade of putrid liquid over me. This was no splash, a few splatters, but a drenching shower, the kind that only happens in movies and to Ben Stiller.

Ah hell no, they did not actually just do that!

I chased the person to their house. I was surprised to find that this careless person was a 60 year old woman doing her morning shopping. Mrs. Maggoo, was her name. She was a sleepy phlegmatic character.

"Hey, thanks a lot for throwing that disgusting water all over me!" Should I have led with sarcasm? It’s too late for that now.

"What? Um, where was this?"

I couldn’t believe she was going to pretend she didn’t see me. "It was just up the hill here," I pointed, "You know where the sewer is leaking. You drove past me and covered me in that water, that disgusting dirty water."

"I passed slow, and you were off to the side."

"What? I thought you just said you didn’t see me? And are you saying now that I’m making this up, that you didn’t drench me? Wanna smell?" I approached her and leaned in. "Here, smell!" She backed away. Or maybe recoiled is a better right word for it. For you see, I did indeed smell like shit. She continued to protest her innocence, I didn’t see you, but passed slowly, carefully because I was being careful in my careful slow moving careful-mobile car of carefulness.

One pissed off, drenched smelly-assed cyclist in her front lawn seemed to have no bearing on her deny campaign.

I’m sorry, she finally said, or rather, "Perdona." Which in my mind never actually owns the fault. Maybe I’m wrong, but "pardon" just seems like a, oops I just touched your foot in a crowded room, not I just gave you you a shit shower.

At least she could have offered me a wipe to clean myself, a cookie, anything. Bitch.

"Next time, wake up, woman." And I pedaled off to scrub myself and my bicycle.

*shudder*

Christian Speak Translations Part Two

November 7, 2007 / Jim

Jesus Loves You.

This one takes a bit of doing, but here it is. I would rephrase it as: You are loved.

By whom, you ask?

The universe that birthed you, I reply.

That’s not love.

Okay, how’s this: You are loved, by the universe that birthed you, and your fellows are its surrogate. Those fellows are most closely your family, perhaps your friends, and maybe your neighbors. In the absence of any of these, I will love you.

Who are you?

He who was sent to love you.

So my friends, even in these desperate times, when so many feel so unloved, know that you are lovely, lovable, and that you are loved. All you have to do is open yourself to it, let yourself be loved, even when you don’t feel worthy, even when you feel unlovable. Laura continues to remind me, so I remind you.

That is the Sound of Ultimate Suffering

November 7, 2007 / Jim

My son, Javier, is the noisiest, most temperamental, and hardest to handle of all of our children. He yells. He’s impatient. He gets into everything. He is exceedingly unsatisfied with his lot in life, discontented with all that is around him. But I love him. I love him when he throws a tantrum. I love him when he is at his most desperate.

The other day, we were readying ourselves to go to the park to play. I was alone with Jaimito and Javier. I got them ready, toys in hand, and opened the front gate. As we were ambling down the driveway, Billy started whining. "Oh please take me, oh please take me… please please please." came his plaintive barks. You see, I speak dog. I understand him completely in his native language.

"Sigh," I turned to my children, "Javier, stay right here. Daddy is going to put Billy in his house so he doesn’t whine the whole time we are in the park. Jaimito watch your brother, don’t let him go into the street."

"Okay, Daddy," said Javier.

"Okay, Daddy," said Jaimito.

Two seconds, almost literally, was all it took to put Billy in his house. From outside, I heard a cry, a desperate cry, a wail. Jaimito was saying, "Javier, come back, come back." But his pleas were soon drowned out by the sound of ultimate desperation.

I dashed out the front door. From the sound of the Doppler shift, I could tell Javier was moving at great speed and was by this time, far far away. I raced down the street, a block away, to see my little boy chasing his ball that had rolled down the hill. He had already seized it by the time I arrived. My first thought was, boy, is that kid fast for a two year old. Yikes. I could hardly keep up. But he was so desperate. He thought his ball was gone, and I swear his heart nearly broke. His sobbed to me, voice cracking, "Daddy – my ball – my ball was falling. It went down da’ hill. My ball – my ball – my ball."

His shortsighted attention to his ball, his lack of forethought of consequences, his folly, all mashed up together into a beautiful mess. I cracked a smile.

"It’s okay, little man. Daddy’s here now. We have your ball. You can’t chase it like that though. Next time, call Daddy. Say, ‘Daddy, my ball went down the hill’ and I’ll go get it. You could be hurt by a car. A car could run you over. Let Daddy get the ball. And Jaimito, next time, grab him. Don’t let him run in the street like that. Don’t just stand there. Grab your brother."

"Okay, Daddy," said Javier.

"Okay, Daddy," said Jaimito.

Now, let’s go to the park.

I reflected on this after, and I am convinced that it is when we see such sincere desperation, that we come to know and love more fully. I saw Javier in his purest form, no pretense, no forethought. I saw him at his most human.

And it makes him even more lovely to me.

Why There Are, By Definition, NO Atheists in Foxholes

October 23, 2007 / Jim

Yes, I know. Atheists are offended by that. Let me taunt you again. If you disagree with that statement, you are NOT an atheist.

Let me set you up with a bit of background. Perhaps we can agree on this, no? Would you say that as an atheist, God is no more “real” than say, Zeus, or Odin, or the Flying Spagetti Monster? Yes, you say?

