Roo (December 3, 2008)

At work, Roo has become my special friend, who has waited for me to arrive in the morning, and then sits on my lap all day. Many days I’ve seen more of Roo than my own cat at home.

Roo’s health has quite deteriorated over recent weeks. Already quite thin, he’s gotten to be just skin and bones. One of his eyes is now cloudy.

Out of concern for our friend, we arranged for Roo to receive a special blessing from Father Fred Jessett from Good Samaritan Episcopal Church today. We thanked Roo for the comfort, joy, and companionship he has brought to our staff and residents.

I do not expect Roo to live out the week.

The Ocean (Last edited November 17, 2008)

 When I was in downtown on Friday, I saw the Sound. It reminded me of how, when I worked downtown, while I was so close, I rarely walked the four blocks or so to be actually on the waterfront.

This memory and reflection then caused me to be seized with the impulse to go to the ocean. Not the Sound, the ocean, where you look out and the water blends into the horizon, and there's no land until you hit Siberia. That ocean.

My husband was sort of eeyore-ishly despondent about the idea that I'd go to the ocean. "Poor me, deprived of your company for yet another day." And it's hard for me on a Saturday morning to pop out of bed and feel like I want to drive three hours. So I didn't go to the ocean. I did go with Emma to Discovery Park, and we walked along the beach there for several hours, including visiting the lighthouse. It was very pretty, you could see Mt. Baker and the Olympics, and lots of sailboats were out - but it wasn't the ocean.

With Emma's birthday on the 16th, it was impractical for me to take off on Sunday. Instead, I worked a half day from home. Then, I left this morning. It's a long drive - three hours if you go the speed limit - and it isn't like going to Vancouver or Portland, which are also three hours away, but you can also do by train. You pretty much have to drive.

When I was a kid, we went to the ocean twice a year - for a week in the summer, and a week in the winter. We'd rent a house in Moclips, either a one-family house, or a larger house with my parents' friends, the Lowrys. After I turned 10, we went a little less frequently, but still often enough.

When I moved back to the Pacific Northwest, I went with my husband, maybe in 1990, back for the first time in many years. I was shocked - they had cut down all the trees. I saw nothing but acres of stumps. The timber industry was dead - there was lots of resentment of the spotted owl, but seriously - they had cut down every last tree it seemed, so to blame an endangered owl seemed to pretty stupid to me. The little towns from Ocean Park to the Quinault Reservation were in serious decline. We went out a couple of other times through the years, and every time, it got more and more depressing. The old seaside motels looked more and more weather-beaten; the mercantiles closed and boarded up; Moclips High School closed; no place to eat out except all the way at Ocean Shores.

When I drove out today, it was measured against both my childhood memories of a familiar road, and what I know of from more recent trips. It's been nearly twenty years since I was shocked by the acres of stumps, and many of those acres are now young forests. The towns at least are now in a holding pattern of decay, as opposed to continuing on a more precipitous slide down.

I got as far as Ocean Park, and it was good enough. I got out of the car, walked towards the surf. I walked for maybe 45 minutes just there at Ocean Park. It was as sunny as it gets on the coast - patches of blue sky, and for a bit, I could even see my shadow. The wind was blowing fiercely.

I got back in the car and drove up the road to Roosevelt Beach. It was now much cloudier. I walked from Roosevelt Beach to Joe Creek, just south of the town of Pacific Beach, and then back again. The sky darkened and it became misty. By the end of the walk, it was misting lightly - not quite a rain. From when I got out of the car, I didn't see anyone, until a couple with a dog in the distance near Joe Creek. After I turned around, I didn't see anyone but an older couple on the wooded trail that leads you to the road so you can cross Elk Creek.

So, maybe three and a half hours of solitude. The swells curling towards shore. The never-ending wind. Little skitterings of sandpipers. An osprey kettling. Sand dollars, mussels, razor clams, crab shells, and kelp washed up on the sand.

There was some trash, but not a lot - not as much as I remember there being. There was a tiny fraction of driftwood that there was in my youth. I guess this is what happens when logging ceases - logs no longer break free on rivers, are no longer carried out to sea and wash up on the shore.

