Ornoth

I write a lot of blog articles, but only about half of them ever get posted. Every so often I have to clean out my “drafts” folder, and sometimes I find an oldie but goodie that really should have been shared.

Such is the case with this puppy. Six years ago, when we were still living in Western Pennsylvania, the following map sparked a wee leetle rant:

This is a map of Pittsburgh. The green dots represent areas where the land slopes at greater than a 25 percent grade. You’d look at terrain like that and say, “Basically, that's a cliff.” Looking at the map, you might wonder why there aren’t any mountain goats native to Western Pennsylvania. You wanna know why? It’s ’cos they’re fucking scared of these hills!

If you don’t live in Pittsburgh, your city prolly doesn’t have many – if any – slopes above 25%. At 15%, people wonder if their car can make it up, or whether it’ll be able to stop at the bottom going down. But in Pittsburgh, they build roads on 15% grades. And 25%. And 30%! And 35%!!! Then they plunk whole neighborhoods down right at the edge of that precipice.

It’d be one thing if Pittsburgh’s geology was nice, stable granite like New England, or limestone like Texas. Nope. Pittsburgh’s built on something called “slushstone”. Every time it rains, some hillside somewhere in the city decides it can’t hill anymore, embarks upon a brand new career path as mud, and slides down into the nearest valley, usually taking a major road and a number of houses with it.

Believe it! There’s a neighborhood here called “The Bluff”. You know why it’s called “The Bluff”? Because it’s just one big 300-foot cliff face. What do Pittsburghers do? Cantilever no less than six separate levels of two-lane highways hanging in mid-air off the side of the cliff, stacked one on top of the other! And just for good measure, they built a big hospital and a major university right on top of the cliff. What could possibly go wrong?

Now, if you think Pittsburghers are stupid for building houses and roads on the side of an unstable cliff, consider the alternative: building houses and roads in the valleys directly underneath those slushstone cliffs. When the slushslides come, that might not be such a bright idea, either.

In fact, living in Pittsburgh is kinda stupid, like living near the top of an active volcano... Except that a volcano might not explode for twenty, forty, or a couple hundred years, whereas Pittsburgh has landslides every time it rains. And – I shit you not! – Pittsburgh actually has more rainy days per year than Seattle!

Notice those all-white flat areas on the map, right next to Pittsburgh’s famous three rivers? Those are obv the easiest ways to get around town, and as such they’re filled to bursting with railroad lines and superhighways. Good thing Pittsburgh’s rivers never flood! Oh, wait…

With highways and railroads leaving no room for cyclists on the flats, if you’re gonna bike around here, there’s only one direction you can go: up! They really missed an opportunity when they gave the city “Benigno Numine” as a motto; it really should be “Excelsior”, because no matter where you are or where you hope to go, it’s guaranteed to require an arduous climb… or five.

The whole package is enough to make me wanna hang up my bike and buy a pedal boat. Except even the rivers here are also just liquefied slushstone, liberally mixed with industrial waste and sprinkled with sunken coal barges, rail cars, and aircraft.

Last month Inna & I spent eight days in Austin. She was headed there for a four-day workshop, and it made sense for me to tag along and extend our trip, so that we could check it out as a possible place to relocate to.

Austin Skyline

Inna enjoying her palapa

Sparky Park

Austin Boardwalk

Craft

Couple under a palapa

Couple at Clay Pit

Couple at Lupe's Tex-Mex

Mt. Bonnell Sunset

Prologue

This was my first trip out of Pennsylvania since the Covid-19 pandemic hit; my first time sleeping anywhere other than my own bed since 2019. With the pandemic winding down, it was a nervous, awkward person who finally emerged from his cave after 2½ years of hibernation.

Leading up to the trip, I wasn’t able to muster much motivation to do the advanced research I needed to be well-prepared. I wasn’t big on the idea of living in Texas, and my previous visits to Austin (in 1994, 2003, and 2004) had left me with the impression that it was a cycling-unfriendly area. On top of that, I had some trepidation about the reasons behind Inna’s sudden enthusiasm for moving to such a scorchingly hot location.

I should also point out that I just wasn’t in a very positive place emotionally, which colored my experience of Austin and thereby this account of our travels. So please discount the “grumpy old man” factor that you’ll encounter below.

Here’s my day-by-day account, but if you’re only interested in the bottom line, you can skip ahead to the Epilogue.

Wed April 20: Travel

Arriving at the Pittsburgh airport, I dropped Inna near the terminal, drove out to long-term parking, and made the long walk back. Only to discover that Inna had forgotten to leave her winter coat in the car, so I offered to schlep it back out to the car and repeat my inbound hike. We breezed through security thanks to TSA PreCheck. Breakfast from McDonalds. Unlike ourselves, only 10% of people were masked up.

Our two-stage flight went well. I used the flight time to practice Japanese on Duolingo. At our connection in Detroit, our outbound flight to Austin was the same gate and aircraft we’d arrived in from Pittsburgh, which happily obviated the entire hectic connecting-flight dependency chain.

Grabbed our rental car from Enterprise, where they were much too friendly. Drove across town and checked into our hotel, right on the I-35 highway access road. Seeing Captain Benny’s seafood restaurant with outdoor seating and palapas right next to the hotel, Inna was delighted by the reminder of our time in the Caribbean, so we immediately had a light outdoor dinner there.

The weather – as it would be all week long – was very windy and heavy overcast that would occasionally burn off to reveal the sun. Days ranged from 20-30° and nights from 10-20°. Inna found it delightful, and it was quite an improvement over Pittsburgh, where it had snowed all day the day before we left.

Afterward, we went straight to the Atown local souvenir shop, checked out “Sparky Park” (a former electrical substation decorated with pretty and sparkly and delightful junk), and got supplies at the local H-E-B (Howard E. Butt) grocery, which included some interesting “double chocolate” Lindt truffles.

Had some challenges navigating the Texan highway access road system, Austin’s half streets (e.g. East 38½ Street), and the mystery of why anyone would name a residential street “Speedway”. Returned to the hotel very tired and spent some time catching up on stuff before turning in.

Thu April 21: Level Up Circling & Mariposa

After a breakfast of OJ and cookies, I dropped Inna off at the modest ranch house where her four-day Circle Anywhere workshop was held. My plan for Day 1 was to shower, settle in, and attend an evening meditation group at Mariposa Sangha.

My contact there had proposed meeting up beforehand, but never replied to my response, so I had dinner on my own: an idiosyncratic Panang curry at Thai Kitchen, where I got instant service, being the only customer who was dining in. Dessert was a Mexican vanilla milkshake at Amy’s Ice Cream up the street, after being asked by the staff whether I was able to fix their “waffle dough pump”.

Then to Mariposa, a small peer-led Vipassana meditation group, held in a Methodist church chapel, which was still filled with Easter lilies. Met Paul Schlaud, who was leading the evening sitting and dhamma talk, covering the Buddhist precept against misusing sexuality. I contributed during the Q&A, and chatted with Paul afterward. It seemed comparable to our sitting group in Pittsburgh: pretty small and informal, where I’d be equally welcome to teach as well as be taught.

My session ended just as Inna’s post-workshop dinner broke up, so I swung by the Italian restaurant to pick her up and drive back to the hotel.

Fri April 22: Bike Shops

After dropping Inna off, I began my cycling-focused day with a stop at TJ’s Cycle, where I got a lot of good pointers, despite them being mostly an MTB shop.

The guy there pointed me to a new shop nearby called Bicycle House ATX, where I gathered a little more info.

Then downtown, where I stopped at REI to get an independent opinion. I picked up a hardcopy Austin bike map and chatted with a couple friendly locals. Then the nearby Rapha store, which was predictably pretentious but helpful.

My final downtown stop was Mellow Johnny’s, the store founded by cycling pariah Lance Armstrong. It is a hub of the local cycling community, and had dozens of workers manning the store, but to me it seemed both tackily self-promoting and thoroughly unfriendly.

My final stop was Trek Bicycle Lamar. The former center of Austin’s cycling scene, it had been known as the Bicycle Sport Shop before a corporate buyout. I spoke briefly to an attendant who had once lived in Pittsburgh. The shop had a whole wall full of suggested rides, which I captured for future reference.

By the end of the afternoon, I had gathered way more information about the Austin cycling scene than needs to be recorded here, but my impression was that cycling was popular enough to support for several bike shops and group rides. And although I couldn’t find evidence of any centuries or major events (other than the Hill Country Randonneurs), people sounded confident in riding out beyond the city limits into Texas proper. Austin seemed to pass my cycling sniff test.

I’d planned to walk around the corner to visit Peter Pan Mini Golf, which I’d visited with my DargonZine pals in 2003, but by then I was so tired that it slipped my mind in my desire to get back to the comfort of the hotel.

After meeting up with Inna, dinner was a pound of pork ribs at Rudy’s BBQ. As we entered the building, the wind was so strong that it blew down a renovator’s ladder, which nearly fell on top of me!

For dessert I took Inna to Amy’s Ice Cream. She’d had a challenging day at her workshop, and I let her talk it out and relax in the outdoor seating. We were both beat and headed back to the hotel to crash.

Sat April 23: Kyūdō & Newspaper Quest

After taking Inna to Day 3 of her workshop, I went back to the hotel to shower, which for this one day was swarmed with dozens of college students. Then it was back into town to pick up some Excedrin and the day’s main event.

I stepped into the Rising Sun Aikido studio, where people from Austin Kyūdō were assembling for practice. When the leader introduced herself to me, I heard her name as “VHS”, which she subsequently corrected to “Beatrice” (Haven). I also met Helen Febrie, whom I’d exchanged emails with to schedule my visit.

I have two main takeaways from their practice. One is that they’re an ANKF/IKYF group, rather than the Zenko/Heki-ryu Bishu Chikurin-ha lineage of kyūdō that I studied back in Boston. That means they put less emphasis on the mental and meditative aspect of kyūdō, and like other martial arts they give formal ranks to practitioners. There are also some tiny differences in their technique, such as using the two-arrow form, not smoothing the arrow feathers, emphasis on coordinated team practice, less ritualized arrow retrieval, and permission to use bows made of materials other than bamboo. It also means they’re on good terms with American bowmaker Don Symanski, which could someday prove valuable. But I’m agnostic about which school of kyūdō I’m involved with, and find that petty rivalry to be shortsighted, given how tiny the pastime is here in the U.S..

My other takeaway is that it’s a small group with friendly, approachable members. They’re a small offshoot of the IKYF South Carolina Kyūdō Renmei based near Greenville, SC. They’re not unfriendly with the remnants of the dormant Austin Shambhala kyūdō group, as well as Zenko, and they sometime cross paths. It seemed like a nice, supportive group, although requiring an immense 1,800 KM trip to SC to get instruction and support from an experienced teacher.

I stayed for the full 2-hour indoor practice, occasionally chatting but mostly enjoying the beauty of the form and teasing out the differences in technique.

It being Saturday, I wanted to pick up a Barron’s financial newspaper, since I’d suspended my home delivery for the week. Long story short, I had no luck, despite hitting a CVS drugstore, Barnes & Noble bookstore, Kinokuniya Japanese bookstore, and 7-Eleven and Valero convenience stores all across town.

Frustrated, I went back to the hotel and spent the night eating snacks and watching soccer. I was too tired to go out, find a big meal, and fight the Saturday night crowds. Inna found her own dinner and eventually Ubered home.

