Grail

Among the central tenets—if not THE central tenet—in the Advaita Vedanta, (which is one of the philosophical schools underlying Hinduism)—is that, as human beings, we routinely misidentify ourselves as an individual self as opposed to what we really are: the Universal Self, the fundamental ground of all Being, Pure Consciousness, the Atman, identical to all of Reality, the Brahman. 

Or, something like that.

Contemplative practices like yoga or meditation are designed, as the sage Patanjali says in the Yoga Sutras, to “still the fluctuations of the mind” so that our true nature is revealed and we can see ourselves—to use a common analogy—as the whole ocean rather than as individual whitecaps upon the sea.

As it turns out, however, instead of say, retiring to an ashram to chant the 108 names of God from dawn until dusk, you can achieve the same result by gathering up about fifty people on bicycles, have them ride to a wooded park on the edge of a warm, glassy lake, where—inspired by so-called “distributed scalable cocktails”—they will mingle and dance to a bicycle-mounted sound system whose highly-efficient power diodes make possible an audioscape in which it becomes impossible to deny that we are all part of the same thing, at least when Lil Jon’s Get Low is blasting through the speakers.

It makes you eternally grateful to be part of an entity in which whiskey-aided field repair of complex electronics by the light of bicycle headlights takes place and soon results in that classic marker of authentic transcendence: girls and boys dancing on tables in their underwear.

And while, in the Western tradition, spiritual pilgrims searched far and wide for their Holy Grail, mine was right there: a night-time swimming hole with an outdoor fire to boot!

Seems just like what the Vedanta is saying: this is simply too much for a single self; a more likely explanation is that it’s all our Awesome.

Addict

I don’t have a problem with marijuana or alcohol; my problem is when there’s NO marijuana or alcohol!

One thing that’s become apparent to me of late is that I don’t really like bike-riding; what I ceaselessly enjoy is getting stoned and riding my bike; one might wonder whether the cycling part is even necessary.

I can easily go weeks at a time without smoking or drinking; the fact that those weeks are prior to 1970 or after 2060 seems to me irrelevant.

And I can stop anytime I want to; in fact, if I ever want to, I will.

No one needs marijuana or alcohol to have a good time; I realize that.  But seriously, why take the chance?

Weed isn’t a crutch; it’s more like a motorized wheelchair.

The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers always said that dope will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no dope; I guess I’ll just have to take that one on faith, preparation being key here.

I’m certainly no role model when it comes to the consumption pot and booze; I can, however, in a pinch, be an illustration.

Sometimes I worry that I may be smoking too much weed; but that’s when I replenish my stock and worry no more.

The advent of legalization hasn’t really affected how much I get high; it has, though, made a huge difference in how often I break the law.

Have I ever regretted something I’ve done under the influence?  Sure, but it’s a poor workman who blames his tools.

Many memorable events my life have occured thanks to the help of cannabis and alcohol; the challenge, of course, is to remember them.

I’m sure I'd be a richer, more productive person did I not enjoy getting stoned so much; on the other hand: environmental sustainability.

Finally, if you  think this suggests an intervention, then you’re the one who’s high, not me.

Sports

In his 2000 best-seller, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community, political scientist, Robert Putnam, argued that the demise of informal social organizations like bowling leagues has led to, or at least been concurrent with, the decay of community cohesion in the United States.  Because fewer people participate in experiences that force them to interact with people who may hold very different opinions from them or come from socio-economic circumstances with which they are unfamiliar (as happens when your bowling team is playing another), we have, as a society, become less inclined to hold an inclusive attitude about who qualifies as fully-fledged members of our shared community.

I’m sure he’s right about the basic claim, but wonder if his data about participation in recreational sports leagues are accurate.   He ought to come out to the Woodland Park fields in Greenlake, where I umpired on Tuesday night, and see for himself just how many people are playing games together. 

The complex has six baseball diamonds and every one was booked, all night long from about 5:00 to nearly 11:00.  On half the fields, teams were playing softball; on the other half of them, spirited games of kickball were being played.  Bookending these six are two soccer fields, both of which hosted games.  And just down the block is a gym, in which a spate of basketball games was being played.