A long walk with few words, except the roar of my own consciousness. From time to time I stood in the wind, felt it on my face, smelled the sea, listened to the waves break.

I got back to the car. I drove to Pacific Beach, then turned to Copalis Crossing. On the way out of that little hamlet, before the Humptulips River, there was a sign for fresh eggs. I turned into the driveway, and there was another sign: Eggs Honk. So I honked, and a grandma came out with two dozen eggs in one arm and an infant in the other. I gave her some money, put the cartons on the floor of the car.

While it was partly during rush hour, traffic home wasn't bad - just a little slow in Tacoma and again in Renton. Nearly three hours to get home.

I went to the ocean. I needed to go. I'm glad I went.

Thoughts on canvassing (Last edited October 26, 2008)

I did a little canvassing (a.k.a., doorbelling) in previous elections. I did more in the 2004 and 2006 elections, and even more this election year.

Why I do this work:

I like meeting our neighbors. Canvassing is an excuse to knock on people's doors and say hello. I prefer to canvass my precinct or the adjacent ones, so I can say, "I'm your neighbor" when I introduce myself. Some people I guess like to meet their neighbors too, and I'm invited in, or our conversations are relatively long on the doorstep, driveway, or street.

I'm genuinely interested in what people have to say. While I don't like hostility, I don't mind disagreement. I realize that my higher calling while canvassing can be simply this: to listen. Example: some white guy, in his late 50s, starts off yesterday by telling me he doesn’t want to talk politics with anyone. I’m cheerful and say that’s fine, and start to mark down “refused” on the walk sheet, and then he proceeds to talk politics with me for maybe the next twenty minutes. I give a few prompts, like, “what issues concern you the most in this election?” However, it’s mostly me saying things like, “uh huh”, or “I hear you” or “I can see why you feel that way”. Maybe only once or twice did I offer some sort of thoughts of my own on why My Candidates would be better on his concerns.

I think there’s a lot of folks who feel that their voices aren’t heard; guys like this one who feel cynical, or disempowered in the existing system. With my badge and clipboard, I appear to be a representative of officialdom, even if all I am is a neighbor from a house a few blocks away. One of things I hope I do bring is greater empowerment to the people I meet, in the form of voter registration forms and information.

The information people seek, though, is rarely in the form of the glossy campaign "lit" that I carry with me. Often it's practical - how to I get an absentee ballot? Do we have early voting in this state, and how can I do that? Where's my polling location? What's a good website to check on the claims of the campaigns? Where can I get a yard sign? One of the most useful things I have is not glossy - a simple door-hanger that gives down-ticket endorsements of initiatives and judicial races. Most people know of and have formed opinions about the presidential race. Who knows who is a good candidate for state appellate court judge?

My guess is that, by the end of this election, I will have been to over a thousand people's doorsteps, and actually talked to hundreds. Based on this experience, I will offer advice to those considering canvassing in these last few days before the election:

Creature comforts:

• Wear comfortable, sturdy shoes.
• Dress in layers - dress to keep warm, but you may warm up walking and you may need to shed one
• Wear a hat to keep your head dry, your body warm, or keep the sun out of your eyes
• Carry a water bottle and an energy bar.
• Use the bathroom before you go.
• Plan for a lunch break

Take with you:

• A clipboard - the field office can provide you with one if you don't have one.
• Pens - at least two, because you'll misplace at least one and one is likely to run out.
• Campaign lit (provided by the campaign)
• Walk sheet and map (provided by the campaign)
• Cell phone
• Voter registration forms, unless registration has already closed in the state for the election
• Field office phone number and address, so you can refer potential volunteers directly
• A large canvass shoulder bag that can hold the above items. A backpack leaves your hands free, but you have to take it off on a continual basis to get at the contents. You can just reach into shoulder bag while it's on.

If it's raining, add:

• As water proof a jacket as you own
• A broad-brimmed rain shedding hat. You won't have the ability to juggle an umbrella with everything else
• A clear plastic bag to have over your clipboard and walksheets. You need to write on the walksheets with the clear plastic OVER the sheet and your hand in the bag.
• Ballpoint pens only. Do not use a pen with ink that runs.
• A gallon-sized ziplock for your walksheets. They probably will get semi-shredded anyway, but you'll do what you can.

