Please note: This is fiction.

The doctor intently peered at a stack of yellow, pink and white papers on his clipboard. The clutter vaguely resembled someone's hair after a windstorm. He looked up at his patient, who sat awkwardly in a wheel chair that barely contained him. The patient's body pressed against the armrests as fat subtly rolled over the top.
"You're good to go." The doctor's voice echoed the monotony of an assembly-line worker faced with a countless, almost meaningless task into perpetuity. "Your artery is clear and flowing fine."
The man was wheeled away. The fat rippled beneath his chin in response to the movement.

The doctor walked up to me and again looked at his clipboard. "How do you feel?"
"I'll never be the same," I responded
His eyes moved up to peer at me through the space between his glasses and his rough eyebrows. His face remained pointed at the clipboard.
I felt my legs slide back under the chair I sat on. "I feel well."
"You've been here a while." He said as his eyes moved back to the clipboard.
"How do you decide when to send someone home? How do you know when someone is well again?"
He let his arms drop to his side and the clipboard dangled from his hand. "We do our best to help people, and when there's nothing more we can do, we send them on their way." He sighed and looked up at me, his head tilted slightly and his eyes softened. "Ideally, we help people be healthy so they can live productive and happy lives." I noticed a gray shade that seeped below his eyes, a hint at lost sleep.
"I feel ready to go, but this cost something that I'll never get back."
A group of people rushed down the nearby hallway. White coats and scrubs fluttered behind them as they propelled a machine before them.
"That's the process of growing older. Life and experience is not always free." I looked at the doctor's eyes that sat deep below his eyebrows. His brown irises surrounded a depth in his pupils that extended beyond where he stood and what he said. A lifetime of experiences and memories had passed through them. "I don't want to see you here again," he continued.
I chuckled at the thought of returning. "I don't think I'll take chances with anything that may send me back."
"Don't be too hard on yourself. You can do well, just take your time and be careful." He glanced at his clipboard. "I know I don't need to caution you."
He turned around and briskly walked away down the hall. He slowly passed through a sea of people with white and blue coats until I no longer saw him.

Coming to select roads near you

On December 17, Tron will return to theaters. It is also the day I fly home for Christmas. Coincidence? I THINK NOT!

I intended to take the more comfortable and relaxing train home. However, my intention to take a route established and used as a reasonable form of transportation for decades was foiled by something called "ridiculously expensive tickets." Now, I have no choice but head to the airport to reclaim transportation that rightfully belongs to me. However, I fear a nemesis waits for me there. One that will disassemble my rights in a body scanner and transport them to a computer. I will find myself in a desolate land and faced with a choice that will guide my destiny: join the masses of cars and the deterioration of personal freedoms, or fight for my life unshielded on the ruthless streets with only a light-cycle (and by light-cycle, I mean a bike that has a light on it). Can I survive the fight for my life, break free from the system, and return victorious to slightly-healthier and responsible living to reclaim what is rightfully mine? or will I join the ranks of the fallen and forgotten? Find out on December 17, when we discover if Amtrak can reasonably ship a bicycle on a train that I am not on.

Bike venting: if only we could harness its energy

I've spent quite some time biking on all sorts of roads in all sorts of conditions on the West Coast. In this time, I've come to notice some extraordinary behavior by people driving cars. Granted, most people are respectful and do not want to cause any harm, but it only takes one malicious or careless person in a car to cause terror. In fact, I have at times felt that my situation on a bike in fast traffic is like having someone with a gun to the back of my head (I have never been in that situation, I just imagine how it might feel). It is terrifying, and it is not uncommon for me to find myself in situations where I feel genuine concern for my life. All it takes is one person with a car to be fed up with me or just the concept of a bike on a road, press the gas pedal a bit or tap the steering wheel, and it's curtains for me. In many cases that person with a car can probably then quickly drive off with no consequences. The worst part is how common that situation occurs. This does not even touch on the consequences of inattentive drivers.

If people on bikes are not already vulnerable enough on roads, the media is happy to fuel the flames. Not surprisingly, I find that after a media-outlet has a big anti-bike tirade, people become more aggressive. Sure, there is freedom of speech, but when someone spews hatred and literally encourages people to "run them [me?] over" or writes irresponsible and factually questionable articles (bikes freeload, don't pay taxes, take away resources from cars, slow traffic, etc. [For the record, in Oregon and at least many other states, bike riders actually unfairly subsidize car infrastructure, reduce traffic, save public money, etc.]) that rile people up against other people circumstantially on a bicycle, the consequences can get very real and it is scary.

In part to vent, and maybe to at least get the ideas out there, I have written down many of the recurring uncomfortable situations I find myself in.

First is the classic "right-hook" where a person in a car may pull up to my left side and suddenly make a right turn directly in front of me into an intersection or driveway, which nearly puts me over the hood of the car. The incredible thing about this is the person in the car almost always does this shortly after coming up from behind me, so surely they could have seen me in the lane.

The other classic is the "dooring." Someone parks their car, and immediately pops open the door. No need to check for traffic because there is a bike lane next to a car? Now the person on the bike, who sometimes has only a meter or less to react, has a door suddenly blocking the bike lane.