Sun April 24: Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Hotel Day

Day Four in Austin, and for the third day I woke up headachey and nauseous. The weather was continued overcast, which certainly was preferable to Texas heat, but weighed on my mood.

Despite fulfilling major criteria like cycling, meditation, and kyūdō, much of Austin felt like America at its worst: soulless highway car culture and chain store strip mall hell. The city has become ridiculously expensive and its overtaxed infrastructure can’t handle the explosive population growth it has experienced.

Although I’d brought all my cycling gear and hoped to enjoy some cycling around Austin – especially the Veloway and bike night at the Circuit of the Americas – logistical difficulties had made it impossible. I was disappointed and depressed.

After dropping Inna off at her final workshop session, I wanted to fetch drinks and a Barron’s, but had no luck at Circle-K, the H-E-B grocery, or Target. Then I went back to the hotel to regroup and figure out my plan for the day.

While brushing my teeth, I dropped a hotel glass in the bathroom sink, smashing it and cutting up my hands, especially my right ring finger, which began bleeding profusely. It took two hours of constant direct pressure to get the bleeding under control, and another hour before it stopped enough to be able to stick a bandage on it. The white facecloth I’d used was crimson and completely soaked with blood. Getting that under control pretty much took up my whole day. By evening, I was able to gingerly drive myself to another nearby Thai restaurant, Pad Thai, for takeout.

Meanwhile, Inna had decided to spend the evening with her workshop cohort, going wading in Barton Springs before getting a late ride back to the hotel.

From my perspective, it had been another shitty day and I just wanted nothing other than to go home.

Mon April 25: Storms & Hotel Swap

Monday wasn’t much of a day either, washed out by thunderstorms and off-and-on rain. Inna spent her first non-workshop morning recovering needed work files that her teammates had mistakenly deleted. Then we packed up and checked out of our north-of-town hotel. Although we’ve usually stayed at B&Bs, Inna had found exceptional deals at standard hotels, and changing hotels allowed us to explore different parts of the city with less travel time in the car.

With time to kill before our check-in time at the next, south-of-town hotel, we drove around town looking at houses that were for sale. They were mostly ranches, of course, and the residential neighborhoods only varied in how recently they’d been developed. Prices were high but not completely insane.

After an unenthusiastic debate, we opted for a late lunch at the Clay Pit, a downtown Indian restaurant that I had visited during the 2003 DargonZine Summit meetup, and where I’d left behind (and then fetched) a digital camera. The food was surprisingly good.

Our new hotel was located right in the middle of a massive highway interchange in a more industrial section of town. Inna was delighted that the new room — unlike the old one – had a safe, until I pointed out that it was actually a microwave oven, and she probably didn’t want to store her work computer in there!

We spent the rainy afternoon relaxing. Inna napped, and then practiced her Hebrew on Duolingo, which she’d picked up after I’d started using it over Xmas to learn Japanese. Then we went to H-E-B for supplies before calling it a day.

Tue April 26: Grumpy Goes Downtown

By Tuesday, it had all caught up with me: the gloomy weather, my headaches, bad eating, inability to do any cycling, and injuring my hand, all on top of longstanding background dissatisfaction with aging and cardiac health. First thing after waking up, Inna patiently sat through one of my rare emotional dumps.

She then equally patiently helped me shower and wash my hair, since I still couldn’t use my right hand. Afterward, I replaced the bandage for the first time, and happily noted that my fingers looked much better than they had two days earlier.

Focusing on what she could control (my diet), Inna directed us to breakfast at the Magnolia Cafe, where I demolished Eggs Zapata, which amounted to scrambled eggs on english with sausage and spicy queso.

Next stop was “Austin Art Garage”, but we arrived before opening, so killed time in a nearby Indian shoppe. Returning, we scoped out the gallery, and I was amused by their 1980s vintage Tron arcade game console.

Heading downtown, we stopped at the Austin Visitor Center, which provided a transit map and just two brochures, only one of which was Austin-specific. Worthless.

With the day turning warm and sunny, Inna directed us to the mile-long Lady Bird Lake Boardwalk that’s part of the bike trail along the south side of the Colorado River. We took up residence in some Adirondack chairs left on a riverside dock and enjoyed the sun and the skyline view for a while, and watched a couple guys fooling around on e-foils. On the walk back, Inna greeted a young black woman who had brought her cat down to the river.

The rest of the day was haphazard. Another Amy’s Ice Cream, followed by Uncommon Objects, a big antiques (junk) store with most of its wares displayed by color. I dropped Inna off to meet a friend for a food truck dinner, then went back to the hotel, where I waited until 10:30pm to hear whether she needed me for a return ride or not.

Wed April 27: Lupes & More Circling

We (well, Inna) slept in until lunchtime. After hitting CVS, we stopped to admire Casa Neverlandia, a creatively-decorated private house that reminded me of Pittsburgh’s Randyland.

Lunch was a long-anticipated stop on the 360 at Lupe’s Tex-Mex restaurant, an Inna favorite since her first business trip to Houston, having heard it reviewed by a co-worker back when she was in Kuala Lumpur. It being my first time, I was pleased with the fajitas we got. I’m not sure it lived up to the years of hype I’d heard – and it was stunningly expensive! – but it was good to finally try the place for myself.

After yet another Amy’s Ice Cream, we stopped for a brief rest at the small Govalle Neighborhood Park at the Southern Walnut Creek trailhead.

Then Inna navigated us to Craft, a big DIY crafting warehouse. After a quick tour, we settled in and gave it a try. Inna produced one of her typical paint-and-collage compositions, and I stayed true to form with a bold abstract paint-based thing. Nothing noteworthy, but it was a nice activity, and something to do as a couple other than sitting around the hotel or eating.

Although Inna’s weekend workshop was over, she wanted to go to Circle Anywhere’s regular weekly evening session, so I dropped her off and went to kill time at the Kinokunia Japanese bookstore. I browsed for 45 minutes without finding anything that jumped out at me, so I moseyed on to the Daiso Japanese housewares store next door.

Bored with that, I consulted my map to find a nearby park to hang out in for the 90 minutes until Inna’s session ended. Covert Park at Mount Bonnell was nearby and looked like it would have a view overlooking the river, so I drove there.

I’d forgotten that Mount Bonnell is a favorite semi-touristy spot to watch the sunsets from atop a high bluff over the river. I’d arrived just in time, and spent a few minutes scouting out the walking paths, looking for an unoccupied vantage point. It reminded me a lot of the “overlooks” back in Pittsburgh. I relaxed, watched the sun set, and took a couple selfies and panoramas. I also enjoyed the modern convenience of using a 5G phone connection to check Inna and I into our upcoming flights home.

Inna’s workshop session had been unsatisfying, so we chatted about it on the way back to the hotel, where we started packing up while watching another soccer game.

Thu April 28: Killing Time til We Can Go Home

Our last day in Austin began as you’d expect: packing up and checking out of our hotel.

Then we made our way to the Buzz Mill cafe, where we met up with Inna’s friend Sarah Ness, a former Pittsburgher who had founded Authentic Revolution, one of Austin’s other “circling” groups. She was pleasant and interested and energetic, and had lots of positive things to say about Austin.

When Sarah left, Inna and I went next door to a Dairy Queen, where I ordered the traditional Dilly Bar. Then we literally drove around the block before Inna proposed that we go back and hang out at the Buzz Mill until it was time to head to the airport.

The car was dropped off in seconds, our TSA PreCheck got us through security in no time, and Inna disappeared into a massage booth while I finally found a copy of Barron’s at an airport newsstand. Inna stopped at “Salvation Pizza” and spent $7.50 a slice for some greasy pizza that they stacked such that each slice was stuck to the paper plate of the one above it. Did we still eat it? Yeah, you can’t be choosy when eating in the airport.

By the time our 7pm flight was boarding, even Inna just wanted to be home. Happily, like our previous connection in Detroit, our transfer in Atlanta was also back onto the same aircraft at the same gate we arrived at, which made for the best Hartsfield experience either of us have ever had. We shared a laugh when the PA announcer sounds like he asked passengers to please make sure everyone in your party had their body parts for boarding.

Although it wasn’t objectively long, our journey home felt like it took forever. The flight, the trek to the intra-terminal shuttle, waiting at baggage claim (we’d been forced to gate-check our carry-ons), the trudge out to the car, paying for long-term parking, and the 45-minute drive home. There – despite it being 2:30am — I jumped straight into trash, recycling, and cleaning out the cat’s litterbox and put everything out for pickup later that morning. But the cat was happy to see us, and we were very glad to climb into bed shortly before the sun rose.

Epilogue

Recalling that this was my first major trip post-Covid, since late 2019, I am delighted that we made it through without either of us getting sick. We were masked and careful at the airports and during flights, but less so in Austin, where we – like everyone else – went mostly mask-free in stores and restaurants. Although we weren’t especially stringent, we didn’t have any problems at all, even though our immune systems haven’t been exercised in 2½ years.

As for the prospects for relocating, that remains a bit unclear, although after numerous false starts, Austin’s the first place that we both agree has real potential.

For me, the positive side of the ledger includes Inna’s willingness to move there, an active cycling community, the presence of a kyūdō dojo, an MLS team, and no city or state income taxes. Although I’ll repeat how disappointed I am that I wasn’t able to do any cycling during this trip, either solo or in the company of locals.

The list of Austin’s negatives includes the cost of living, the traffic, the highways, the endless expanse of character-less strip malls. Higher property and sales taxes. No casino. Poisonous snakes, spiders, fire ants, scorpions, and lots of other creepy-crawlies. And no matter how reasonable Austinites might seem, it’s a tenuous island of approximate sanity amid Texas’ vast and frightening brand of crazy.

As for mixed blessings… This trip’s weather notwithstanding, there’s the heat. Although I would certainly be leaving New England winters far behind, even a sun-worshipper like myself am intimidated at the prospect of living with Texas’ infamous heat, even if Inna is resigned to being uncomfortable no matter where we go.

And the meditation scene also counts as a mixed blessing. There aren’t any longstanding teachers, nor any retreat centers anywhere nearby. The community is small and led by a group of peer leaders. While that’s much like my situation here in Pittsburgh and would allow me to continue to develop my role as a teacher, I would have even less experienced support in my own personal practice than I already have here.

So that leaves me with mixed feelings. Austin seems to have almost all of the things I want in a home, and Inna seems willing to commit. If it wasn’t Texas, it might be an easy decision to make. But I can’t escape the fact that it is Texas, and living there would require an immense adjustment, as compared to moving somewhere a little more temperate and with a more familiar East Coast culture.

Making another scouting trip would make a lot of sense, to become more confident about our decision, whatever that winds up being. There’s just so much that we haven’t looked at, including Inna’s employer’s local office, and that dreaded summertime heat.

So that’s where I wound up. As a vacation, it wasn’t a very good trip for me; and as a relocation spot, Austin has a lot of potential, although there are lots of plusses and minuses for us still to weigh.

Mt. Bonnell Sunset Pano

This is a question that has followed me for most of my life. From the college employer who had no idea what I did for him; to Inna’s family and friends who wonder how I spend my copious free time, since I don’t work. It’s a question even Inna herself can’t answer, despite having lived with me for six years!