Strategies:

Study your walksheet and map and plan your walking route. If you're driving to the location, figure out where you want to park. I don't care what order you get your walksheet in, it's never the right one for you. Some people like to do all the odds on a street, then walk back and do all the evens. Other people like to criss-cross the street. It's better to plan your route before you hit the street, then to constantly be juggling walksheets and the map and trying to figure out where you're going next.

I figure 10 - 12 doorsteps per hour in our area. I don't know if that's fast or slow. It takes longer where the lots are bigger, quicker in apartments where you don't have to go as far between doors. Even when no one's home, it takes time to knock, wait, cram lit into door jamb, mark your walksheet, and find your next door.

Get a walking list for as close to your home as possible. You want your precinct, adjacent precincts, or at least, general neighborhood. Describe yourself as a neighbor in your introduction.

Know the purpose of the canvass. Are you finding unregistered voters? Convincing undecideds? Getting out the vote for supporters?

Read the script, get a feel for it, then don't use it. It's bad enough on the phone when people telephone with a "canned" feel to their voice. It's death on the doorstep. You should know the purpose of your call, and then put everything in your own words. If you have personal reasons for supporting the candidate, use them.

Knock. Even in nice neighborhoods, half the time the doorbell doesn't work. Knock hard but just a couple of raps. Don't knock again unless you have evidence that there's someone in the house but there's no movement (like, you can hear the TV in the house, but you can't hear anyone getting up and walking to the door).

Ask for the person by name that you are supposed to be reaching. I've learned this the hard way, especially in this campaign, where there is often a generation gap between the older, ossified Republican parents and the young Democrat living at home with them.

Be cheerful and friendly. When people turn you away because they don't want to discuss politics with strangers or they're busy or they consider their vote private or whatever, say you understand completely, thank them, and leave. If people are nutcases ("the only government I believe in is the one headed by Christ the King"), thank them for their time and leave. If people are hostile - very rare - do not return hostility with hostility. Thank them as you are backing (running?) away, and leave.

Listen. As I said at the first of this long post, I think listening is sometimes the most important thing you can do as a canvasser. This is especially important when dealing with undecideds. Find out what their concern is. Do they fear Obama's inexperienced? Are they upset about their retirement fund in the tank? Maybe professional doorbellers think that all this listening time is time wasted, but I'm not being paid by the hour, and the extra time spent is part of what I think the job is about. One time I spent half an hour on a woman's doorstep, an "undecided" when I arrived. I did little more than active listening, with an occasional fact or position thrown in, and by the end of the conversation, she had convinced herself that Obama was her man.

Offer information as appropriate. If you don't know the resource, the facts or the candidate's position on something, say so, and say you'll get back with the right answer. Mark it on your walk sheet. When you're giving personal opinion, state that it's personal opinion. Don't argue unless you have the facts behind you and you can substantiate them AND you think that you won't be perceived as angry or unpleasant.

Turn in your paperwork as soon as you're done. With the election just days away, your field office needs to input the information immediately. Again, I know this through hard experience! It's too easy to procrastinate. Just return your walksheets and any leftover lit that day.

This is the end of my thoughts on canvassing. I welcome your comments - especially if you have done canvassing yourself.

The end of Facebook Notes

 I am sad to find out that Facebook is discontinuing Notes. I will be transferring all my old Notes to Blogger. 

Dear Friends,

I have been a participant on 43things.com for about eight years. That site is going belly-up, and I have been casting about, looking for a place to post my thoughts and reflections. Further, Facebook is just too public for me right now, and I've gone as far as to discontinue my Facebook page for now.

I started this simple blog a few years back, and posted things here when I had no other appropriate place. I plan to revive this blog to fill some of the purposes for which I used 43things, and also get some more personal things off of Facebook, and put them here.

So, the content you'll find here will be some new, and some old. If it's old, I'll put a date of original publication, just so we both know how far back that writing went.

Thank you for reading my posts.

Federation Forest to White River Campground, and back

Wednesday was the only day that it was supposed to be nice at Mt. Rainier this week, so Wednesday was the day I was going to do the ride.