When someone approaches a stop sign at an arterial, why stop at the sign? They just blow across the cross walk and into the bike lane where there is a better view of traffic, often they don't even check for traffic until in the bike lane. This leaves me with two options: slam on the breaks, or swerve into adjacent traffic, both of which I've had to employ. My fear, though, is that I may not see it coming and find myself tapped into and under the wheels of adjacent traffic.

As a similar case of right-hooks, some people gun their engine to get around and me, cut in front with only a couple feet to spare, and immediately slam on the breaks and come to a near stop to make a right turn. This leaves me scared, from the car maneuvering so close to me, shaken from needing to react quickly with little room for error, and frustrated as I feel like I am treated with the same dignity as a dead animal on the side of the road.

There is the common buzzing, by people in cars. I may be in the bike lane, and rather than giving me a couple feet of space, the driver actually moves his or her car into the bike lane! blowing by inches from my body. Yeah, that really showed me... how dare I ride a bike in a bike lane around him/her. A similar situation occurs when I am in the right lane of an /empty/ 4 lane road, and rather than change to the left lane and safely pass, the person decides to pass me at an excessive speed inches from my body. The worst is that I can hear it coming, and sometimes it is not always clear if they intend to hit me or not. I once looked back when I heard a car doing this only to see the person gun their car as they pointed it directly at me, and swerve around me at the very last possible moment. There is nothing I can do (even if I wanted to there is often a curb or parked cars that block any easy escape), but ride as a straight as possible. Any twitch or sneeze could get me clipped by the person's all-too-close mirror.
This is not without irony, as I often catch up with these people at the next light, or they might have bumper stickers telling me that Jesus loves me, or that I should be pro-life. The two pro-life instances blow my mind. Every life is valuable, except for that of someone on a bicycle?

Most 18-wheelers are courteous and responsible. But that doesn't mean I haven't had an 18-wheeler pull up along side me and slowly move into me in an uncomfortable act of aggression. Those bolts on the front wheel spinning a foot or two from my face are not very friendly. Logging trucks and their drivers however have lead to the scariest experiences. I often encounter them on two-lane back-country roads. They blow by and give me a couple feet of clearance if they feel generous, and when they pass there is a wind that sucks me in. The scary part is how the rear wheels are unprotected. If I get sucked in too far, there is nothing to stop those wheels from going right over me.

There seems to be a prejudice that bikes only go 5 to 10 mph, which becomes dangerous as cars see me and assume they can turn left, pull out in front of me, or many other maneuvers that they can not actually perform safely. In fact, I am often going 20 mph or more and find myself forced to take quick evasive action. This is even more ridiculous as cars seem to feel compelled to pass a bicycle no matter what. I once was descending a hill at around 30 mph in a 25 mph speed zone. There were excessive blind corners and no safe passing areas. Yet the person in the car behind me decided to blow by me anyways, well into the opposite lane where oncoming traffic may be just around the corner, and way over the speed limit, only to immediately slow down to the same speed I was traveling when they finished the pass! I had to actually slow down behind the car for the rest of the descent. In fact, dangerous passes are pretty common all around. If someone passes me when I am in a car, they generally wait until the coast is clear, there is a good sight-line, and they do it safely. If someone passes me when I am on a bike, they often do it immediately, without slowing, and at great peril to everyone on the road. If the person has to wait a few seconds, they express their anger by buzzing me when they can get past.

There are the people who yell things at me from their car. Sometimes he/she may think he/she is funny or witty, sometimes he/she wants me to know how much he/she hates me because at the moment I have chosen to sit on a bicycle, and sometimes: who knows what the motivation is. Now I am all for more person to person interaction, but when one person is in a car and one isn't there is a power paradigm that is impossible to ignore. The person in the car has the ability to kill or seriously injure me at will, roll up the window and drown me out with music, or drive away and leave me. I, on the other hand, can do none of that. I only have better maneuverability and the ability to get on a sidewalk that may be nearby.

All of these situations can be nerve-wracking, and leave me sad that I can not peacefully enjoy a bike ride, and dismayed that people who do not even know me want to hurt or intimidate me for no other reason than I am on a bicycle. Have we really reached the point where it is acceptable for someone to threaten another person's life because he or she has been inconvenienced or slowed down for a few seconds?

So why do I tolerate this and continue to ride a bike? Is the joy I get from riding as a way of life really worth it? Although I stand my ground in traffic, the fear I experience is very real. People may try to intimidate or scare me away or off the road, but it is almost always a bluff, and it is a vocal minority. Just like a bully on a playground, the winning or losing is not controlled by the bully, but by the victim.

After this direct, unsheltered experience of how destructive a culture of automobiles can be, it is overwhelmingly clear to me that no reasonable standard of ethics can possibly justify the way we treat each other with automobiles, or the consequences of their excessive usage. I do not want to take part in this continual dangerous and destructive habit. Even if I did crack and turn solely to cars, it would statistically be the most likely thing to kill me.