That question – what do you do? – confuses me, because I make no secret of it; there’s evidence plastered all over my social media.

I suspect that people are confused because I don’t push myself and my interests forward in verbal conversations. I’m more of a listener, allowing others to guide the conversation, and will only talk about myself after people express interest in what I’m up to; although most people will naturally direct conversations toward their own interests.

And then some of my closer friends avoid delving into my interests because they know that once I do get that implicit permission, I’ll talk about them enthusiastically and at length. Kinda like when you open up one of my blogposts… There’s a reason why my writers’ group always cautioned new members with, “That’s Orny… Don’t encourage him.”

On a side note, my interests tend to be very long in duration and deep in nature. It might take a while before I commit myself to something, but when I decide to do it, I insist on doing it well and thoroughly. I will not half-ass anything I do; this is one of my core values as a person.

So let me attempt to answer that eternal question: what does Orny do, anyways?

Number one: cycling. I ride up to 10 or 20 hours a week, either solo, group rides, or major events, both outdoors as well as on the indoor trainer through the winter. And that doesn’t include time spent on bike cleaning, maintenance, repairs, and performance analysis. Cycling is my passion.

Number two: meditation. I spend 2-4 hours a week in meditation, and another couple hours listening to dhamma talks. About twice a month I lead two different meditation groups, and must put time into researching, developing, practicing, and delivering my own dhamma talks. Sometimes I’ll go off on weeklong silent retreats, and I’ve always got plenty of dhamma reading to do. The philosophy and practices behind Buddhism are a central part of who I am.

Number three: investing. My former employment at Sapient gave me enough capital to consider living free of the working world. However, that means my “full-time job” is to invest my finances wisely and safely, and provide financial advice to Inna. So I devote a ton of time to reading financial news and books about investing. I keep tabs on the market daily, both because I want to be aware of my opportunities and, frankly, I enjoy monitoring my success. Financial self-sufficiency and independence are life goals that were drilled into me by my parents.

Number four: the Pan-Mass Challenge. I’ve ridden this annual fundraiser for the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute sixteen times and raised $119,000 for cancer research. You have no idea how much time that fundraising effort requires: the countless emails, tracking contacts (and writing my own database to manage it), chasing down corporate matching gifts, et cetera. For many years, it alone was a full time job from May through August. But this has been one of the most fulfilling things I have done.

Number five: learning Japanese. This winter I’ve put 10-15 hours a week into this newest intellectual challenge I’ve committed to. Characteristically, I’ve attacked it with energy and dedication. Academic learning and developing new skills are lifelong pleasures, and this is their current form. There’ll probably be a separate blogpost on this sometime later.

Number six: my relationship with Inna. It should go without saying that a lot of time goes into sharing our lives together and helping one another out. Partnership and family have always been a challenge for an introvert and loner like myself, so this is where a lot of work needs to happen.

So those are the big things.

Now fill in the remaining gaps with some of my more episodic background interests. Between my general and cycling blogs I write two or three dozen posts per year. I devote time to artistic interests in both photography and videography. I find time to enjoy a number of simulcast anime series and follow MLS soccer and the New England Revolution as well as the US national team.

And there’s always plenty of household duties. I’m fairly fastidious about my living conditions, and my responsibilities include vacuuming, laundry, garbage & recycling, car maintenance, computer maintenance, and cat feeding, grooming, litterbox, and exercise (if you only knew!). Plus grocery shopping and cooking for myself every day. And then in the background is researching our future move away from Pittsburgh.

That’s my life every day. If you ask me, I think the question shouldn’t be “What does Orny do?” but more like “How does Orny possibly do all that?”

Since my March trip to Southeast Asia wasn’t enough travel, in May I spent a week in Tuscany, just outside Florence, Italy.

Long before Inna accepted a six-month work assignment in Malaysia, her not-too-far-flung immediate family held a small reunion in Washington DC. They enjoyed that gathering so much that they decided the only way to improve upon it would be to repeat it… in Italy! Thus plans were laid.

The villa driveway, lined with olive trees

Our villa and grapevines seen from the road

The south side of our villa, with backdrop

Arches and patio on the south side

I’m in a Tuscan villa!

West side villa entrance

North side patio & our bedroom

Inna & Ornoth on the north patio

Tuscan daybreak

View from our villa bedroom door

More farm villas northwest of us

To the northeast: hillsides

Villa east of us

Eastern villa framed

View south, toward the road

Italian cypress cones

Pottery gravel

A poppy in the road

Tuscan flowery

Stray felis has something to say!

Understanding that I’m very much not a family person, Inna offered me the option of staying home. However, the closest I’ve ever gotten to Europe was a 2002 trip to Scotland, and it was also a chance for us to spend more time together in the middle of her long work assignment in Malaysia. Furthermore, Tuscany has a well-advertised reputation as a cycling paradise.

It even seemed like the right thing to do financially! I’d just closed my mother’s estate and received my share of her residual assets. She would have wanted me to use the money for something fun, rather than simply socking it away, and my using some of it on a trip to Europe would have pleased her. Though she would have raised a forbearing eyebrow at my earlier trip to Malaysia, Thailand, and Singapore!

Booking our flights was challenging. Back in March, Inna had obtained her tickets through her employer, piggy-backing an Italy stopover onto the end of a company-paid visit home from Kuala Lumpur. I purchased my flights separately a month later, which made it very difficult for us to travel together; more on that below.

When May rolled around, Inna came back to Pittsburgh for a brief but welcome stay at home before our departure for Florence.

Friday, May 11 2018

We had a relaxed day, with oddly-timed evening departures. I was booked on United 6015 from Pittsburgh to Dulles, leaving at 7:30pm. Inna’s Lufthansa flight 8797—also from Pittsburgh to Dulles—was scheduled to leave just ten minutes later.

Although convenient, having two flights ten minutes apart to the same destination seemed bizarre. So I looked into it when I checked in, and discovered that LH 8797 was just a codeshare with UA 6015. So although we were on different flight numbers, on different airlines, with different departure and arrival times, we were actually on the same flight!

Although Inna was out shopping at that time, I signed into the Lufthansa site under her name and changed her seat assignment so that we could sit together, which was a pleasant surprise.

We had dinner at an airport restaurant, where Inna had a veggie burger with real bacon: something she can’t get in Muslim Malaysia. I had pulled pork with jalapenos over french fries and two colas, which caused a lot of inopportune cramping on the brief flight to DC. Fortunately, I was distracted from my gastric distress by a Debbie Harry-lookalike stewardess, complete with platinum blonde hair, stiletto heels, and drugged-out demeanor. Once I had a love, and it was a gas…

We enjoyed the traditional people-crawler transfer at Dulles and noted the stark, outdated architecture, recalling that our friend Sheela’s father had helped construct the terminal buildings. Then it was time for the big intercontinental redeye from DC to Munich.

I’d known from the start that we would be together on this flight, and had booked myself a seat just across the aisle from Inna. However once we boarded, our goal was for me to swap seats with the person next to her. The guy was cheerfully willing, so we happily got to be together once more! It made the travel much easier for both of us.

Neither of us sleep well on planes, and that proved true again this time. And while we were in the air, not sleeping, we crossed over into:

Saturday, May 12 2018

A little after noon local time, we arrived in Munich. It was my first-ever landfall in continental Europe, and my new record for farthest travel to the east (having set new high-water marks south- and westward six weeks earlier). And upon entering the European Union, we each got a new piece of German “cheese” at immigration. I should mention that we call passport stamps “cheese” because it’s the little reward we traveling rodents seek at the end of the rat-maze of stanchions and rope cords.

The Munich airport was a wonderful experience. No televisions, no crowd-control music… even the people were quiet! So refreshing!

However, here Inna and I finally had to go separate ways. When I’d booked my travel, her 2:40pm flight had been full, so I was relegated to the subsequent flight, four hours later. At her gate, we learned that the guy I’d swapped seats with on our last flight was also headed to Florence. He and Inna struck up a conversation and boarded the bus to their flight; meanwhile I had something to take care of…

When we’d arrived in Munich, it hadn’t been clear whether we had to do the baggage claim-and-recheck shuffle upon entering the EU. We’d just skipped it, but having received “baggage exception” warnings by text message at both Dulles and Munich, I decided to ask an attendant what we should do. He said to exit the terminal and go to baggage claim, which I did. When our bags weren’t there, I went to the lost baggage counter, where a helpful woman told me that our bags would automatically be sent on to Florence. This was happily confirmed an hour later, when Inna landed and retrieved her bag.

Meanwhile, I went back through a security checkpoint into the terminal for my 7:05 departure. At the far end of an hour and a half flight to Florence, my bag jauntily popped out of the carousel, and I went outside to catch the rental car shuttle. I got no Italian “cheese” for travel within the EU.

I was a little wary of the car rental agency, since Inna’s sister and her boyfriend had just been declined by theirs. However, with my international driving permit in hand, my experience went smoothly. In a few minutes I was piloting a sizeable manual-transmission diesel Peugeot SUV onto the notoriously challenging streets of Italy, in the dark!

Fortunately, I’d downloaded offline data for Google Maps, and its directions were unambiguous and accurate. I made my way to the highway, negotiated an interchange onto the toll Autostrada, got to my local exit, and paid the toll in Euros I’d converted in Munich. But then I discovered the challenges of the Italian street network.

Oh my gawd! Ridiculously steep hillsides, blind turns every 300 meters, and roads rarely wide enough for a car and bicycle to pass, never mind two cars. In many places it’s so narrow that only one car can pass, and there are signs indicating whether cars approaching the bottleneck from one direction or the other have right of way! It reminded me of driving on Caribbean islands like St. John and St. Thomas. Although frequently maligned, I found Italian drivers predictable and safe; it’s the roads that are insane!

Eventually I found the right unmarked gate on the right tiny back road that led to the villa that Inna’s family had rented in Mezzomonte, halfway between the suburban towns of Impruneta and Grassina. At the end of a long gravel driveway between olive trees, I parked to find Inna, her mother, her father, her sister, and her sister’s boyfriend sitting outside on a terrace enjoying the evening.

After suitable greetings, I found the bedroom, unpacked, and settled in for a good night of sleep.

Sunday, May 13 2018

Everyone’s primary goal Sunday morning was to sleep off their jet lag, get settled, and stock up on groceries. That suited me, especially since I wanted my own cache of food and couldn’t rent a bike on Sunday.

When I got up, I noticed text messages from Inna’s sister, saying she and her father were leaving for the grocery. I quickly messaged back that I wanted to go with them, and wound up climbing up the hill to the gate to meet them as they waited.

They’d found a substantial grocery store in Grassina, where—after briefly trying to shop collaboratively with Inna’s foodie relatives—I strode off on my own and expeditiously got the things I needed for the week.

Back at the villa, Inna gave me a tour of the 15th century farm, which included a pool, several patios, two kitchens, a tower loft bedroom, and wood-fired bread oven. With a view over the olive trees and grape vines to the cascade of distant ridges and valleys beyond, it was picturesque and idyllic. Inna and I also appreciated the eclectic collection of foreign-language books, and the framed artwork mounted at cat’s-eye level!

We had an informal group lunch of pasta, accompanied by lots of linguistics talk that switched between Russian, Italian, English, and Spanish, with a little French, German, and Hebrew thrown in. Supper was boiled chickpeas and a tomato salad, thankfully accompanied by meatballs.