I woke up early, and left the house early. It’s a good ninety minutes to drive to Federation Forest. Clouds hung low, dark and grey, and I wondered if I should have checked the forecast one last time. While it wasn’t raining, rainwater from the previous wet days fell off the trees in both light sprinkles and in heavy blops on my windshield.

I had been doing a lot of thinking while driving, and I didn’t feel much like cycling at all. I thought about driving all the way to Yakima, just to drive some place. I didn’t. Instead, I pulled into the Federation Forest parking lot and got out of the car.

It was cold. I put on my thermafleece tights, and my fleece jacket, and yanked the bike out of the back of the car. I didn’t feel like riding, but here I was.

The highway mostly parallels the White River. The river’s milky-green hue comes from its source, the glaciers melting on Mt. Rainier. I was riding along through a tunnel of large, old-growth trees, and then I would come out the river, and then back into the old-growth trees. The forest is mossy and damp.

It’s uphill, but I only notice that it’s uphill because I’m not going that fast. I have it in the middle ring in the front, and the middle of the cassette in the back. Motor vehicle traffic is very light.

Pedal and breathe. Pedal and breathe. My brain begins to let go.

After about ten miles and an hour of riding, I pulled off the road to look at a waterfall on the other side of the river. (Photo) Clouds and mist roiled on and over the hillsides.

Back on the bike. Pedal and breathe.

Another five miles, and I arrived at a construction zone. It’s summer, the road is open, so they’ve doing repairs all along the way, but this one is serious. After I rode to the front to chat with the flagger, I learned that I would not be allowed to ride the mile through this section, but would need to be carried by the pilot car. I ate some stale choc-blocks, and drank water. While riding in the pilot car, I noticed some patches of blue.

After being deposited by the pilot car on the other side of the construction, more clouds moved away, more blue was revealed. More uphill. Pedal and breathe. My brain moves to a broader perspective. Pedal and breathe.

It was now very sunny, dappling through the boughs of the trees. (Photo) I stopped off at a ranger station, got a map, asked if the road to Sunrise was opened for cyclists. I was told yes, and one ranger enthusiastically described a recent ride.

I got back on the bike, and the road steepened. I shed my jacket. I put the chain in the little cog. It took a long time to pass each mile post.

I was both surprised and relieved to see the sign that said the road to Sunrise was in a half mile.

I made the turn, and it was down, down, down. I was glad to be coasting, because the climb up had put my stomach tank on empty. It now smelled of the high mountains – silver fir, yellow cedar, and mountain hemlock, warmed in the sun. At the gate, I chatted with the ranger. He said that I could ride the five miles to the White River Campground, but the road to Sunrise was closed to cyclists that day due to the heavy equipment that was still clearing snow. If I wanted to go up to Sunrise, I’d have to wait until very late in the afternoon, after the crew was done. I decided that I would not do that, but just go to the campground.

I knew at this point I needed to eat lunch, but I thought I’d ride until I got to either the campground, or a view. I crossed a couple of rivers, and thought about sitting on their banks, but decided to push on. At one point, I dismounted to look at the White River, to see if there was a way down so I could eat lunch. When I couldn’t find one, I couldn’t bring myself to get back on the bike, and walked it slowly up the hill, and said to myself, “You’re bonking. You need to stop and eat.” At the very next clearing, I set my bike down, took off my helmet and gloves, and pulled lunch out of the trunk. I climbed down the side of the road to the river.

I could see a glacier, but not the whole mountain from my lunch spot. (Photo) It didn’t matter. I ate my pasta salad. I ate my cherries. I drank most of my bottle of electrolyte. I settled on the river rocks, padded with my fleece jacket, and listened to the river. Wisps of clouds floated by in the brilliant blue sky.

It was time to go. I clambered back up the hillside to the bike, and started off. Food helped. I felt much better. I continued climbing. The glaciated peak of Mount Rainier came into view. Soon I was at the campground. Officially, it was closed, but it’s scheduled to open this weekend, and the vault toilet was open and I could refill my water bottle at the tap.

I didn’t realize how steep the climb had been. I zipped down through the forest, over one river, then the next, and the next. In a blink, I was back at the Park gate, and then climbing back up to the main highway.

Then it was a simple coast down, unable to pedal because I was moving so fast.