What can I do? Not a whole lot except act respectfully and responsibly in a way I believe in. Maybe I can help at least some people see my side of traffic. Sometimes, when I roll up to a light next to someone who moments ago tried to intimidate me or threaten my life, the person looks embarrassed and ashamed, sometimes the person looks angry and spiteful, and sometimes the person looks spoiled and vain. I am generally left to feel angry, frustrated and scared.

Red White and Blue: The true colors of the UK and her former imperial subjects

According to the BBC (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-11731014), the Pentagon spokesman said:
"There is no evidence to suggest it was anything other than an aeroplane."
I'm pretty sure the Pentagon spokesman, Col David Lapan, in all his red-white-and-blue (that's the American flag, not the union jack) did not say "aeroplane." He most certainly said "airplane," like any real American.

The trick is to act like everyone else

I stood on a street corner under Portland's night sky, paused in my evening commute, and chatted with a guy. After a few minutes of talk, it suddenly occurred to me: "What the heck is this guy doing in the middle of Portland wearing a gold-colored speedo and a red vest?" Of course, this was immediately followed by the thought "What the heck am I doing in the middle of Portland in skin-tight spandex with half a dozen flashing lights on me and my bike talking to a guy in a gold-colored speedo and red vest?" I immediately dismissed both thoughts and continued to chat.

I was lucky in Portland. I could walk into grocery stores, coffee shops, work, almost anywhere in spandex and no one would care or take notice. I am pretty sure everyone had that luxury, whether dressed as a zombie or a princess. In fact, the only people that I could consistently rely on to give me dirty looks were the supposedly progressive and accepting hippies at the local food co-op. Yeah, I'm still bitter about that.

In Seattle, however, the slightly "higher class" nature of the city (emphasis on slightly) is not quite the same. Now, when I walk into the activities center, surrounded by people who obviously spend time to look nice and attractive, I carry a Fresh Step kitty litter box converted into a pannier and I wear full spandex with a bright orange jersey that reads "Team S&M", and I feel a little self-conscious.

My Law? Pretty please :)

As Godwin's Law states, "As an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches 1."

After spending some time in the realm of science. I think I can safely propose an addition to that law: as any science related discussion lengthens, the probability of a reference to XKCD approaches 1.

For example, although it's not quite science-y, and a pretty one sided discussion: this blog, just now.
I also feel a bit guilty about this:



especially since I have a BA.

So You Think You Can Show the Normed Linear Space of the Continuous Functions on the Closed Interval From 0 to 1 is a Banach Space in the InfiniteNorm

I could see it in their eyes. In the way they were alight with excitement and interest. In the way their voices formed words that pushed forward beyond my sight. In the way others referred to them and their actions with part amusement, part curiosity and part admiration.

I recognized it the moment I saw it. I recognized it from what seems like a lifetime ago, but I could relate to it like it was yesterday. And I know I need to go back to that. I do not know how or if it is even possible, but a determination was triggered in me. I came across some spectacular things in my past, but I lacked the experience to understand them or their worth, and in my naivety I let go of many things I should not have. It still is not always easy to assess the values of things, but at least I know the pricelessness of some.

If I ever do make it back, was the deviation worth it? if only to value what I have? I probably have more control over the answer than I know.

Trip Report: I like to ride my bicycle

A few weeks ago I set off with a friend on a bike trip across Central Oregon and Northern California. My mother, as she often worries, was half-convinced I would die. On the other hand, my grandmother thinks it's a miracle I have lived this long in the first place. In all reality, we were well prepared for the trip and it went smoothly. Although we missed out on some of the poorly-placed adventures of unpreparedness, we had our share of notable events.


The trip was a much needed vacation for me, but the pleasure of the trip, as always, is in the details. I would love to walk you through those fine details, including biking through forests on roads with virtually no cars, but for full effect I think you'll have to get on a bike and do it yourself. The people we met were one thing that made the trip quite enjoyable.


In one case of swapping stories with a couple Pacific-Crest-Trail section hikers, my biking partner quickly recounted how just the other night as he looked for the tent zipper, I started to claw at his hands! He finally found the zipper, went outside for a bit, got a drink of water, etc., and got back only for me to rudely ask where he had gone! Of course I had to set the record straight: On the second night of the trip, as I was about to fall asleep, my friend started clawing at the tent. I asked what was up, and he said he was looking for the zipper. Although his clawing looked rather frantic and unorganized for simply finding the zipper to the tent. He found it and got a drink of water. I fell asleep only to be later woken by him shaking my pillow! Again I ask "What are you doing?"
To which he asks, "What is this?"
"My pillow"
"Oh," and he goes back to bed.
At this point I'm considering the possibility that my friend has cracked. Sure enough, sometime later he opens the door of the tent and goes back to bed, letting all the ants and other bugs into the tent. Talking to him in the morning, he attributed it to some possible claustrophobia induced by my cursed tent, or it being too hot out. Of course, I (jokingly) had my doubts.
Fortunately, the next few nights are uneventful, but again, just the other night I awoke to him clawing at the tent (this is where he started his story). I grab his hands and move them to where the tent zipper is, only to have him pull them away and continue to claw at the tent. He finally finds the zipper and gets out. Five or so minutes later, and he's still gone. I start to dread the thought that he got lost in the night. The last thing I want to do is try to track down a person, who is already acting strangely, in a forest, in the middle of the night. And really, who knows where he might have gone. Much to my relief, he finally returns and goes to bed.

