Ever wonder what it would be like to toss aside your career (along with paycheck) to chase the dream? Peek over my shoulder as I try that very thing
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Corp type throws it all away to play poker for a living. Peek over my shoulder and watch this...
- A Break from the Seattle Damp
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Denver sits a mile above sea level. Baker CA boasts ownership of the world’s tallest thermometer (134 mercurial feet high). London Bridge truly is in Lake Havasu, AZ. Area 51…the place really does exist. It’s all uphill to Santa Fe’s 7000’ high plains perch. The Animas River runs right through the heart of Durango. Lone Pine is susceptible to vanadium storms. And Miami’s South Beach is, well…you gotta see it for yourself.
Well, my blog buds, these are but just a few of the things I have noticed while cycling throughout America. And you’ve probably seen me out there - I’m one of those old guys poking along the side of the road holding up legitimate auto traffic. (And yes, I can hear ya honking.)
Off and on, I have been taking bike trips for about 20 years. Most of the time I travel solo, but my paddling chum Neil sometimes joins me for the dubious adventure. My journies have been as short as two days, and a few have lasted two weeks or better. My typical trip spans a week, and I end up covering about 550 miles.
Cape Canaveral. Big Sur and the Hearst Castle. Santa Barbara. Flagstaff. Key West (Margaritaville). Frisco and Fresno. OC and DC. Pahrump (this is a real place). San Luis Obispo. Albuquerque. Sacramento. Vancouver. Portland…actually, several different Portlands.
I am sure most of you recognize your humble pedal pusher above. This pic was taken a few days ago. The backdrop is room 107 of the Okeechobee Inn of South Bay, FL. Travel that day included a short visit to the Sawgrass Recreational Park, where I purchased (and ate) some food that had gone bad. I spent the entire day puking and crossing the FL Everglades. Now, I had hoped to spot a live gator, but I was denied. A menacing and relentless straight-up headwind worked me all day long. Mileage that day was a disappointing 60 miles or so. From what I could tell, South Bay is somewhat seasonal, and migrant workers show up when the time is right. I believe the local crop is sugar cane. The town was desolate when I arrived - I was clearly there off–season.
And sometimes these trips can be kind of edgy. I have been bitten by maniacal dogs three times. And I once ran into one of those orange traffic cones along the 101, and had to sleep off my concussion in a Santa Barbara hospital. A landslide in British Columbia poked me in the ribs. And on one occasion, some hostile thorns in western AZ repeatedly disrespected my tires, and flatted me beyond reasonable boundaries. I ended up jogging 25 miles to Quartzsite AZ, home of the great SW Flea Market. And Tucson 1999 was the site of my diciest mis-adventure. The front wheel slipped off the bike, and I landed squarely on my noggin. 15 stitches, two black eyes, and a nasty concussion. Turns out I fractured T4. Very sobering ambulance ride. My bike helmet was split in two, right down the middle. Yikers...a scary few days for me.
Orlando. Hartford. Boston. Los Angeles. Mt Ranier. Reno. Whistler. The Grand Canyon. Yuma. Eugene. Carson City. Ft Myers. Vegas. Colorado Springs. San Diego. Laughlin. Lake Tahoe. Just about any city you can think of in WA State. And my fav…Death Valley.
Toughest hill? A 25-mile climb up Wolf Creek Pass in Colorado. Hottest? 115 degrees in Furnace Creek, CA. Longest Day? 122 miles along Oregon Coast. Wettest? 6 straight days of deluge in Colorado. Most spectacular? LA’s Mulholland Drive.
Returned home from Miami yesterday, and getting ready to pencil out my next trip. Suggestions anybody?
Saturday December 9, 2006 - 07:20pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments - Row around the Island? Gimme a break
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Long before Paul Allen was spotted at the North End Starbucks, Mercer Island was inhabited by Native American Indians. The Indians of this area were known as Duwamish, and their latitude boundaries roughly match the modern lines of King County. Mercer Island was not really a favorite of the early Duwamish however. It was, after all, an island; a canoe was required. And though it was just a modest 1 ½ miles from Mercer Island to the nearest Duwamish village (what is now known as Renton), the winter southerlies made this a perilous crossing.