I was the first in line at the construction zone, so I knew it would be a while. I asked the flagger if I could lean the bike against his car. He was fine with that. I took off my tights. I sat on the asphalt, and finished the electrolyte, then ate a mojo bar and drank another bottle of water. The pilot car came, and dropped me and the bike again on the other side of the zone.

I saw the first cyclists for the day, then. Two tourists, fully loaded, cheerfully pedaling along up the road as I was coming down, probably going to one of the campgrounds along the way.

As I got closer to the car, I reflected on the ride. I planned to go, but I had been reluctant. I almost didn’t stop driving. My head had been swirling small and jittery thoughts. I was so cold when I got the bike out of the car, and the weather was so gloomy.

But as I rode, I warmed up. The clouds dissipated and the sun came out. Now, while I was tired, I was calmed. My thoughts had come from a higher perspective. The ride had worked its magic. Once again, the bike had come to heal and connect. My lovely bike – such a resource. What would I do without it?

I threw the bike back into the back of the car. I stopped at the Black Diamond Bakery on the way home and got a fresh cookie and a tea to go. I took the backroads home – never quite sure if that’s faster than the freeway, but it’s certainly less stressful. I was home by 4:30.

Map of the route: http://www.gmap-pedometer.com/?r=6342517

Flying Wheels 2012

Summary
103 total miles, with short-cuts and riding to the ride and riding home again
Start line at 7:59 AM
Finish line at 5:04 PM
Solo ride: no tandem, I did not ride in a paceline or draft anyone
Weather: Grey and threatening, never actually rained while I was riding but the pavement was damp in places. Temps mostly in the 50s

Narrative
Started off by frying up breakfast for me and friend Geoff Hazel. When I realized that it was actually raining, I did a quick switch of my planned outer wear, and put on a light wool v neck sweater plus my rain jacket. With this running around and general conversation, we finally pushed off around 7:30.

We waved to various people at the start line, and took off right around 8:00. Geoff kindly rode with me until Inglewood Hill, then took off and I never saw him again. (He ended up completing the hundred in 6 hours, 17 minutes.) I do Inglewood as a part of my commute, so while it's not an easy sprint, it's also not a problem. On the way off the back of the Plateau, saw a rider in the ditch, being attended to by a Ride Ref and a few others. When the pavement is wet, I've seen riders who have crashed on that hill. It's steep and windy, and it's shaded so the pavement is often damp and slippery.

I notice I come out a lot earlier to make left turns compared to many riders, and once again I did so, this time to take the left on Ames Lake Road. I really enjoy this segment. It's green: Big Leaf maples and Doug firs, lots of ferns and moss as you ride up the cleft. Then it was whee! down into the Snoqualmie River valley. I geared down just fine for the hairpin start of Stillwater Hill (always some chaos right there as not every rider has), and ground up to the top. I passed by some South Asian guy in a blue jacket, and I guess the sight of this auntie blowing past him caused him to take off. "You gave me motivation!" he yelled as he passed me later. I passed him later, on Cherry Valley Road, and once again, getting passed by a middle aged woman caused him to push himself harder. I joked as he went by that he must be one of those competitive Microsoft types - something he didn't deny.

Duvall was my first stop. It was crowded. I sat in a chair (because I know how to live) enjoying grapes, oranges, and a banana. I got a little chilled sitting there, and put my sweater and jacket back after stuffing a spare packet of fig newtons into my back pocket.

Then it was a scant mile to the decision point - 65 miles or 100? Well, I had well mentally committed to the 100, so the decision was easy - off to the right!

In previous years, I have seen cyclists making the return from the northerly loop at this point, and it's always a bit discouraging to see so many about 30 or so miles ahead of you on the century. This year I saw fewer - just a few clumps - so I felt like I was not that far behind on doing the century at that point. High Bridge road is labelled as a hill, but the climb was easy. On the downslope, we were cautioned to take it slowly, as there was a rider down. Sure enough, the lane was completely closed off and there was a guy in the middle of it whose head was covered in blood. I muttered a little "there by the grace of God" type prayer of protection for myself and everyone.