On the trip, we also got to meet a farmer. A good portion of Northern California consists of private farmland, which makes it difficult to find a good spot to camp. We finally settled one night and found a discrete spot on private land. As our new farmer friend pointed out to me, he wouldn't have caught us if he had not been out so unusually late that night. He told this to me at about midnight as I stood next to his pickup in nothing but boxers, still a little drowsy from being woken by a car horn. We chatted a bit about where my friend and I came from and where we were headed. I looked over to see my friend standing in nothing but briefs as he stared blankly into the headlights. It took a whole lot of effort to not burst into laughter at the site. The farmer let us stay there, with a stern warning to be gone by sunrise. I imagine his compassion came from an extreme sense of pity for our pathetic appearance.

Have you ever...

...been on a 4 hour bus ride, through the middle of nowhere, with a group of strangers, and had an overwhelming desire to burst into song and dance like Lady Gaga?

"Hiatus" (with maybes)

I'll be gone for a couple weeks. Maybe it'll be an adventure. Maybe I'll post a kind of trip blog afterwards. We shall see.

Let me enter my PIN number into the ATM machine before I read the SMS message

The following was received a while back for my online flight reservation.
I think someone at JetBlue needs to ask him/herself a few questions. Does "code" sound too secretive? Maybe they're just using base 26 or 36? (edit: to be fair, the probability of having all letters in base 36 like the above case is 14.2%)

Note: the above image has been modified in 1 (maybe A, if you're JetBlue) or more ways to protect my aged itinerary's privacy. The alterations do not effect the validity of this post.

We're all screwed

[This post should actually be dated many months ago]

Each step glistened in the light. All their tiny lines, their signs of a previous life as stones were almost unnoticeable under the shine. Each night the janitors dutifully cleaned the steps, one by one, as they moved along in their daily routine. Despite meticulous maintenance and their spotlessness, subtle details betray the steps' age and character. The edges and corners of the steps are not as sharp as they once were. The surface of the rock below is faded and blurred. Most telling of all is the subtle dip around the center of each step. Hundreds of feet each day wear them down. The change is unnoticeable day-by-day, year-by-year, but as the decades add up the use shows through.

The wear encapsulates stories before people even cared about the steps. If you ask, no one can tell you where--what quarry--they were brought in from, if anyone ever knew in the first place. They were placed in their spot, pristine and new, but immediately surrounded by the dust, noise and dirt of a building under construction. Their first wear came from those work boots, perpetually covered in the musty haze of construction, with thick soles to protect from loose nails, and hard leather for defense from dropped objects. The steps were cleaned up and polished to a spotless shine. They stood proud and new for the ribbon cuttings and for the polished leather shoes next to delicate heels that gingerly walked up and down them, pausing here and there to observe the newly dedicated building. Next came the wave of less-polished shoes and less-delicate heels. Each pair ascended and descended more rapidly than the previous shoes. There were a few floods of shoes each day, synchronized with the clock. Brown shoes and black shoes that rarely paused to give the building a moment. An occasional pair of shoes new to the steps may pause to find their way, or admire the architecture, or maybe some shoes paused near each other as their wearers exchanged brief words. Although no one paid much heed, the steps were restored to their shine each night.

With the rains, there came shoes squeaking on each step with cool water that bubbled out the sides. Some were embarrassed about the ruckus of the squeaks, but too much in a hurry for a class above. A subtle trail of mud and water recorded their passage and that of many others like them. With the start of a distant war, stiff combat boots passed up and down each step in preparation for a much more morbid destination. On sunny days, the calluses of bare feet lent the warmth they had acquired from the prickly grass that reached for the summer's sun.

Despite the rigorous cleaning of each step, the wear hinted at their history.

Today my worn running shoes walked up the stairs. They marked each step with a subtle squeak--loud enough for me to hear, but not loud enough for anyone else to notice. My feet had taken the route many times. I followed my own previous path, no different from that of many others before me. I had taken the path to file paperwork, to meet with professors, to discuss texts, to listen to ideas, to learn. Again, no different from that of many others. Today I had to think why I climbed each step, one at a time. I wanted answers, but I did not know the questions. As I climbed, I thought of the texts I had read and discussed. I had learned so much from them, but there was so much more that I could not grasp. I could feel countless ideas, embedded in subtle blotches of ink clutched onto by generations, slip through my grasp. I did not have the context or experience to stop it. I wanted someone to hold my hands, to keep the knowledge in them.

I reached the top of the steps and paused. I felt my pulse pound throughout my body and tried to relax my quick breathing. Light streamed onto me from the skylight above. The hallway before me looked newer than the rest of the building. It must have been converted from an attic to office space. It had a radiant white shine that gave the sensation of a place freed from time. I vainly tried not to disturb the quiet ambiance as I walked down the hallway. I reached the office and heard the sharp S's of words quietly spoken as they slipped through the door left ajar. The professor was talking with a student, one younger and fresher than myself.