So, maybe it’s bowling that has declined in popularity; maybe all those keglers have become infielders and outfielders or maybe forwards and mid-backs, (or whatever it is soccer players are called.)

Admittedly, my sample is pretty small, but it’s impressive that, on a mid-week night in a mid-sized city on the far edge of the continent, so many folks were out running around playing with each other.  Granted, most of them were white, apparently middle-class, twenty and thirty somethings, but presumably, not all of them hold the same political opinions.

Hope for the future?  I hope.

Accidents

I remember the very first time I rode a bicycle: my six year-old second-best friend Jeff Wilcox held the rear rack of his green Huffy—a little kid’s bike with neither freewheel nor brakes—and pushed while I gained balance.  I held my legs wide so the cranks could spin freely.  He gave a final shove and let go, and suddenly, I was riding on my own.  Joyfully, I looked up and, in doing so, turned the handlebars slightly, guiding the bike off our neighbor’s flat driveway and down the embankment that led to our house.  I recall trying unsuccessfully to place my feet on the pedals as they whipped around before slamming into the gutter downspout on the corner of our red brick house.  I tumbled to the grass.  Jeff appeared at my side, apologizing for letting me go so quickly.  I stood up, retrieved the bicycle, and asked if we could try it again.

Since that first crash, I’ve tried to avoid spills, but even the ones I’ve had haven’t powerfully dissuaded me from riding.

There was that time in 10th grade, commuting home from school with my friend Michael.  We were probably stoned.  He began to ride by me going up the final hill to my house.  Half in jest, half in teenaged boy testosterone poisoning, I exclaimed, “Nobody passes me!” and turned my wheel into his.  The wingnut on his front dropout (this was before quick-release hubs) caught in my spokes and we both went down.  Some scrapes and scratches and a slightly out-of-true rim were the only casualties; we climbed back on our rigs, pedaled the last few blocks to my house and almost certainly got stoned, or more so.

Most recently, a couple years ago, I rode off a curb in a parking lot and face-planted onto the asphalt.  A cracked tooth and a fat lip for me, a bent handlebar for the Saluki.  We’re both better now and still riding.

Combinations

Summer is great all by itself, but it’s the combinations it makes possible that propel its excellence into the stratosphere.

Case in point: swimming in Lake Washington is a superb way to spend time and would provide sufficient entertainment on its own, but when you get to combine it with a beer, a book, and a beach towel, then we’re talking transcendent enjoyment.

Similarly, there’s much to be said for a bike ride; if that’s all you’re doing, you’re doing well.  In summertime, though, one has the opportunity to combine pedal-powered transportation with early evening cannabis consumption: as the sun begins to set on the slightly stoned cyclist, he or she realizes how wonderful it is to be alive in the verdant bubble of our fair city; the addition of the THC molecule to what had already been pretty great makes it even better.

The combination of reading a book on the couch in the middle of the day and eventually dozing off for an afternoon nap is one of the hallmarks of summer delight; either of those two activities are commendable; put them together and you’ve got something out of this world.

Who doesn’t love pink wine?  And isn’t a salad with butter lettuce, green beans, boiled potatoes, and blue cheese just about the tastiest summer meal there is?  Put them together and dine al fresco on the back patio: such a combination, were it judged solely on the basis of how much pleasure it produces, should surely be illegal.  That it isn’t—that it is both possible and legal—is yet another combination not to be missed.

I suppose it could be construed as a little greedy to embrace such amalgamations of pleasure when, in most cases, a single helping would do.  If a dip in Lake Washington is enough, isn’t it a bit excessive to include the beer and book, as well?

Perhaps, but the combination of joy and guilt improves the experience, too.

Hole

I miss my bikes.

I miss riding the Kalakala to yoga in the morning with my mat laid over the top of my Wald basket.

I miss putting both panniers on the Hunqapillar and pedaling to the grocery store to stock up on provisions for the week.

I miss riding the Saluki out to Bothell along the Burke-Gilman trail and then, after a day at school, enjoying a smoke n’ spoke on the way home.

I miss stuffing my umpire gear into the Nigel Smythe saddlebag on the Tournesol and hurrying to Queen Anne or Mercer Island to officiate two or three softball games.