All told, a quiet day of getting settled and exploring the villa. The weather was surprisingly cool for Tuscany and partly cloudy.

Monday, May 13 2018

I got up and gathered some early-morning photos in a heavy overcast. I discovered that in such an ancient place, the gravel roads are nearly half comprised of old shards of broken pottery, so I collected a few interesting bits to take home as mementos.

Having purchased 72-hour tourist passes, the family all left for the first of three days in Florence. Having other plans, I made myself breakfast, then drove to a bike shop in nearby Falciani and rented a bike. I brought it home and took a short but effort-ful six-mile spin as a shakedown ride.

Rather than going into it here, I’ve put all the details about my cycling exploits into my Tuscany cycling blogpost on my cycling blog. Read that if you want more detail about my rental bike, rides, and impressions of Tuscany as a cycling destination.

While the family had dinner in Florence, I enjoyed having the villa to myself and making my own supper. When the family returned later that evening, they retreated directly to their respective rooms and climbed into bed.

Tuesday, May 15 2018

Inna decided to stay at the villa and spend Tuesday with me, while the others returned for another day in Florence. It was a quiet day with very English/European weather: heavy overcast, cool and breezy, with about 10 percent sun and 20 percent rain.

Inna and I made an afternoon trip to Impruneta, then off to neighboring Tavarnuzze to hit a small grocery, since Inna hadn’t come with us on Sunday. Pulling out of the parking spot, I scraped the side of the car against a plastic bollard. The barely-noticeable marks were just enough to evoke some added anxiety for the rest of the week, having heard rumors of Italian rental places aggressively charging foreigners for damages both new and pre-existing.

Wednesday, May 16 2018

Woke up to another day of cool rain and overcast. I had to agree with our friend Noah, who compared it to Oregon. Tho to be honest, my numerous trips to the Pacific Northwest have all been graced by better weather than we had in Tuscany.

Everyone set off for a final day in Florence. Although I had little faith in the weather, I decided to attempt a modest 27-mile ride. I experienced missed turns, pouring rain, closed roads, and the route I’d downloaded from the bike shop went off-road onto impassable farm paths. I abandoned the bike shop’s route and proceeded on busier but well-paved primary roads. You can read more about the ride in my Tuscany cycling blogpost.

After returning to the villa, I made myself another chicken dinner, making best use of the villa’s limited spice selection. The family, after having difficulty with their car’s headlights the night before, got home early and made pasta carbonara for dinner, which I sampled and enjoyed, despite having eaten already.

Thursday, May 17 2018

Having exhausted their tourist passes, Inna’s sister and father took off and explored historic San Gimignano, while the others stayed at home and rested.

One of the things I’d most looked forward to was spending a day at the Giro d’Italia, a major three-week professional cycling stage race, the Italian sister event to the Tour de France. Stage 12 finished in Imola on Thursday, two hours’ drive each way, which was as close as it would come to Florence.

However, at the exact same time as the Giro stage finish in Imola, online registration was going to open for a meditation retreat that I absolutely wanted to get into. Ironically, while meditation retreats are a haven of silence and peace, they’re also in high demand, so the registration process can be as competitive and frenetic as trying to secure tickets to a Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin concert. If I wanted to get in, I had to be online when registration opened.

There was no way to do both, and in the end I stayed home and registered for the retreat, missing the Giro in much the same way as I’d missed the Tour de Langkawi professional bike race during my recent visit to Malaysia.

In addition, I wanted to get one last bike ride in on Thursday, because I had to return the rental the next morning. Although I’d hoped to get at least one long ride in, I had to be back at the villa by 3pm to register for the retreat.

So I set out for a short ride down into the Chianti region and back, this time following only primary roads. When the clouds opened up and poured on me again, I was glad I hadn’t planned anything more ambitious. Again, more details in the Tuscany cycling blogpost.

Supper was more pasta with the family, then a round of an Italian “spaghetti western” game called “Bang!”, followed by a silly Russian game called “Privyet Valyet”.

Friday, May 18 2018

After breakfast and a group photo, the family set off to visit Siena. I would have eagerly tagged along and checked out the Torre del Mangia—the inspiration for Boston’s Pine Street Inn and Provincetown’s Pilgrim Monument—but I had to return the bike to the rental shop. While out, I saw numerous cyclists out on the roads, enjoying what wound up being the first warm, sunny day since we’d arrived.

Back at the villa, I ran a load of laundry, checked into my flights back to Pittsburgh, and tried to eat as many of the leftover groceries as I could.

When everyone came home, a stray tuxedo cat who’d been hanging around the neighborhood showed up, so I hustled Inna outside, where she made a new friend.

The villa’s guest book advertised lots of local sights and services, and Inna’s father and sister had secretly contracted to have a recommended local chef come to the villa and prepare dinner on our last night at the villa as a surprise offering for Inna’s imminent birthday.

The menu included eggplant, gnocchi, chicken, zucchini, and ricotta. The more culinarily adventurous enjoyed it, although it was difficult for me. I would rather have selected my own food, especially right before a 21-hour journey.

Saturday, May 19 2018

For the first time in a week, the morning of our departure provided a sunny, cloudless sky, and temperatures well into the 70s.

After final packing and loading up the car, we went downstairs to the owner’s patio for a light breakfast. Inna and I had to leave for the airport at 10am, so we said our goodbyes to everyone else, as they would later drive up to Venice to spend another day or two.

Despite missing the on-ramp for the Autostrade, Inna and I got into town, returned the rental car, hopped the shuttle, and got to the airport in reasonable time. At baggage check, I got stuck behind five American girls (exchange students) and their 15 pieces of luggage, and noted that in the line and throughout the airport the population was a solid 75 percent female.

My flight (to Pittsburgh via Frankfurt and Chicago) was at 1pm, but Inna’s (to Kuala Lumpur via Amsterdam) wasn’t until 5. Because it was too early to check her bag, she was unable go through security to see me off, so we said our goodbyes and I continued to my gate, while she killed time on her own. It’ll be another 2-3 months before I see her again.

After another bus-to-the-plane and boarding, I was seated in the middle of thirty of those American girls heading home. But I did enjoy when the Lufthansa stewardess offered, “Haben sie ein schön und schnell pflug.”

90 minutes to Frankfurt, where I got my EU exit visa stamp and boarded the long 9-hour flight to O’Hare. I think it was my first time in a 747, and I wasn’t looking forward to it, since I’d had to take an internal middle seat, rather than my usual window. I was surprised to find that I was seated in a bulkhead row, and that I’d booked a “premium economy” seat, which was a noticeable upgrade from cattle car. So although I couldn’t sleep, the flight was tolerably uncomfortable…

… except for landing behind schedule, which was the beginning of O’Hare Airport Hell. Our late arrival ate 30 minutes out of my 2-hour layover, followed by an extended delay getting off the 747. I fast-walked to customs only to see a line of people waiting. Huh, a long line. No, a fucking unbelievable line! A line—with no exaggeration— two or three people wide, the length of two football fields. So much for my connection!

Somehow, the line started moving, and I eventually got through customs and immigration. From there it was all lightning-sprint through baggage claim, baggage re-check, the inter-terminal tram, through Concourse B, and the underground moving walks to Concourse C. As I reached my gate, they were boarding the last stragglers of Boarding Group 4, and I was the fourth-to-last person to board.

It was ironic that with a two-hour layover I’d barely made my connection, while we’d been very concerned about Inna having less than 90 minutes to make her connection in Amsterdam, which she made quite comfortably. But at least I made it!

The short flight to Pittsburgh was my 16th flight in the past 6 weeks, and six of those flights have been longer than 7 hours; so I was extremely happy to finally be headed home! The only remaining question was whether my checked bag was coming home, too.

To my relief, my bag was the second one out of the baggage claim carousel, proudly bearing a big orange and black “Express Connection” sticker. It being shortly after midnight local time, I was eager to get home and crash. I hopped in the car, blitzed home, greeted a very affectionate house tiger, and climbed into bed at 1am. Inna was still in the air, with 2 hours left before landing on the opposite side of the planet, followed by an hour cab ride.

Overall

With certain caveats, it was a nice trip. Our villa was exquisite and serene, with a beautiful view overlooking vineyards, fields of olive trees, and wooded Apennine ridges. The villages were full of character and charm, and the roads scenic and pleasant. I got to spend more time with Inna, while also doing the things I preferred, like exploring the area by bike. Rather than hustling through museums and restaurants and tourist meccas, I prefer luxuriating in the natural environment and intimately experiencing the countryside.

Tuscany: whether you are into cycling, art, history, architecture, or food, it’s supposed to be amazing. But with such a lofty reputation preceding it, I expected a lot, and wound up disappointed in ways that are important to me.

The weather obviously wasn’t what I’d been led to expect from Italy. The days of cold rain—which the bike shop owner described as “terrible”—severely curtailed how much I could ride, and diminished my enjoyment of what riding I did do. That might not seem like a big loss to some people, but as a cyclist it was a primary goal of my trip, which I reserved several days for.

The other cause of disappointment was the coincidental timing of the nearest Giro d’Itala stage, the opening of registration for my meditation retreat, my desire to do a long ride, the family’s expedition to Siena, and having to return the bike early on Friday. Sadly, registering for the retreat and returning the bike on time were the least interesting but most important options in that list.

While Tuscany didn’t live up to its reputation or my own expectations, it was still a worthwhile and enjoyable trip, especially for Inna, whose perspective you can get here. Despite Tuscany’s allure and reputation as a cycling paradise, after a succession of cold, wet rides, I was glad to get back home to Pittsburgh, where it’s warm and sunny at least part of the time!

Panorama of our villa, looking north over the hills

Two weeks ago, work’s new office opened. Worth blogging about? As much as anything, I guess!

Buildium had clearly outgrown our old office on Chauncy Street in Downtown Crotching, and on August 10th we opened a new, more spacious office on Franklin Street in Post Orifice Square. Actually, it’s the old State Street Bank building, which used to be one of the most prominent features of the Boston skyline until they removed the logotype sign from the top.

The most noteworthy thing to mention was our move timeline. As originally planned, my department packed up on Tuesday July 28th, expecting to work from our homes for four days before taking up residence in the new place on Tuesday August 4th. But as the week wore on, we learned things weren’t quite ready for us; so we were told to hold off a day, until Wednesday. Then no, it would be Thursday. No, let’s try for next Monday… In the end, we worked from home for eight days (12 calendar days) before opening the office two weeks ago.

Working from home for a week and a half was okay, and was a good trial run for potentially working remotely full-time, if that winds up being a possibility. I was actually more productive than I had anticipated, to the extent that I didn’t get very much personal stuff done at home. But collaborative work still required more planning and effort.

The biggest thing I’ll miss about the old office is that the windows opened: a treat that I’ve enjoyed only a couple times during my professional career, despite working at scores of client sites. It also helped that my desk was in a corner with windows on two sides, but that wasn’t anywhere near as significant as access to fresh air.

At the new office, I’m at one end of a double-row of ten desks, which is tolerable, but pretty dehumanizing: far worse than being in a cube farm. The nearest set of windows is about 50 feet away, and the fluorescents are on all the time. On the plus side, I’m close to the hidden back exit and bathrooms; but I’m far away from the foosball tables.