I stood there and knew the answer. Not the one I hoped to find, but the one I needed to hear. I have been given the tools I need, and now it is time to use them. Each generation before me had their opportunity to leave a trace. The ripples of which are constantly around me. Now it is my turn to put my hands to the world.

I descended the steps, one-by-one. I walked to the heavy, wood door, pressed my hand against the metallic bar across it, and pushed. I was enveloped by bright gold that warmly descended upon me. Once my eyes adjusted to the sunny afternoon, I continued forward towards the trees in front of me.

Climb Report: Mt St Helens

Who in their right mind would possibly want to drive to a mountain in the middle of nowhere, far too early in the morning, expend tons of effort to climb the thing, possibly not even to reach the summit, then climb back down. Wouldn't the effort be far better spent on something like solving world hunger? or walking to the store? I would think so. Given this pretty obvious situation, I drove to Mt. St. Helens at 3 am last week, miserably trudged to the top, took a bunch of pictures, trudged back down, and failed to do the necessary shopping.

We started at 3 AM so the snow would be good for a bid to the summit, so we wouldn't need to climb in the heat of the day, and to maximize our chances of being attacked by an axe murderer hiding in the woods.
When we got there, we were greeted by a police officer waiting for a search and rescue team. Someone got separated from their group the previous night on the descent. I immediately offered to keep an eye out for the person, along with any possible axe murderer.

Eventually the sun came out and the woods transformed into a peaceful paradise with no more axe murderers lurking at each bend (or pickup drivers waiting for me to get on a bicycle). The birds were chirping, the snow glistened, and the birds made noises that sounded obnoxiously close to whistles. Given that someone was lost out there and may use a whistle to call for help, this distressed us a bit. The lesson from that is: if I'm ever on a rescue team looking for you, make an extra effort to have your whistle not sound like a bird. And maybe shoo all the birds that sound like whistles away. If you don't have a whistle, maybe you could catch a bird and train it to sound a little less like a bird.


If you're considering climbing the mountain last week, you probably are interested in what the snow conditions were. I can assure you that there was snow. There was a lot of it. It was white, and it was kind of cold. There were also bugs in the snow. After touring the Oregon Zoo, I can assure you that they actually do naturally live there.

Crampons paid off for a brief, icy section of the climb around the tree-line. In the morning the snow was hard, brittle, and made great steps -- as planned, but as we ascended there were obvious signs of slides down the ravines on both sides, and the snow was breaking off in chunks a bit too easily for my comfort. There was also some crazy guy with an axe-like thing.

Given the grade near the summit, my concern about the snow, and my strong preference to not die, I second guessed my bid for the summit, but along came a stranger that assured me he had climbed the mountain dozens of times and never heard of an avalanche death. With this blind encouragement I set-off for the top. As the day heated up the snow became stickier and actually slid less (but was nowhere near conducive for good steps). There was also no apparent sign of layering within the snow.

Now some people might say how being on the top of a mountain is a spiritual experience. They may talk about how it gives you a new perspective of the landscape you live in. How you can leave your narrow world-view for a brief instant and see where you fit in from a broader perspective. You can see how the geology and ecology we often ignore has played such a key role in where our cities developed, where we work, where we sleep, how we move and play. I, on the other hand, would like to say how I stood at the summit and looked manly and tough, but that is not true. I took some pictures.

On the way down we encountered hordes of people hiking up in tennis shoes with no gear, not even hiking poles. It makes me wonder what these people would do if anything went wrong (not to mention how they can possibly ascend and descend like that), but I've already seen the answer to that. They pull out their cell phone, call 911, and expect to be teleported off the mountain in 10 minutes. That's not how it works. It may take over 8 hours before anyone even reaches them, let alone gets them off the mountain.

All in all, it was worth it. Special thanks to my climbing partner, who somehow resisted the urge to shove me off the mountain, and made the trip that much more enjoyable and possible.

Gosh, that paper "Neuronal Population Codes and the Perception of Object Distance in Weakly Electric Fish" really makes me want to eat a Snickers

For those of you that don't keep up on frivolous news sites or Mars Candy's press releases, you may not have yet heard that Portland was ranked last in terms of America's most manly cities. Of course, their metrics are arbitrary and culturally biased, and the study is downright sexist. But whether you love the study or loathe it, it is successful: it gives Mars and their candy publicity.

Despite that, the ethics of the study are not the issues at hand here. The real issue is corporate sponsorship of science. Although it is common for corporations to sponsor studies that directly relate to their products or services, sponsorship strictly for publicity is generally reserved for sports. We are breaking new ground here and the imagination is the limit. Not only could there be endless new sources of funding, but also endless new opportunities for managing a public image. Soon commercials may end in "Skittles. Official Sponsor of the 2015 Large Hadron Collider experiments." The NSF's McMurdo Antarctic base may be renamed to the "Hagen Daz Station." Even newly discovered particle pairs could be named "Kit" and "Kat." We are truly at an amazing time right now, and it is progressing fast. Corporations are already gaining the same legal rights and treatments as individual citizens--if not preferential treatment--so why not name something after a corporation you would otherwise name after a person? (Well, for one, legality has limited bearing on what is a good or bad idea. For two, Americans have been duped by corporations and their fronts with dubious economic, ethical and religious arguments into giving money from the poor to the rich; this may continue that shift. And so much more...) What could be after science? Maybe art? Maybe literature? Who knows.