Like many Native Americans, the early Duwamish were a spiritual crowd, and they certianly understood the subtleties between good and bad. One rather persistent Duwamish legend suggests that a dark and bitter spirit lived atop Mercer Island. And this cranky god would cause the Island to recede into the dark waters of Lake Washington every evening, and re-surface at morn. The Island’s mushy forests would seem to support this notion. And truthfully, this myth has yet to be busted.
The White Man started to venture onto the Island in the mid-1800s. And the Rock was officially designated as “Mercer Island” in 1860, less than a year before the Civil War was to begin back East. The Island was named after one of the…well…Mercer brothers. Ah – but which one? Aaron Mercer lived with his large family along a creek in nearby Bellevue (known today as Mercer Slough). Perhaps Mercer Island was named after Aaron. It is also said that Asa Mercer, the youngest of the Mercer brothers, used to enjoy rowing the 17-mile orbit around the island. Now there’s a piece of history I don’t believe. However, I do believe that Asa Mercer was the first President of UW, which was opened in November of 1861. Perhaps Mercer Island was named after UW’s primo Prez, Asa Mercer. And lastly, mild-mannered Thomas Mercer was a local judge in a slightly-bustling Seattle. He was also one of the few white men friendly with the native Duwamish. Well, even before the naming of the Island, Thomas Mercer claimed a massive tract of Seattle land, most of which is known today as Queen Anne. But then an unscrupulous claim-jumper grabbed Thomas’ land while Tommy was out of town. He was never ever to wrestle it back. Perhaps the Island was named after the judge.
Feeling the need to make Thanksgiving more intimate, I recount this history as backdrop for Thanksgiving festivities in my own home. We know my kitchen to be on Mercer Island, which was named after Judge Thomas Mercer in 1860. And my home, parked on the West side of the Island, is just a short 50 yards away from what used to be known as Main Street in East Seattle. That’s right, East Seattle. But, East Seattle is no longer, and Main Street has been re-labeled 28th Street. And the early Caulkins ferry service, from Seattle to Mercer Island, stopped pulling into the Main Street dock in 1893. And way back then, there were no fancy homes; just a run-out grocery and post office.
Thanksgiving circa 2006 is nothing like the ferry-riders could have imagined. Heated floors keep the kitchen warm. The blustery southern wind barely penetrates double-paned glass. And of course, no under-age children are required to gather the wood. They do however, have to pull the chairs out of the crawlspace. I’d say it’s pretty damn civilized.
On Thanksgiving Day we welcomed the usual crowd, but some things were slightly different. Now a college freshmen in DC, one of the long-time attendees could only join us in absentia. That felt weird to me. And my nephew’s hair has continued to grow over the last year. It is quite long, and I mean really long. Pretty soon he and I are going to have to have a chat. This was also the first Thanksgiving with our newest family members, Grace and Chainsaw. Turns out they both think turkey’s a real treat. As you can see above, Chainsaw is keeping tabs on the bird.
Despite the noise and spurts of chaos, Thanksgiving is special to me. Okay yeah…I admit to being a family guy. So, it touches my heart to be around so many good friends and family. It feels nice to be surrounded by so much love and affection.
So, to all my blog buddies, Happy Thanksgiving from me. You are all special members of my family, too.
Monday November 27, 2006 - 10:18am (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments - Metamorphosis
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Kinda says it all
Thursday October 19, 2006 - 10:36am (PDT) Permanent Link | 0 Comments - Celebrity Heaven
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Where is the Colorado Desert? Well, my beloved blog-hounds, I’ve got news for all of you. It ain’t in Colorado. It’s in the most southern reaches of California, and pushes southward into Baja California. For those not too familiar with this area of the world, Baja California is actually a state of Mexico. So regardless of threatened fences, the Colorado Desert cris-crosses this blazing border with impunity. (For purposes of accuracy, it’s worth mentioning that many geographers do not recognize the Colorado Desert as a separate entity. They believe it to be a western extension of the Sonora Desert, which is largely homed in Arizona. Since I like to hang out in places where a brawl might break out, I’m parking in the Colorado camp.)
The Colorado Desert is also home to Palm Desert…a place I visited this last weekend. Palm Desert is next to its well-known sister city, Palm Springs. This resort area is known for three things: golf, celebs, and wind. Though I honor that many love the golf scene, I don’t get the whole thing. So it’s lost on me. And though I’m always up for a random celebrity sighting, I am not the type to make celebrity-stalking an important part of my life. But show me some wind…now we’re getting somewhere. And the Colorado Desert served up a dose of wind that I found blog-worthy.