Our building—and Post Office Square in general—is much more businessy. For neighbors, we’ve exchanged Chauncy Street’s skungey ESL students and affordable housing tenants for self-important real estate dealmakers and financiers in suits. In a stunning display of righteousness, the other tenant on our floor—a local branch of real estate brokers Cushman & Wakefield—came over and requested that our HR department prohibit our employees from wearing tee shirts at work! Arrogant much?

In more pleasant topics, although I haven’t really scoped out the food choices, one benefit is that the new building is only a block away from Lanta, the Thai restaurant I used to walk a mile to visit once a week. Hopefully there’ll be a burrito place that can replace Herrera’s, because that’s rather a long walk just for a burrito.

My commute has gone from about a mile to a mile and a half, which is still walkable, but I may start biking in more. There is a bike room down in the sub-basement, which isn’t great, but it’s functional. However, getting between our office and the sub-basement is a veritable ratmaze of public and freight elevators, hidden stairwells, and Orwellian linoleum-and-fluorescents corridors, and navigating it chews up all the time I’d save by biking home rather than walking.

Conveniently, last Wednesday was both my weekly Green Line Velo group ride as well as a “bike breakfast” day (a rather tepid affair put on by some local cycling organization), so I rode in for the first time. My commuting route—which I extend to a completely-unnecessary 10 miles—is identical to my commute to our old building except right at the end I jump one street over, taking Seaport instead of Summer.

So that’s my take on Buildium’s new digs.

Enough stuff has happened in the past two months that it’s time for another aggregated life update.

Health issues remain inconclusive. After surgery in December, I had another attack of abdominal pain around New Years, which prompted another visit to the GP and a followup CT scan. That detected nothing, so I’m back to eating a regular diet and taking a wait-and-see attitude. Meanwhile, I’ve taken the lull in proceedings to catch up on dental and eye stuff, get a new pair of glasses, and a haircut.

Watched the Super Bowl, since the Patriots were in it, and it proved to be a remarkably exciting finish. Whatever. I would rather the Revs have won.

Last month I observed the one-year anniversary of my kyūdō First Shot training. I also started learning hitote, which is a more involved form involving two shots and repeated kneeling down and getting up. It’s nice to have something new to think about and work on.

In January I made a long-overdue four-day visit to Pittsburgh, which was extended by two days due to Boston’s first huge blizzard disabling air travel. Pittsburgh wasn’t very eventful, but it was a nice visit.

Since then, Boston has been pounded by huge snowstorms one after another, causing daily gridlock, forcing the transit system to shut down for days at a time, and setting numerous all-time records for snowfall, wind, and cold temperatures. A sampler:

• For the entire winter up to January 23rd, Boston only had 5.5 inches of snow. In the next three weeks, it would receive an additional 90.2 inches (over 7.5 feet)!
• February broke the record for Boston’s snowiest month ever, and did it by the 15th of the month!
• By the end of the month, Boston had received five and a half feet of snow, beating the old record by 50 percent.
• Boston set the 4th snowiest 30-day period anywhere in American National Weather Service records.
• It snowed on 20 out of 28 days in February.
• Boston set its all-time record for greatest snow depth.
• This has been Boston’s 2nd snowiest winter on record. We’re less than two inches away from setting a new record (9 feet of snowfall), and we typically get about 8 inches of snow in March.
• An avalanche off the roof of a skating rink hit four people, burying one. Two of them had to be hospitalized.
• Boston cyclists built a 40-foot-long “underground” snow tunnel for commuting.
• In many cases, cars were so deeply buried that owners had to put cardboard signs on them warn snow removers not to plow there.
• An MBTA ferry and a Coast Guard icebreaker both got stuck in the sea ice in Massachusetts Bay.
• Blocks of sea ice more than 7 feet thick came ashore on Cape Cod.
• During one of our blizzards, Mt. Washington recorded the highest wind gust it has experienced in seven years.
• February was 12.7 degrees below normal temperature.
• It was the 2nd coldest February on record
• For the whole month of February, we only had one day where we reached the day’s average high temperature.
• At 15 days, we fell one day short of setting the record for consecutive days below freezing.
• At 43 days, this was the longest consecutive time that Boston has ever stayed below 40 degrees, beating the old record by 8 days.

I could go on at length, but it’s an experience that honestly is best forgotten. I will say that it has unambiguously strengthened my commitment to moving to a warmer climate.

Out of utter frustration with the weather, I set up and started using the indoor cycling trainer, which I didn’t use at all last winter. As a result, I’ve already earned $66 as a paid cyclist, thanks to my company’s health benefit…

And I’ve now been working at Buildium for 100 days. The money is happy, the atmosphere is friendly, and we’ve added yet another old Sapient (and Business Innovation) coworker. I’ve been doing a lot of Javascript, Knockout, and Angular work, which is enjoyable (mostly).

Thanks to the snow, I worked from home several days, and enjoyed an empty office when I made the trek in. I’ve made three satisfying lunch expeditions for Thai from Lanta (formerly Rock Sugar). Our company recently announced our first acquisition, and it looks like the two businesses complement each other well. And I hope to hear news about improvements to our office space.

While there, I’ve enjoyed rebuilding my foosball skills, and have been alpha testing a new version of my foosball ranking site. I’ve optimized the UI for mobile devices, made it more interactive by porting it to the Angular Javascript framework, and made it behave more like a single-page application by burying all the data requests in behind-the-scenes JSON AJAX requests. After talking it up to my coworkers, I’m excited to open it up to general use! I’ve even played with the Web Speech API and hope to incorporate speech recognition into it soon.

Otherwise I think things are quiet. Like that thrice-damned groundhog, I’ve been holed-up, waiting for the mountains of snow to recede before venturing back out into the world.

I can’t say that I’m a big fan of losing a body part that has been with me since birth.

The first time I consciously noted the discomfort in my abdomen was in August, after I finished the Pan-Mass Challenge. I didn’t really pay much attention to it. It came and went, but eventually it became clear that it wasn’t just going to go away. By the end of September, it became prominent enough that I scheduled a visit to the doctor.

After describing my symptoms, the differential diagnosis was gall bladder, which was later confirmed by ultrasound. It made sense that my discomfort presented after the PMC; the gall bladder is involved in the digestion of fat, and PMC weekend typically marks the celebratory end of my training diet, when I finally allow myself to binge on high-fat foods like ice cream and cheese, after avoiding them throughout the spring and summer.

While I waited for a surgery date, the only way to manage my discomfort was to go right back onto a diet that was even lower in fat than my training diet. It was tolerable at first, but very limiting, and as the weeks dragged on, it got pretty damned boring.

Things proceeded pretty slowly. I talked to my GP in September, then a wait for an ultrasound, then a wait for a consult with a surgeon. He told me the surgery would probably happen in three weeks, at the beginning of November. Seven weeks later, November had passed with no surgery appointment and no word from the hospital.

I started a new job on Monday December 1st. That day, I came home and gathered up my paper mail from my mailbox, which included a notice informing me that my surgery was Thursday morning! You would think they would have called to make sure I was in town that day, or at least make some attempt to find a date that worked for me. Nope… Here’s your date, take it or suffer!

You’d think they would give more than 48 hours’ notice, right? Nope… So what if it’s your first week on a new job; if you want relief, you’ll clear your schedule on short notice. Ironically, their instructions included things to be done a week before surgery; I should have consulted a fortune teller, so that I’d have known to do those things five days before I was notified of my appointment!

The big challenge for me was finding someone who would take me home from the hospital. I’d already gathered four friends I hoped I could rely on, but one was out of town, two were unable, and another wasn’t responsive. I was pretty haired out until my friend Roopa agreed to help. Without her kindness, I would have had to cancel the surgery.

The actual surgery went pretty smoothly. While I expected hours of sitting around waiting, someone was usually talking to me, whether it was a prep nurse, an OR nurse, the anesthesiologist, his intern, the surgeon, or his intern. On seeing I was a cyclist (the unique tan markings are present year-round), the prep nurse gave me a memorable pitch for doing the American Diabetes Association’s North Shore Tour de Cure, which she oversees.

Once the appointed time came around, they wheeled me into the OR. By then I was already mildly sedated, but I remember the unique pattern of the lights. When the anesthesiologist put the mask over my face, I decided to count aloud for them, so that they’d know when I was out. I was told to just breathe deeply, and that pretty much was the end of that!

I have very little recollection of the recovery room, save for someone ringing Roopa to come pick me up. They wheeled me out and down to the car, where I lifted my arms in mock victory. Roopa got me home, where my halting gait caused one of the condo staff to ask if I’d been in another bike accident, but I replied, “No, just out of surgery…”

We made it upstairs and I flopped onto my bed. While Roopa very kindly ran down to the corner CVS for meds, I stripped off my jeans and shirt, hopped into PJs, and pretty much passed out. When she returned, we chatted for quite some time before she exercised her option to go home. I slept on and off a bit more.

The first 24 hours were challenging. Hydration and pectin drops were key because my throat had been irritated by intubation.

Being something of a Luddite about pain medication, I skipped the Percocet they prescribed, and didn’t even take any over-the-counter stuff. I’m a cyclist; I’m used to far more intense discomfort!

The worst pain was the dissipation of the CO2 gas they use to distend the abdomen; it irritates the diaphragm, but the signals sneak up that nerve and manifest as really sharp cramping pain inside the shoulder joints. That took a few days to dissipate.

After spending most of the day sedated or asleep, I opted to stay up late, then slept only briefly before waking up again at 4am. But that worked out okay, because I really wasn’t tired and had enough things to keep me entertained.

The surgery had been on Thursday, which worked well. Friday I spent most of the day sitting up at my desk, and was even able to remotely attend a couple work meetings. Each day I got a little bit stronger, tentatively introduced a little bit more food into my healing digestive system, and the pain slowly diminished. On Sunday I showered, shaved, and took the temporary dressings off my four incisions, leaving just some steri-strips. That made me feel a lot more human.

After three solid days of recovery, I headed back to work on Monday. I took the train in to the office and worked a regular day. Tuesday the trains were backed up, which forced me to walk the mile to work. None of this was fun—it challenged my stamina—but it did help me get back to normal functioning.

In the meantime, I experimented adding high-fat foods to my diet. Cookies. Cashews. Donuts. Pizza. A burrito. Fajitas. Lindt chocolates. And Häagen Dazs ice cream! My system took everything in stride, without any of the discomforting “downstream effects” that can accompany gall bladder removal.

Now, twelve days after the surgery, I’ve been cleared to do anything I want, including returning to kyudo and cycling. My sutures still require a little more time to heal, but life has pretty much returned to normal. I seem to be able to eat whatever I want, and I can finally make life plans without worrying about an operation with an unknown date and outcome.

About the only question I have left is how this might alter my on-bike nutrition needs during really long endurance rides. But I’m pretty confident, and eager to find out. But I’ll wait a while longer, letting things heal until springtime makes long rides possible again.

But overall I’m happy to say that I couldn’t have imagined a more successful outcome.

As I step away from some of my older hobbies, it looks like kyūdō—the Japanese martial art of archery—might be a new activity that arises to take their place.

People who know me will realize that when I commit to an interest, I dive into it with a unique intensity and dedication. Looking back, I’ve had numerous interests which I pursued for years and sometimes decades, such as Tolkien fandom and fiction writing during my youth, or cycling and meditation as an adult.