The two aftermaths of accidents that I saw were on downhills, and I think this is no coincidence. Speeds are higher. People are maybe trying to keep up with a paceline for their century ride, and so are temped to ride faster than they are really comfortable handling. A little dampness (back of the Plateau) or gravel (off High Bridge) and people go down. I have a scar on my knee from a similar situation, so I know how this can go.

Anyway, a few miles past this, I decided to take a break at a park a few miles before Snohomish. I ate a luna bar, a banana, and that pack of fig newtons, and drank a bottle of water.

Since I took that break, I saw no reason to actually stop in Snohomish. I was very happy to roll into the Monroe rest stop a half an hour or so later.

In the food line there, I felt like I should have something more substantial than bars and fruit. It didn't feel appealing, but I made myself a pbj. I also grabbed a bag of animal crackers. I drank some electrolyte drink with the pbj, and then ate the animal crackers.

Coming back on this segment, returning to the rejoining of the ride with the 65 mile loop, I started feeling really icky.

----TMI ALERT - do not read the next paragraph if you are squeamish---

I regurgitated up peanut buttery something twice on the bike. The first time I managed to spew it off to the left, but the second time it hit me so fast it hit the top tube instead. On the third wave, I stopped the bike. I heaved into the grass. I regret to say that I also lost a little bladder control with the force of my hurling, and pee ran down my leg, too. I felt pretty crappy all the way around. I was weakened by the upchucking, my shorts which never pristine on a century were now really gross, and my stomach was still churning. I got back on the bike. I rode about a mile longer, then did another upchuck of peanut butteriness into the shrubbery, a repeat of the previous incident. I rode some more, and then I took a little detour from the route. It's not even a quarter of a mile shorter, but it just felt like I wanted it. It was a good choice - it felt warmer, I was out of the wind and the traffic, and it was quieter and more peaceful. I felt comforted. I did a final regurgitation, though, on this road, before returning to the regular route.

----TMI alert over---

As I rode past Carnation Farms, I briefly toyed with giving up on the ride, but I thought that at this point maybe I had gotten nearly everything up that had distressed me. I stopped at a park, and while waiting in line to use its lovely sanitary facility, I drank another bottle of water. This seemed ambrosial at the time, probably because I had lost so much on the previous segment of the ride.

At the Carnation rest stop, I refilled that water bottle. I decided I would put nothing else into my stomach except that which was completely digestible and trustworthy. I drank a bottle of water with a brand-new clif shot, and refilled it again.

I rode through the really nice segment -no traffic, flat, and this time, no wind - that goes through Jubilee Farms with a tall young fellow on a Mendocino. We didn't say much, just had some companionable riding along.

Since I had the clif shot in Carnation, I didn't see any reason to have the traditional sports gel before climbing the Fall City-Issaquah road. Doing that climb was pretty tough this time out. It's at about mile 80, and it's a long set of stair steps. The guy on the Mendocino left me. I think I was still weak from my previous digestive difficulties. I hated to think that I couldn't manage it solo, though. I've done several effortless climbs up that road with David on the tandem, recently. So I just worked it, dropping into the granny on the risers, and sure enough, I made it to the false summit. Then I rode up to the final summit, and came out feeling like, OK, I'm actually going to complete this ride.

I got a second wind. At the final rest stop, I used the blue room and then thought, you know, maybe I should check the tire inflation. Turns out they were at 60 lbs. (I can feel my husband's eyes rolling from here.) I put them up to 85 and I got back on the bike. I showed fellow rider Mike Kelly the "short cut" on the Plateau. For the first time in a long while I was feeling strong. We dropped back down on to the regular route. The guy on the Mendocino happened along, and was startled to see me. "Didn't you stop at the rest stop?" he asked. I told him I barely stopped at it, but more importantly, I took a short cut on the Plateau, and that's how I got ahead of him.

It was easy easy easy at this point to make it to the finish line. I saw Leo at a distance in the beer garden. He said I looked like someone who could use a beer and a sit-down. He might have been right, but I didn't want to linger, as I was afraid if I did so, I'd never make it home.

So I said goodbye, and headed home. I took Multi-Deity Hill for the way back, but I confess, I walked the bike up its steepest part. It wasn't my intention, but somehow I found myself in the shower within a few minutes of stepping in the door. It felt great to be clean and home at last.