This blowhard tumbles straight down Interstate 10 and into San Gorgonio Pass, which is just north of Palm Springs. And is seems to pick up speed as it goes. It blows in the morning, it blows in the afternoon, it blows in the evening. It blows when you aren’t looking. It blows with gusto; it blows with purpose; it blows with passion. It pushes you over if you’re just standing there. It leans into you if you try to walk. And it blinds you if you try to take a peek (kind of Odyssey-esque). It keeps coming and coming and coming. This wind blows with pride, and this wind blows with heart.
The crafty Californians have smartly decided to work with Mother Nature on this one. They figure that all this huffin’ and puffin’ could be put to good use, and perhaps they are right. So, up pops a windmill…and then another…and then another. And before they really know what they have gotten into, the energy-starved Californians have a full-on wind farm. Rows and columns of windmills…miles long. And I’m not kidding. It is an astonishing sight. Good one, Arnold.
Most of these suckers spin at around 40 rpm. And their speed is largely dependant on the strength of the wind at the moment. But don’t worry on this - they have braking mechanisms if the wind blows too hard. They won’t go flying off and chop you up. Or your car. Not surprisingly, more wind means more power. And with a wind speed of 18mph or so, each of these windmills generates about 250 kilowatts. In English, that’s enough power to light up 2,500 100-watt bulbs. There are about 16,000 of these windmills in California. All together, they generate enough power to light up a city the size of San Francisco.
These wind machines speak to me much more loudly than does the world of golf. But, I think I am alone on this one. Alone of course, except for my all-too-loyal blog buds.
Thursday October 19, 2006 - 10:09am (PDT) Permanent Link | 0 Comments - SeaFair Arrives
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Everybody in Seattle knows about SeaFair. It’s a festival that spans almost the entire month of July, and calls it quits on the first Sunday of August. SeaFair has most of the usual you’d expect…a parade, a triathlon, numerous neighborhood fairs, a SeaFair queen and bevy of runner-up princesses, sales at local auto dealers, etc. But without a doubt, SeaFair is best known for two things – the hydroplane races and an appearance by the Navy’s Blue Angels. Both of these occur on the last weekend of SeaFair, which includes today and tomorrow.
By some twist of home purchase good fortune, my backyard provides me a view of the hydros and the Blue Angels. The view is particularly good for the Navy jets. In fact, I would say that my home is the 50-yard line for the blue and yellow FA-18 Hornets. At such close range, the rumble of the jets’ 32,000 pounds of thrust is deafening; nearby car alarms cannot keep to themselves.
With SeaFair in full swing, I have made some interesting observations, and I’ll share them here…
I do not understand why, but water balloons seem to be a SeaFair staple. Once filled with water they’re about they’re about the size and weight of a baseball. So you can throw these suckers a mile, and that is surely their primary purpose. The enterprising young girls next store also noticed the water balloon phenomenon. And they have hence decided to go into the business of water balloon manufacture. And since the supply/demand curve is so heavily one-sided, no marketing seems to be required. They simply make them, and customers come. Their dock is very busy with motorboats happy to spend the $1 for 5 balloons. No sales or B&O tax, no 1099 forms, no tax returns of any type. Just some girls selling balloons. That’s okay during SeaFair.
The SeaFair organizers recruit a ton a volunteers to help with crowd and boat control. I have come to note that almost all of these volunteers are male. These guys are supplied with a type of uniform which carries an air of authority. These guys are SeaFair cops for a weekend. These guys bust everybody in sight, even for the most minor of infractions. A motorboat puttering just a nibble too fast. A kayaker pointed in the wrong direction. 7-year-old girls floating on inflatable green alligators five feet too far from their own dock. I think these SeaFair volunteers are making up for years of oppression at their workplaces. Unbeknownst to even themselves, they’re SeaFair Nazis. And after way too long, this is their chance to “put it to the man.”
Even with these nearby idiosyncrasies, I love SeaFair, and I feel fortunate to have it play out in my own backyard. I will have our own annual picnic tomorrow, and my guests join me for the fantastic show provided courtesy of Seattle’s beautiful weather and generous helping hands.
I took this pic above as the Navy flyboys scooted by overhead. They were probably going 400 mph. Wow.
Saturday August 5, 2006 - 04:48pm (PDT) Permanent Link | 0 Comments