But every five or ten years, I step back and reevaluate my hobbies and how they fit into my life. Often I can tell when a chapter of my life is about to end because I feel that my interests aren’t helping me grow in the direction I want to go in. It’s at those times that I’ll suddenly walk away from things I’ve been devoted to for years, such as when I left my writers’ group after running it for more than a decade. At the same time, I feel myself looking for what new interests might come along to replace the old.

In the past year or two, I’ve set the groundwork for dropping two time-consuming hobbies. I’ve already publicized that after fourteen seasons, 2014 will be my last year riding in the Pan-Massachusetts Challenge, which will free up a lot of time I’d otherwise spend fundraising. In addition, I will soon stop tracking my money using the Where’s George website, after a ten-year run. These were great activities, but it’s finally time to move on.

Knowing that this would free up time and energy, I started kicking around ideas for what I might enjoy doing next: something I could get involved with that would also appeal to the very different person I have become.

And the first thing that seems to have arisen is kyūdō.

Kyūdō is a meditative martial art devoted to the traditional Japanese form of archery. It’s surprising that kyūdō is not widely known in the US, because it is extremely popular in Japan, where archery and its equipment are viewed as highly sacred. Kyūdō has been refined and distilled into a highly reflective, meditative practice, as reflected in the first western book on Japanese archery. Eugen Herrigel’s 1948 “Zen in the Art of Archery” was wildly popular and was the first book to use the now-popular moniker “Zen and the art of…”

So why have I been drawn to kyūdō? It’s hard to explain, but it boils down to six attributes that appeal to me: it’s social, meditative, physical, elegant, familiar, and Japanese.

Although the focus of the form of kyūdō is internal, participation and instruction are offered in the context of a small, friendly martial arts dojo of mixed ages and genders. This is imperative to me, since social life and connection is revealing itself as the primary project of my fifth decade of life.

I probably don’t need to belabor how kyūdō’s meditative focus complements my longstanding contemplative practice. As a form of meditation that involves a fair amount of movement, Kyūdō seems to nicely fit in the gap between rather sedate walking meditation and full-bore regular life.

For years, I’ve been looking for some technique for integrating physical exertion and meditation, which initially led me toward an exploration of yoga. However, being in a room filled with women in tight skinsuits—all rolling around on the floor in provocative positions—wasn’t especially conducive to internal exploration. Kyūdō allows and incorporates a focus on the body without the detrimental distractions.

However, like the asanas in yoga or the forms in tai chi, kyūdō is strictly choreographed. And when control of the human body and its motions is combined with the natural geometry of the bow, bowstring, and arrow, kyūdō epitomizes elegance and grace: attributes that I strive to embody.

And archery has always appealed to me. Even as a child, archery was my favorite activity at summer camp, and over the years I became pretty skilled at it. And in my medieval recreationist days I bought and used a very powerful English longbow, as well.

And for whatever reason, I seem to be in a phase where Japanese stuff is interesting, so it fits into that, as well.

So as you can see, kyūdō actually complements my interests quite nicely.

Practices are both convenient and a bit of a stretch. During the winter, they use an indoor aikido dojo in Union Square, which isn’t easily reached by mass transit, but is manageable. And in the summer they’re out in Lincoln, which would be really difficult, except that’s just one town over from where I would be training during a regular weekend bike ride, so I’ll probably combine the two.

I first started looking at their website around Thanksgiving, and saw that they were running a new student “first shot” training at MIT in January. However, it filled up before I could sign up.

So two weeks ago I showed up at the dojo just to observe. Fortunately, another new guy was there, and apparently we comprised enough interest for them to schedule another first shot training the following week. So I returned for a second visit and received instruction on most of the form from Joyce and Randy, with the expectation that I’d get to perform my first shots the next time.

This past weekend, I returned for part two of the training. Although the other new guy wasn’t around, I received additional instruction from Joyce, and then Don covered some more details before encouraging me to step up and take my first shot.

To put that into perspective, in Japan new students often take weeks, months, or sometimes years drilling the techniques before they’re allowed to shoot. Due to Americans’ typical impatience, our school has disposed of that, but it’s still a big milestone.

So I felt some anxiety as I stepped up and went through the movements and fired two arrows. When we move outside, we’ll fire at targets 28 meters away, but indoors we shoot at cardboard bales from a distance of about ten feet. I managed to remember most of the steps, but forgot to flip my right arm back upon my first release; I corrected it for the second.

What was interesting to me was how intensely the body experienced it. When I stepped away, my heart was racing and I was breathing heavily. I think much of that is due to the selfconsciousness of taking my first shot under the sensei’s gaze, combined with the physical stress of drawing the bow and the loud thunk of the arrow striking the target.

Of course, I haven’t mastered anything as yet. It’s frustrating but entirely predictable that some of the things I do wrong are common both to kyūdō and cycling, such as tensing and hunching my shoulders. And I also need to pay better attention to keeping my body facing perpendicular to the target, rather than turning toward it.

But it was successful! I’d followed the forms and properly fired and lodged my arrows into the target. So at least I’ve got the basics down.

Over time, I hope to embody some of the elegance that you can see in some of the YouTube videos or Vimeo videos about kyūdō. And if I stick with it, perhaps someday you’ll even get to see a photo of me in a hakama!

Prologue

I never really had a bucket list—a list of adventures I wanted to have before I die—mostly because as I identified things I wanted to do, I found ways to do them.

In fact, when I finally did sit down and make an attempt at a bucket list, I found 42 things that I had *already* done, and only eight that were still outstanding! Bucket list: you're doing it wrong!

Of those eight I hadn't done, three required travel to San Francisco. So it made sense to book a flight to the Bay Area and knock off a third of my bucket list in one single trip.

The first item on the list was the Buddhist Bicycle Pilgrimage (BBP). Many years ago, I heard about this two-day, 140-mile ride that started in Marin County, north of San Francisco, which visited several dhamma centers. Naturally, I was drawn to this event that combines two of the most important parts of my life, and I began making plans to attend. However, I'm not good at scheduling solo travel, and the plans never came together.

The second thing I wanted to do was visit a meditation teacher named Gil Fronsdal who runs the Insight Meditation Center (IMC) in Redwood City, south of San Francisco. When I first started getting interested in Buddhism, I downloaded (without exaggeration) thousands of dhamma talks by various teachers, but the person I felt most connected to and inspired by was Gil. Again, for years I envisioned myself going to California to express my gratitude and to speak on behalf of the listeners who have benefited from his wisdom as encapsulated in the talks he's freely offered online.

It seemed fateful that my ex-wife Linda also lives in the same town: Redwood City. We hadn't communicated in nearly 20 years when out of the blue she friended me on Facebook two years ago. Interpreting that as an invitation to communicate, I pinged her to see whether she would be interested in getting together to catch up. After all, I'm not the type to drop from my life someone whom I once cared a great deal for. That was my third major goal.

But it still took me more than three years to put this trip together. Why? A large part of it was my nervousness about making solo traveling plans. I like to have everything planned out and certain beforehand, and that wasn't going to happen on this trip, between having to arrange flights, three hotel stays, transporting my bike or renting one, finding a tent and sleeping bag, renting a car, getting transportation back to the start once the ride was over, and so forth.

I was also discouraged when one of my dhamma friends, after expressing interest in tagging along for the pilgrimage last year, backed out once I started making plans.

Ironically, another dhamma friendship was the catalyst that got me to finally make firm plans this year. A couple of people were hanging around the Cambridge Insight Meditation Center (CIMC) after a talk one night, chatting about cycling, and this guy Peter started telling me about the BBP. I mentioned my travel trepidations, but he encouraged me to go. He'd done it several times, and was helping out with the planning this year, since he splits his time between east and west coasts. He offered to answer any questions I had, and that helped me get over my blockage about travel.

So after this year's Pan-Mass Challenge, I pulled the trigger and made all the arrangements. I was headed to California, and was finally going to accomplish all three of these longtime goals!

Friday, 28 September 2012

Thursday after work I came home and made my final preparations, then turned in… briefly! I had to get up before 3am in order to grab a cab to Logan for my 6am flight. 3am is bad enough, but if you convert that to west coast time, I had gotten out of bed before midnight!

As I said goodbye to the Gradle and locked the door behind me, I had a very strong sense that I was embarking on a pilgrimage. Sure, there was the Buddhist Bicycle Pilgrimage that would take place over the weekend, but there was a larger, personal pilgrimage that began when I left home, and which would include getting to California, sitting with Gil at IMC, and also hopefully seeing Linda. This larger pilgrimage turned out to be a very real and meaningful experience, as you'll see if you read on.

My 6am flight to SFO went well. When I'd checked in on Thursday, I'd opted to receive my boarding pass on my mobile phone, so United had sent me an email that contained a scannable QR code. While I was nervous about how that would work at the TSA checkpoint and at the gate, they had scanners set up and it all worked flawlessly. Very cool.

What was even cooler was that on a nearly full flight, there was an unoccupied seat between me (window) and the guy in the aisle seat, so that gave us the opportunity to stretch out a bit. Score!

I arrived at SFO at 9:30am, picked up a silver Mazda MX-3 rental car, and headed north, passing over a completely socked-in Golden Gate Bridge. I arrived in Marin County well before I could check into my hotel, so I tried going over to the Corte Madeira REI, where I'd reserved a tent and sleeping bag. Along the way, I grabbed some drinks and snacks at a Safeway, then picked up my camping gear with no problem.

Then I drove ten miles out to the town of San Anselmo, where I'd reserved a bike at 3 Rings Cycles. They were really friendly, which led me to conclude that the rest of California might not be as cliquey as San Francisco. They hooked me up with a red and white Bianchi Infinito. Oddly, it was a carbon bike, but with low-end Shimano 105 components. But it would do for the weekend.

For all this driving around, I used my Android phone's built-in navigation app. It impressed me, doing everything a dedicated car GPS would do, including verbal directions. It was a big win, and I relied on it all week.

I drove back to the hotel and they allowed me to check into my room early. That gave me time to take the bike out for a test ride, and I knew just where I wanted to go.

A block from the hotel was the newish Cal Park Hill Tunnel, a dedicated bike path tunnel through a mountain, which created a connection between Greenweir, where my hotel was, and the city of San Rafael. I moseyed down there and pedaled my way through the tunnel. While it wasn't a really long tunnel—about a quarter mile—it's damned long for a bicycle-only tunnel, enough so that my GPS gave up trying to get a satellite signal. I passed through it, rode a bit further on, adjusted the bike's seat, and then rode back. Pretty cool!

A mile in the other direction was California's San Quentin State Prison. I made my way down there and took a photo which I posted to Facebook, saying, “San Quentin, I am in you… uhhh.” Well, I thought it was funny! The bike checked out okay. Nothing spectacular, but it was pretty and serviceable.

After a trip to CVS to get drinks, I discovered a little (20-person capacity) Thai restaurant called Tha Siam in the commercial development across the street. I had chicken himaparn, which was heavily spiced, along with some good brown rice. I was feeling kinda headachy, tho.

Back at the hotel, I showered, wrote out the BBP route on cloth tape to attach to my bike's top tube, unpacked everything from flying mode and repacked it for cycling and camping mode, and paid my monthly bills (it was payday, after all).