Okay good. We shall continue.

Would you also say that religion, belief in an afterlife, or plain old “fear of God” stuff is just right out. Let’s face it, as an atheist, you don’t believe in that crap. Life is biological. When you’re gone, you’re gone. There is no higher calling than living your life to the fullest, not like a jerk, but fullest, being a good and productive human. It just makes good sense.

You also hate it when people say that without religion there would be no morals. Why not, you ask?

You reply, leaping forth from the font of Kantian thought, only that which can be applied universally is truly moral. You understand that the concept of universal morality and the golden rule are practical and lead to a good and solid foundation. Without this practical morality your own lifetime would have been marred with warring and fighting and disease and misery. Pay if forward, you say. Morals make good sense. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Now there’s a moral framework you can get behind.

One more thing, and this is important, so pay attention. You say that life is more precious for you than it is for a “believer,” because, to an atheist, there is nothing after. Life is the greatest gift, the only gift you will truly ever receive. Life is all that you will ever have, and death takes away EVERYTHING.

Are you still with me? Do I have it mostly nailed down? I don’t want a straw man here. I want an atheist that can stand up and take it. But you know the strangest thing?

I agree with you.

But I still say there are no atheists in foxholes.

What?! Haven’t I been listening? Bear with me here, I’m going to spell it out. Here it is:

If life is all that you have and all that you will ever have, what the hell are you doing dying in a foxhole? I ask you, atheist, what is so important that you would be willing to give your life for it? I’m baffled. You profess to no god. You patently disavow any sort of celestial reward. You cast off the yoke of religious dogma, superstition, and tradition. For what do you die? Are you stupid? Crazy? Crazy like a foxhole, maybe. I’m on to you though.

A steadfastly ~~rational~~ practical atheist might reply that he is risking his life for a stable future, for enlightenment, for an end to suffering. I shoot back, but YOU aren’t going to be around? What would the point be?

Maybe he will talk to me of acceptable risk and potential reward. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out, he would say. Don’t kid yourself. There is no acceptable risk in war. Why sacrifice yourself for oblivion then?

Nobody will live this life as well as you, for you are you and no one else. No one else will enjoy it like you. No one will smell it, taste it, touch it like you. No one can live it as you live it, experience consciousness as you experience it. This fact is not selfish, it is reality, the only reality you will ever know.

But why do you die in this foxhole, atheist? May I dare offer an explanation?

Perhaps, there are no atheists in foxholes, because by the very fact that you are willing to die for something you believe in, something bigger than yourself, you nullify your atheism.

You’ve already proven yourself a practical maverick thinker, not prone to group-think. You’ve shown yourself to be a rational being of the first order. You have seen through all the veils the world has pulled over the eyes of your brothers. You’re the only one that actually sees the truth.

Why are you in the foxhole, then? Perhaps you are not only NOT an atheist, but the most pious of us all. By giving your life in a foxhole, you are faithful to your fellows. You make a commitment knowing the outcome is uncertain. That is faith, my friend. You have faith. Perhaps “true-believers” are not even fit to tie your sandal strap. You are such the atheist that you may as well wrap around and come out the other side transfigured and clothed in divine white.

So I ask you:

Do you believe in justice? Is absolute justice worth dying for? Do you believe in love? Is absolute love worth dying for? Ultimate empathy? I submit, dear atheist, that you are nothing of the sort. Not only are you not an atheist, but you are as the righteous of history, a hero of the first order, a savior of mankind.

Amen I say to you, brother.

Rescued from the Dogs

October 11, 2007 / Jim

I bag on Puerto Rico a lot, but there is one reason why I am still here. There are lots of things for an American to dislike, but one thing continues to stand out and surprise me in pleasant ways.

I was pedaling my bicycle up the hill from my house to buy groceries, as I do every morning. At the foot of the hill there is a junkyard, rusted and hidden by bamboo and vegetation. From time to time, a dog from the area takes it upon himself to assume authority over all in his domain. Little packs of them charge and bark with all that their little yippy lungs can muster. They are an annoyance, but not much trouble.

Today, however, was different.

This time the dogs were big. Huge. They were not the little yippy dogs that bark from the safety of their porches, but big ass rottweiler or pit-bull muts, a couple of big 80+ lbs dogs, furiously barking at me and racing up in my blind spot.

I did what I usually do, dismounted my bicycle, put it in between myself and the dogs and slowly moved toward them, hissing and seething at them. I find that the hissing freaks them out and I’ve never failed to cow a dog with this technique. I felt relatively safe with my bike as a shield, and the dogs tucked their tails and took off. Whew.

Unfortunately, as soon as I turned my back on them, mounted my bike and started pedaling again, they regained their courage and came roaring back. Sigh. I’m going to have to open up a can on these asshats. I had to let them know I meant business. Perhaps I should pursue them farther, stand my ground for longer.

At that moment a little Suzuki Gran Vitara bounced up the hill, and first, I got the friendly advice^TM:

"Necesitas un palo (you need a stick)." The person yelled.

Step two after the friendly advice was the actual help, as my new friend proceeded to weave all over the road and shoulder chasing after the dogs, yelling, ye-ah ye-ah! I smiled. "¡Gracias!" I yelled.

Yes, I thought, this is why I am still in Puerto Rico.

Tomorrow: Same hill, different story.

El Gringoqueño