P.S. If there are any candy companies that want to sponsor very public research on the corporate sponsorship of science as a means of generating publicity, please contact me ASAP.

AAAAAAAARRRRGGGGHHH!!!!

A couple weeks ago:


Today:


Just barely lost the sprints both times, and of course I'm plagued by the thoughts of what I should have done differently. To Alex's credit, he raced extremely well. Next time...

Wait, What!?

He hung up the phone and turned to me. His grin twinkled like the stars' warmth in the cool, clear, night sky above. "She said the dance party has been moved to the men's restroom"

Dancing, but only so well

I generally see my road bike as an extension of myself. My hands, feet, and hips communicate intentions from neurons to muscle firings to a system of kinetic and mechanical energy transferred throughout the bike. I propel myself forward, negotiate myself through tight packs, around turns and up hills, and respond to poor traction in rain and gravel almost as if my brain speaks and listens directly to the wheels. (A friend even joked that my hair plugs into the bike like the tails/hair of the characters in Avatar plug into their animals)

However, I can not say the same about mountain bikes. Last weekend was my first mountain bike race, and I only had about 30 minutes previous MTB experience (pre-riding a quarter of the course that morning). I found the bike had a mind of its own. I could suggest paths to it: between rocks, over logs, and around corners, but it would bounce, slide, and veer far beyond my own intentions. As the race went on (it was a 6-hour, two-person relay), I learned what to expect from it and how to work with the bike's responses. As the bike bounced over the terrain, I learned when to put power in my stroke and when to recover. I found the rhythm in the compression and expansion of the frame as I wove around trees and up embankments. I found myself in a dance with the bike. That said, if I poorly negotiate through situations with a dance partner, I just feel embarrassed and my partner may see me as a bad dancer. When I negotiated poorly with the bicycle, I went tumbling off the bike onto the forest floor with its sticks that stabbed my back and rocks that scraped my legs while my bike came crashing onto me in hot pursuit. Needless to say, that happened more than once.

The highlight of the whole race, of course, was all the camaraderie and the enjoyment of playing in the woods, but it also left me to wonder, if I spent as much time on a mountain bike as I do a road bike, would I come to also see it as an extension of myself? If I spent as much time dancing with someone, would we begin to move as extensions of one another? The farthest I have gotten in dance is to practice the negotiation of intention and movement between two different bodies. Maybe the higher level of dance is two separate bodies joined to have unified movement and intentions. Obviously this is nice to similarly think about as people move through life, but from my observations, that case is by no means common. When it occurs and it appears that two people move with unified intention, it actually seems there is a lack of character in the relationship. A bike is worthless without a rider and I am inhibited without a bike, but as far as I can tell, individuals function rather reliably on their own. There are some things that are nice to simply become an extension of or have as an extension of myself, but there are plenty of others that I hope, no matter how much time I spend with them, continue to challenge me and force me to learn and adapt.

Freedom... hopefully

A little under a year ago I managed to break free from what felt like a prison. One that was slowly filling with water. I nearly drowned in it and was almost left as an empty shell to the prison keeper, but managed to escape just in time. Since then, I have had the chance to put myself back together piece by piece. When I wrote programs for calculators, I somewhat enjoyed when the calculator crashed and I lost all my work. It gave me the chance to rebuild everything and make it better. I've been fortunate to have that chance with myself, but without having such a severe crash.

During these past months I've been afraid I would get caught by said keeper and dragged back. Now I am in the clear. Now I have the chance to put my life back together, better than before. It'll be hard and it's daunting, but it is also quite an exciting opportunity.

WooHoo!

I got a response to the letter in the previous post!
I hope I'm not breaking any confidentiality by posting it:

Dear ...:

Thank you for contacting me regarding your strong support for bicycles as a viable mode of transportation. I appreciate hearing from you on this important issue. As a member of the House Committee on Transportation and Infrastructure, one of my top priorities in Congress is to provide Southern California the resources necessary to provide safe roads and routes for all drivers, bicyclists, and pedestrians.

You may be interested to learn that Congress passed a bill that includes provisions to help make bicycling and pedestrian activity safer and more convenient for millions of Americans. Specifically, the Safe, Accountable, Flexible, Efficient Transportation Equity Act--A Legacy for Users (SAFETEA-LU), a multi-year bill to reauthorize our nation's transportation programs, provides nearly $4 billion for new bike paths and trails. Of this funding, nearly $2 billion is dedicated for new bike paths, lanes, and safe bike crossings, including over $2.3 million for local bike and pedestrian paths in Whittier and La Habra. In addition, $612 million was included for the Safe Routes to School program that will help communities create safer ways for kids to pedal or walk to school. The Recreational Trails Program, which pays for the construction and repair of trails, will receive $350 million to ensure our communities have the funding necessary to keep bicyclists safe. I am pleased that this funding is available to ensure cyclists can have safe routes to ride in every community.