That was when I got the email from Linda. Her response to my email announcing my trip had been cool: I've been working crazy hours and barely have time to sleep, and won't know my schedule until the day you arrive. Well, I'd arrived, and her followup wasn't any more receptive: My boyfriend's uncomfortable and I have to take his feelings into consideration. Basically, I'd come 3,000 miles to her doorstep, and she had turned me away.

So… Here was the first curveball of my trip. It wasn't entirely unexpected, but it was still tremendously disappointing. I was hurt, and it was a challenge dealing with all the emotions that her rejection brought up. How much should I trust her words, versus the message between the lines? And even if I believed her, hadn't she learned better than to date jealous, controlling guys? I didn't know what to think or how to respond; I knew that I couldn't respond right away, and that meant not replying until after the ride.

So I'd have material to think about and practice with during the hours in the saddle. But I already knew that I could do so with a clear conscience: I had made a sincere offer out of kindness, and I had to let go of any expectation of how that offer would be received or what the result would be.

Still, it wasn't a restful night.

Saturday, 29 September 2012

It was also another short night, as I had to get up before 5am. Thankfully, that's 8am Eastern time, so it wasn't too painful! I checked out of the hotel and drove ten miles out to Woodacre and the Spirit Rock Meditation Center. Upon arriving, I assembled the bike in the pre-dawn darkness, and loaded my backpack, tent, and sleeping bag onto the gear truck.

After I and about a hundred other riders checked in, we had a brief sitting in their VFW-like “community hall”, followed by a dhamma talk by Julie Wester. She talked about what a blessing it was to be able to combine two activities that you are passionate about, and how cycling and meditation were a natural fit due to the need to be focused and aware in the present moment. I found it an interesting and moving speech, but I was emotionally primed, having made such a substantial effort just to get there.

She also talked about the pilgrimage's “theme”: the four bases of success, or the Iddhipadas. They are: desire or intention, effort or energy, application of mind, and investigation or wisdom. As they went over them, I thought about how those are a formula for success in any effort. The pilgrimage focused on one base every half-day, and since Saturday morning's topic was desire or intention, we were encouraged to reflect on the desire that had brought us here, and what we intended to get out of the pilgrimage.

We were dismissed around 7:30am and everyone left at their own pace. I chatted with Peter before mounting up and moseying down toward the main road, where I waited for a group of riders to go by. When I rolled out, I thought I was toward the back of the pack, and I wasn't paying much attention as I passed six or eight other riders. I was putting a little energy into it, because it was misty and cold, and because I was glad to have something physical to take my mind off Linda's email.

The first segment reminded me of Scotland. There weren't any huge hills, but there were lots of small ones, and they were *steep*! I'd be riding along, hearing cows lowing, and look up into the mist and see them munching away on a hillside that climbed (or dropped) 400 feet, right next to the road! The countryside was dramatic; I wish it had been less misty, and light enough to see more of it along the way.

An hour later, I saw people sitting at the side of the road, and the route arrows pointed at them, so I turned off. Apparently this was the first rest stop. After a bit of chat, they clued me in that the food was set up behind a nearby building, so I moseyed down there.

The odd thing was that a handful of people there started cheering for me. Apparently I was the first rider to enter the rest stop! Huh! I thought I was toward the middle of the pack.

I had been headachy all morning and hadn't eaten anything for breakfast, so I grabbed a couple grapes and a bit of a bagel. After a porta-potty stop, other riders were coming in, so I continued on, hooking up with two other riders.

What I didn't know at first was that they weren't BBP riders; they were locals. We chatted for a number of miles, which included the biggest climb of the whole ride. It was hard, reminding me of New Hampshire's Crawford Notch. The descent that followed wasn't that impressive, but I gapped my local friends and rode on alone.

At the base of the descent, I turned onto a road that led up the flat floor of a valley dotted with working farms and vineyards. Right at the corner, near a farmhouse, I saw four really big crows standing by the side of the road. But they were *really* big… and had kinda bald heads… And then it hit me: there's fucking vultures lining the route! Vultures! As I rode by and gasped my amazement, they just stared back at me. *That's* something I've never had to deal with back east! And apparently it's not normal out west, either, because people talked about it later, in camp.

Just before 10am, about the time the next rest stop was supposed to show up, I saw a guy in a truck unloading a table and drinks and figured this was the place. Well, it wasn't; he was a support person for a tour put on by REI, supporting a pack of Welsh tourists! I rode on, but didn't go far, because our people were set up just around that corner. Again, I was heralded as the first guy in.

I had a cookie and some grapes, but didn't stay long at that stop because it was overrun with hornets. I exited the stop with the two guys who had come in after me, both of whom were wearing yellow jerseys. I pulled them along for a few miles, but when I rotated off the front, one stopped for a bio-break, and the other stopped to strip off some clothing, because the temperature was climbing into the 70s.

So there I was again, riding solo off the front! The primary land use in the valley was farming, and it was a very pastoral setting. I saw trucks in the fields, distributing hay for the cows' breakfast, and had to swerve to dodge cow-patties in the road. These two segments smelled richly!

I was glad when the route dove sharply and then turned onto a main road. I had to be careful crossing the road, because we had intersected the route of pro racer Levy Leipheimer's Grand Fondo, which had over 7,500 riders. Fortunately, we were going in opposite directions, and our route veered onto a bike path less than a mile later.

The path led me through the town of Sebastopol, and a few streets later (at 11:23am) I was at the lunch stop: the Sae Taw Win Dhamma Center. It was no surprise to the volunteers staffing the stop that I was the first rider in. I had already earned the epithet “jackrabbit” and comparisons to a speedy rider named Max from previous years.

It was beautiful out: sunny and comfy, but a little chilly in the shade. I took up a bench in the sun and did some self-massage, working out the stiffness in my muscles. Having gotten my appetite back, I gobbled a couple brownies along with some grapes, and sampled a box of Chicken in a Biskit crackers, which I haven't seen since high school.

The main feature of Sae Taw Win is the cedi, the Ananda Suriya Metta World Peace Pagoda, a mirrored and crowned stupa, surrounded by smaller cedis sponsored by Burmese families, which you can see in the associated photo, above.

Before we left Sae Taw Win, we had a dhamma talk by one of the teachers, Carol Meredith. I found it interesting, because while they're in the same Theravada lineage as most of the instructors I've known, they're a distinctly Burmese lineage, rather than a Thai one. I was surprised when she told us that they don't teach sitting meditation, but focus on bringing practice into students' regular lives, which sounds similar to the goals of CIMC, as an urban center.

They begin by teaching five main precepts: present-moment awareness, tranquility, awareness of likes and dislikes (which connected to Saturday morning's theme of “desire”, and also reminded me of my old vedana practice), then judgement, and clinging; all this before they continue on to the Eightfold Path.

After the talk, I joined a line waiting for the bathroom, which included the guy who had founded the ride, eleven years earlier. They were talking about how Saturday afternoon was the hardest part of the ride, something I'd heard before, but which made no sense to me. We were already more than 50 miles into an 85-mile ride, with all the climbing behind us (except for one kicker at the end). The remaining 30 miles looked flat, and there was no wind. So I asked… And was told that it was hard because of the heat, and because one already had fifty miles in one's legs.

Well, that didn't dissuade me, and I'd already had a long rest, so I made my way back onto the road. The “base of success” for Saturday afternoon's segment was effort, so I applied some.

The ride continued through farmlands and vineyards, and the valley heated up to 80 degrees. One moment of concern came as a pickup truck came flying around a corner toward me. As it leaned into the corner, the porta-potty in its bed rocked, sloshing liquid across the road in front of me. That's legitimate cause for concern!

I hit the next stop before 2pm. I wasn't the first person in, but one of the first three. The segment hadn't been bad, and I was eating up the miles, but it was warming up. It felt good to have temperatures back in the 80s, since at the end of September they're over back in Boston.

I'd been riding on rough roads; I think California figures that since they have such good weather, they can lay down some macadam and never revisit it again. I thought my bike was making more noise than it ought, but I couldn't isolate it until I heard a metallic plink. As I rode on, nothing seemed amiss until I saw that the binder bolt holding the headset cap had vibrated out, and by now it was far enough behind me that I'd never find it.

That bolt controls how much play the headset bearings have; without it, the headset would be loose and make a lot of noise. In theory it could even shake apart, but there wasn't anything I could do about it but ride on, a little more gingerly than before.

Later, as I was laboring up a small slope, one of those two guys in yellow—the one riding a flat-bar single-speed—blew past me like a rocket. Wow! I guess someone has better legs than me! The other guy was also ahead of me, but I passed him when he flatted, just short of the next stop.

That stop—the final one before we got to the overnight campground in Cloverdale—was just eight miles from the finish. We chatted with the volunteers who'd been leapfrogging us all day, and then the three of us rode on.

I knew the climb up to the campground was a beast, and it was. Single-speed boy powered ahead of me again, while the man who had flatted fell behind. The climb reminded me of Great Blue Hill, climbing 400 feet in a mile. The temperature had broken 90 degrees, as well, but the views across the valley were nice.

The road turned briefly downslope, arriving at the Wine Country KOA campground. We checked in at the office, where I spotted an ice cream freezer and picked up a Klondike bar. We arrived around 4pm.

I grabbed my tent, sleeping bag, and backpack from the gear truck and wandered down to the camping area, picking a spot beneath an overarching tree next to a dry stream bed. Then came a challenge: figuring out how to set up the dome tent I'd rented. I had a couple mis-tries, then remembered that the woman at the office had mentioned they would be giving away snow-cones twenty minutes after we arrived, so I went up there and got some slush. It wasn't very good, but it was welcome after a long, dusty day in the saddle.

Returning to the campsite, I figured out the tent and got it up. Remembering that there were a hundred riders behind me, I grabbed my shower gear, stuffed my wallet into the front of my cycling bib shorts, and walked off toward the showers.

The shower wasn't great, but it was delightful given the circumstances. I brought my stuff back to the tent, then returned to fuel up on some snacks before dinner. When dinner came around (mostly pasta), it went down well as I sat around talking to a couple girls and one talkative old man who'd driven one of the SAG vans.

By then it was 8pm, and time for the evening's ceremonies. Two Buddhist monks from our eventual destination—Abhayagiri Monastery—offered a guided meditation and dhamma talk.

The meditation was interesting: the monk had us compare our level of stress while sitting to that earlier in the day, when we were riding, then compared to a quiet woodland, then just the bare earth, then the planet, empty space, and pure void. he was trying to illustrate that in meditation, one shouldn't go straight to peacefulness and avoid stress, but to look back to find the source of stress and learn to avoid it in the future.

As a bright full moon rose, the dhamma talk that followed focused on the four bases of success and their usefulness in guiding meditative practice. By then, I was getting past my disappointment with Linda, and starting to figure out how I could respond in a way that honored both her freedom of choice and my emotions. After the dhamma talk, the pilgrimage leader gave some announcements, but started out by calling me out by name as the rider who had come from farthest away.

Then it was time for a well-earned sleep. I retired to my tent and climbed into my sleeping bag. It was the first time I'd camped out since Linda and I attended medieval recreationist events 20 years back. I managed to get adequate shut-eye in between tossing and turning, but it was far from anything I'd call a full night's sleep.