I miss my occasional spin on the single-speed Quickbeam, usually to Red Apple to pick up some forgotten grocery item or off to the library to drop of some overdue books.

On vacation, earlier this week in San Francisco, and now, for a few days in Los Angeles, I’m enjoying the pace of walking, but there’s a bicycle-shaped hole in my heart not to mention splints in my shins from covering ground on two feet that I would normally cover on two wheels.

I stopped into a junk shop today that had a sign outside advertising “Burning Man Bikes;” it featured a generous pile of rusting department store cycles that normally I would hardly look twice at; today, however, I pored over selection and it was all I could do not to offer the proprietor a couple of twenties for an aged Huffy that I could have pedaled to the coffee shop down the street.

In San Francisco, I saw a guy on the BART train with a moustache-bar equipped Rivendell about my size; it took a good deal of willpower not to ask if I could take a spin.  The likelihood of his consenting to my request was small, but had he acquiesced, I wouldn’t have given it back until I recalled just how much a person can really miss his ride.

Hitting

Ted Williams, the “splendid splinter,” the last man to bat over .400 in a major league baseball season, once opined that hitting was the hardest task in all sport.  While there may be a case to make for pulling of a successful onside kick, there’s no doubt that the oft-repeated truism that a person can fail seven out of ten times and still be an All-Star is a good reminder that taking a round bat and trying to hit a round ball square with it is indeed a formidable challenge.

However.

The way the Mariners are struggling at the plate seems to suggest that the difficulties are underestimated; you look at shortstop Brad Miller flailing away, for instance, and you’d set the level of complexity even higher—something akin to solving the crisis in the Middle East or finding a good bagel west of the Mississippi.

There must be some simple trick that a hundred and fifty years of players has simply missed.  Maybe arranging one’s hands in an opposite grip or turning the bat upside-down could help; such techniques certainly couldn’t hurt where the M’s are concerned; as I type this, I’m watching them being shut out once again, a phenomenon that would be more painful if it weren’t so ubiquitous.

Anyone who’s ever stood in a batter’s box, facing a pitched ball, knows how hard it is to get on base.  Even a recreational softball player like yours truly is aware of that.  But for heaven’s sake, you’d think that professional athletes, nearly all of whom are being paid millions of dollars a year to perform this feat would be able to do so with a bit more aplomb.

Maybe my favorite hitter ever to watch was Pittsburgh Pirates’ outfielder Matty Alou who won the National League batting title in 1966.  He used to use a bat as big around as a tree trunk; he’d choke way up, rather than just choke like M’s hitters.

Entire

A dream realized.

A sublime route revisited.

All you had to do was look up to be reminded that there’s no more beautiful spot on earth and so, when you get to glide down one of the smoothest descents in the city with several hundred other gobsmacked two-wheelers, it’s no surprise that the aftereffects might not have been as compelling as they might have been.

The Dead Baby Downhill has always been about limitless possibilities; today felt a little bit more like a superbly-crafted thrill ride: I was sure to be amazed and delighted, but my life wouldn’t change.

On the other hand, I left pretty early, way before the time when people tend to lose their bikes.

In some ways, the ride out to the starting line was the most salient feature of the event: I took Delridge, which—true to romanticized form—wasn’t really all that steep.  Before I knew it, there I was in White Center and then, after a brief visit to Aaron’s shop, was, thanks to GregSomaFixed’s advice, pedaling over the last little steep hill in order to wind through the curves of High Point.

You couldn’t ask for a more ideal starting point: 2 dollar tallboys and spaghetti that made the eyes of all who sampled it glaze over with satisfaction.

The Mariners lost on the bar’s TV, but besides that, there was nothing, not nobody, I wasn’t delighted to see.

It’s a once a year thing, like Christmas or New Year’s, a holiday that absolves us of the responsibility to make the world a better place.  Surprisingly, however, it is just that freedom which makes possible incremental changes in our lives.

It doesn’t matter what you’re striving for it you don’t know why you’re striving (maybe); mainly, the advice is to get much of what you want without hurting anyone else.  This doesn’t guarantee that you’ll take first place in your age dvision, like I did, but it’s a start.