The Active Community Transportation Act of 2010 was introduced in the U.S. House of Representatives to provide additional funding and incentives to promote greater activity within communities nationwide. Specifically, H.R. 4722 would establish a $2 billion Department of Transportation grant program to provide convenient and safe access to pedestrian and bike facilities. As this bill moves through the legislative process, you can be assured that I will keep your support in mind.

Again, thank you for contacting me. I hope you will remain in touch on this and other issues of importance to you.

Sincerely,

GARY G. MILLER
Member of Congress

HR 4722 (http://www.govtrack.us/congress/bill.xpd?bill=h111-4722) looks pretty cool, and I'm excited that Congressman Miller will keep it in mind. It's a shame that all the sponsors are Democrats, though. I hope riding a bicycle does not turn into a partisan issue. Maybe if it passes, Brea could get in on some of the grant money. Hopefully there will be even broader funding for things like this in the future. I'm sure we could save a lot of money with the lower cost of implementation and maintenance for bike infrastructure.

Who do you think you are?

Given my unfortunate jaded-with-everything-except-bike-racing condition I have been in for some time, I think it is extremely promising that I felt compelled to write the letter below. Not only is it naively optimistic for me to think such a measly letter would ever make a difference, but also that a politician, who does have a few splotches on his ethical record, would concern himself much with such a letter. And yet I felt compelled to write it.
Somehow things heal, and hope begins to shine through, however senseless it may be.


Congressman Gary Miller
42nd Congressional District

Dear Congressman Miller:

Ray LaHood, the Secretary of Transportation, has recently started a campaign that has caught my interest: his declaration for support of bicycles and other non-car modes as viable transportation. I understand that the political scene in Washington right now is highly polarized, and some republicans and media outlets are decrying the idea, but please set aside those issues for a moment and consider the idea based on its merits and in the interest of your constituents. I think this is especially important with your position on the House Transportation and Infrastructure Committee.

I am concerned with how reliant we are on cars in America and especially Orange County, even just to perform simple errands. Although public transportation is available, it's inefficiencies lead it to serve merely as a last resort for most of us. The exception might be Metrolink, but even then, most people still must drive to the station. Unfortunately, the struggle with public transportation is not new for Orange County. What is a new, and in my opinion a very interesting, option cropping up in America is biking.

Biking is an option I would like to have for getting around, and I think it would benefit our community. I don't know how many times I've sat in traffic thinking to myself that I could /walk/ to my destination faster, let alone bike! I think it would be really nice for us to be able to ride our bikes to places such as the Birch Street Promenade. Not only would doing so be a great way to spend a summer evening with friends or family, to see a movie or have something to eat and bike home, it would also:
-get us some exercise (don't we all need it),
-allow us to not go through the hassle of parking (and maybe we wouldn't have to spend so much money and space on parking garages),
-get us out and about with neighbors and thus increase the cohesiveness of our community (it's so easy to see other drivers as obstacles rather than people),
-the money saved from gas could be spent in the local economy (rather than supporting foreign countries and interests)
-and it would reduce traffic for those who do drive (realistically, who really believes building bigger freeways and roads will actually end congestion?).
The current "bike lanes" hardly do the job, though. It seems you need a death wish to ride in the bike lane along birch (I've tried), let alone have a pleasant ride with friends or family. The sidewalk does not work either as there are many obstacles and at many intersections you need to get off the bike and carry it on and off curbs. That certainly does not make for pleasant or easy riding.

Although I could suggest some strategies for easier-to-use bike infrastructure (that unused rail line close to Birch and Associated could be a great biking/walking path at a low cost!), that is beyond the scope of this email. I remember during my Eagle Court of Honor at Troop 801, a representative from your office expounded on the importance of good leadership, of having good character in difficult times, and of being willing to take the lead to address hard problems. Likewise, I hope you can set partisan issues aside and begin to address how we can make our community a better place, and I hope you realize that creating more and healthier options for transportation is one of them.

Sincerely,

...

For progress, harmony, and corrupt public officials

In my quest for fame and excessive amounts of money, I have been searching for what will be the next big google or facebook, and invent it before someone else does. My extensive research has lead me to the ultimate Web 3.0 application for the world's greatest emerging market. As you may know, Web 2.0 brought a revolution of user usability to the world wide web. Web 3.0 in the world's greatest emerging market--China--will occur when China removes all the scofflaws from the internet and finally reaches their long sought-after state of a "harmonious" society (I suspect this will also involve turning Xinjiang into an oil-producing golden-calf and Uighurs into a tourist attraction). When this occurs I will make the official roll-out of my great website: eharmonize.com. It will become a monopoly to the online Chinese dating scene. With the advent of Web 3.0, users will not only have incredibly useful applications at their fingertips, but they will also be required to use and abide by them.

My application has a couple key points that will make it irresistible to the Chinese. First, it will pair people in a scientifically proven manner to maintain China's long-sought-after harmony. Second, as with all dating sites, there are right and wrong answers to questions. Users who answer questions incorrectly will be removed from the system and thus the gene pool (choices are currently designated with the text "removed"). This prevents those people from replicating themselves into more scofflaws.

To demonstrate its usefulness, I've included a few key questions that will be used to generate successful and harmonious matches:

1. On long walks, I like to
a. What!? Who do you think I am!? A peasant? I don't walk. I am a successful business-person and drive wherever I need to go!
b. Look at the stars or sky (when not covered by suffocating pollution levels).
c. Think about how fortunate I am to live in such a great country.

2. I would like to have __ children.
a. 0
b. 1
c. 2 (removed)
d. Many! :) (removed)

3. I would like my suburban house at the end of a culdesac to be painted (assuming china follows the path of America in modernization)
a. brown
b. gray
c. light blue

4. My favorite chairman of the communist party is: (write-in)
Only correct answer: "60% Mao, 40% every other chairman"

Race Report: Banana Belt #1

Despite random pedestrians that walk by and mumble "get 'um registration... put tha bike away," I enjoy my commute. (I am baffled by you, Mr. Pedestrian. Why do you want me off my bike and in a car? If bikers actually were freeloading, wouldn't everyone want to bike? Rather than falsely accuse bikers of freeloading? I can only dream.) I actually do enjoy biking everywhere I can: to work, to the store, with friends, etc., and it sure beats driving places. Given this inherent affinity for biking, it's only natural that I also partake in bike races, which I drive to.

At Banana Belt #1 I served as a corner marshal for the morning races. This conveniently allows me to race free for my afternoon race. Unfortunately, reports trickled in over the radio that detailed multiple crashes, calls for a medic, and even a request for paramedics and a medical transport. As my race approached, I astutely updated my goal from being doused in champagne and smothered by French women to staying alive.

My race started without a hitch, and I even made a pretty hard pull halfway up the first hill. (Afterwards, I talked to a guy who complained how he was dropped on the first hill. I feel bad about that.) The race was a beautiful and relaxing course around a pristine lake and over hills blanketed in fir trees warming in the sun and lending sweet oxygen and a fresh scent that would make any Windex chemist jealous. The only challenging part was an off-camber, downhill, blind corner with stray pebbles that half the field repeatedly overshot.

The race continued in a scenic, but slightly intense manner until the last two miles. Everyone's game face came out, there was constant jostling for position, and... we were neutralized. We all rolled along the fog line in a pleasant leisurely ride watching all our chances to make a break pass by. Finally we were un-neutralized and half the pack blew by on my left. I worked my way to the front 5 where the lead was in a near uphill sprint. He tired, and I followed another racer for a 10 yard lead off the pack, but it was quickly lost. The guy in front fatigued, fell back, and I took the pull. After a minute I also fatigued and fell back a few places. I was breathing hard but recovered just in time at the 600 m mark. I sprinted to the front and went up the final hill fast. I reached the crest in my highest gear with the finish line in sight and the pack behind me. Pouring everything out I descended only to realize my 'cross cassette was not the right tool for the job. I could only pedal so fast down the hill. I needed to shift up, but had no gear to shift up to. Inevitably, behind me I heard "CACHINK CACHINK CACHINK... WWWWHHHHRRRRR". That whir is impossible to describe, but I'll try anyways. It's the sound of a very nice bike shifted into high gear with its wheels spinning very quickly. For me it was the sound of my soul deflating, second in terror only to the sound of a tire deflating. If James Bond ever rode a bicycle, that is the sound it would make. Always. (I think he would also quickly find himself in a chase scene/cyclocross race) If snails made that sound, cars, bicycles, and pedestrians would all yield to them. Needless to say, as I desperately and rapidly spun my legs, I knew I was in trouble. Sure enough, Mr. Fancy Bike rolled by and grabbed first place (including the champagne and French women [Note: OBRA races do not actually end with champagne or podium women {nor podium men for that matter} but in one case do end with cake]) right out from under my nose.

The advantages of global warming

It seems like it's almost summer already. With a few exceptions, it has been a really mild winter. This is probably a very good thing for Portlanders. Every time the city gets more than 1 inch of snow, utter chaos erupts (except for the postal service, they are quick with chains and plow through anything).

Just last month there was a few inches of snow one evening and you would have thought a zombie apocalypse had started. Freeways were jammed, no cars could move, people were abandoning their cars on the road in search of shelter, the buses and light rail shut down, and so much more (the bikers seemed to not mind too much, though). Last year we got three feet of snow, and the following week the entire city shut down as Portland's one snow plow (and one? deicer at the airport) went into over time. The only people who could move were those on skis. That was dubbed snowpocalypse, which DC seemed to steal from us, although I'm sure we stole it from somewhere else.

Although there are videos like this around (you would think for being such a biking city, people would consider not using cars) that effectively illustrate the incompetence (and this is a so cal native here), the sole image that will last with me to represent Portland in snow was my observation of a Prius struggling to get up a hill with chains on its rear tires. It really drives home the character of Portland in so many ways.