Sunday, 30 September 2012

The morning wasn't too cold, and I didn't shiver too much during the 6am meditation sitting offered by the monks. Fortunately, breakfast was served inside the campground's little dining hall, so I warmed up there. I finished and packed up my camping gear and was throwing it on the truck when I realized that I didn't have my wallet on me. In fact, I didn't have my wallet anywhere. I searched the office and the showers and all over the campground, but after 45 minutes I had to give up and ride on. Either it would show up in my bags or at the campground office, or it wouldn't. There was nothing I could do, so at 8am I rode out at the back of the pack, as some deer watched from the hillside.

There's no denying that I was upset about the wallet. If it didn't turn up, I was in deep shit. When the ride was over, I had to re-check into the same hotel I'd stayed at Friday night. Then check into another hotel in Redwood City for Monday and Tuesday. And I had to return my rented camping gear and bike, and the car I'd rented. And how was I going to convince the TSA to let me fly home without any ID? I was fucked.

With that as background, I pushed myself hard in the first segment of the ride, in order to work out some nervous energy. I caught up with my friend Peter, but blew past him, in no mood to chat. Then we turned onto the divided Highway 101 for a long climb. At least I was alone, so no one heard the continuous invective that I vented.

At 9am I pulled into the first rest stop. I was cooked after exerting myself. The highway riding wasn't great, but at least there were no steep climbs; the whole day was one long, shallow, unvarying 50-mile climb, much like some of the roads on the Mt. Washington Century. The worst part of riding on the highway was the rumble strip that took up about a foot of space along the breakdown lane.

The morning was sunny but cool, with a headwind, and the countryside—beyond the leveled highway—was rolling hills. Physically, I felt okay; my legs were fine except for lack of power on the hills, but I wasn't having a great experience with the rental bike's saddle. And, of course, my lost wallet was predominant in my thoughts. I can't say I was an exemplar of that morning's success factor of “application of mind”.

I rode for a while with a kid who had grown up in Connecticut. Then, by quarter of ten, I was in Ukiah and passed through the ornate archway into our lunch stop: the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas. A former state mental institution that had 70 buildings covering more than 700 acres, the center is a huge campus. It was founded by a Chinese chan (zen) master Hsuan Hua and serves as a center for Mahayana Buddhism and ethical education.

Upon arriving, I changed into my “modesty attire” (long pants for men, long skirt or sarong for women). After more riders arrived, we followed the chief Reverend Heng Sure into their amazing Buddha Hall, which indeed contains 10,000 Buddha statues.

He explained that they, too, do not do sitting meditation, but practice prostrations, leading us through their method, which includes the use of padded “kneeling benches”. He then proceeded with his dhamma talk, which focused on intention and ethics (sila). He had the delivery of a comedian, and ended by playing his banjo (!) and leading us in a song about repaying our parents' kindness. I found it more than a bit strange, but well-intended.

That done, he tromped us over to the dining hall for a prodigious and much-needed lunch, which included grape juice from their vineyards. When I finished, I went back to the gear truck, got rid of my modesty clothing, and set out a little before 1pm on the final 20 miles of the ride.

By 1:45 the temperature had climbed past 93 degrees, and the noontime sun was beating down on the exposed road. I was feeling used up, and was happy to see the final rest stop in a park, where I was once again the first rider in. I stole some ice for my water bottle, then poured a cupful of water over my head as other riders came in.

Then I set out one final time. I didn't want the ride to end, but I also wanted to see Abhayagiri Monastery. And my butt wanted to say farewell to that uncomfortable saddle.

The climb up to Abhayagiri is tree-lined and quiet, and gave me some time for reflection. But soon enough the route arrows pointed me up a ridiculously steep driveway to the gear truck, where I was the second rider to arrive. Pilgrimage complete!

After arriving, I made for the shower, which was wonderful on such a blazingly hot day. The monks had set up big fans with reservoirs that sprayed a fine watery mist as a form of natural air conditioning. They also were giving away books, including their 2013 Forest Sangha Calendar, and a huge tome of “The Collected Teachings of Ajahn Chah”, a respected and influential Thai teacher.

I opened up both my tent and sleeping bag to see if I could find my wallet in there, but no luck. The monks also gave us a brief tour of part of the steep and heavily-wooded grounds in their pickup truck. Half their land was donated to them by the founding teacher of the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas, which is remarkable because he comes from a completely different lineage.

The pilgrimage's closing ceremony included twelve robed monks chanting for us. Some of the chants I recognized, but they went beyond my repertoire. It was kind of funky having them chanting for us. Then a brief dharma talk, which included a reinforcement of the idea that concentration practice isn't simply to achieve some altered state of consciousness, but is primarily in the service of present-moment awareness.

Then we were done, and our chartered bus was waiting to take us 140 miles back to civilization. I loaded my stuff on board and we pulled out just before 6pm. With everyone talking about the ride, I was surprised at how loud a bus full of contemplatives was! Meanwhile, I was anxious to get cell phone signal so that I could check to see if the campground had left me voicemail, which they hadn't.

That meant no wallet for me. I was anxious to get back to town, but that was foiled when our bus driver, trying to avoid highway traffic, took a random exit and drove off into the night on some back roads. We were out there for a long time, but eventually we got back to Spirit Rock and unloaded all our stuff from both the bus and the gear truck. Of course, since I had been the first to load my bike onto the truck, it was the last one out. But I packed up the car and headed back to San Rafael.

Walking into the same Marriott I'd stayed at Friday night, I was dusty, hot, tired, beat, dehydrated, sleep-deprived, and I just wanted to get to my hotel room so that I could crash in a real bed, get a decent night's sleep, and shower. But because I couldn't produce a credit card, the aging front desk lady turned me away. She wouldn't even take the $150 I had in cash (I'd left it in my bag in the car) as a deposit until the morning, when I could get to a bank. Unless someone could fax her a credit card authorization, she wasn't going to issue me a room. I tried messaging my friend Rena, the only person I knew on the west coast who might have access to a fax, but she didn't respond.

It was 11pm on a Sunday night, and there was nothing I could do, and no one I could call, since it was 3am on the east coast. I called Bank of America, who canceled my old cards and issued me a new one, but who wouldn't authorize a charge until I received the new one in the mail, which I had sent to the hotel I'd be staying at on Monday.

So I was fucked. I walked back out to my car and changed into long pants and grabbed my sleeping bag. It was going to be a long, sleepless night sitting alone in a rental car. It had been decades since I'd had to do anything like that, and I was stunned that Marriott, Bank of America, and American Express had all turned their backs on a customer in the midst of a travel emergency. It seems branding only goes so far.

Monday, 1 October 2012

So after biking 140 miles, I got to “sleep” in the car. Fortunately, between the stupid bus detour and trying to get into the hotel, at least a third of the night was already gone by. And the long hours at least gave me time to think about what I was going to do to un-fuck myself.

I figured getting a bank branch to let me access my savings account was my only hope, and I had two things working in my favor. First, the bike shop I'd rented from had photocopied my drivers license on Friday. They didn't open until 11am, but at least they had it. On top of that, I could talk to the concierge of my apartment building and get him to go into my condo, find my passport, and fax that to me. Hopefully that would be enough to convince BofA to let me raid my savings to pay for everything, and hopefully enough to convince the TSA to let me board my flight home. If that all worked out, I might be able to un-fuck myself. The last thing I wanted to do was fall back on the few friends I had in the area.

Finally morning came. I waited until 7am to go back into the Marriott, in hopes that a shift change would eliminate the evil desk woman from the equation. It did, although her replacement wasn't much more receptive. However, she eventually agreed to receive a fax, and I got in touch with the concierge at my building. Unfortunately, it wasn't the regular guy, but one of the less-experienced replacements. I walked him through getting into my apartment and finding the passport, and he said he'd fax it. Then he reported getting a busy signal. I checked with the desk lady, but their fax was fine, and receiving. Another busy signal. Okay, probably the guy has no idea how to run the fax machine. Why me?!? Try adding a 1 before the fax number! After another twenty minutes I was about to throw a fit, when the desk lady walked over with a fax in her hand. A fax with my picture ID on it!

The sense of relief I felt was overwhelming, and after thanking her profusely and dismissing her, I teared up. This piece of paper was going to get me into the bank and past the TSA. After a very long day of trial after trial, after hours and hours of being focused and purely functional and trying to manage my situation, one door had finally opened for me. With a little more luck and persistence, I should be able to kick open a few more.

The next stop was Bank of America. Thanking all the gods that be for smart-phones and websites, I knew that there was a nearby branch that opened at 9am.

Arriving a little early, I searched the car, because I thought I'd dropped something underneath my seat. I found some change I'd spilled and a mini sticky note with a woman's handwriting which read, “Summer kisses winter tears”. That sounded poignant enough at the time, so I pocketed it, but I later discovered that it's the title of an Elvis song. Its lyrics even vaguely echo some of my feelings about Linda:

Summer kisses, winter tears
That was what she gave to me
Never thought that I'd travel all alone
The trail of memories

Happy hours, lonely years
But I guess I can't complain
For I still recall the summer sun
Through all the winter rain

When the branch opened, I let the queue of people at the door go ahead of me, then brought my case to the teller. When she greeted me by asking how I was doing, my response was, “I'm doing horrible. But hopefully you can make it all better.”

Upon explaining my situation, she called her manager over. I proffered my passport, my electrical bill, my mortgage bill, and a paycheck stub. She asked me to recite my DOB, my home address, and a few recent transactions. The final test was the easiest: I didn't have my ATM card, but the teller keyed the card number in and asked me to enter my PIN. Hah! You think that's a challenge? With that, I was able to leave the branch with $2,500 cash in hand. A second door had opened.

Now I could pay for all my rental stuff: the bike, the camping gear, even the car, plus my hotel for the next two days. After executing according to my plan, things were now under control. After the baseless feeling of having no ID, no cash, no credit cards, and no place to stay, I was back to the familiar—and now trivial—feeling of baselessness of travel. And the only remaining question was the TSA.

My next appointment was at 10am, when REI opened. I had a few minutes, so I grabbed some breakfast at a Safeway. As soon as REI opened, I returned the camping gear, which was pain-free because the rental charge had already gone through on the old card. Easy-peasy! I even took a few minutes to browse through the store before leaving for my next task.

After a short drive out to San Anselmo, I unpacked the bike and brought it to 3 Ring Cycles, where at 11am the owner unlocked the shop for me. I told her about the missing stem bolt, which was no big deal. I told her about the wallet, and before I could go further, she recalled that she'd photocopied my license and offered to give me that. I told her how helpful that was going to be, and thanked her profusely. Finally, she too had charged my old card already, so there was nothing left to settle up with for my rental. Sweet! Getting that copy of my license was another key piece of the puzzle.

Now to execute the next step in my recovery plan: report the lost wallet to the police. Fortunately, 3 Ring is right across the street from the San Anselmo PD, so I strolled over and asked to file a report. As I told them, normally I wouldn't consider bothering the cops with something so trivial, but I'd called United's help line the previous night to ask what the procedure was for lost IDs, and I'd been told that I should be okay if I had photocopies of a drivers license and a police report. I had to wait a solid half hour for an officer to show up, but he took a report and gave me the document I needed. That's the sound of one more door opening. In theory, with all the documents I had, I should be able to convince the TSA to let me fly home!

My original plan had been to ride a local 30-mile loop down to Tiburon before returning all my stuff, then have lunch with former coworker Aditi in Oakland. Well, I'd had to punt on the Paradise Loop, but I wasn't far behind schedule for Aditi. I'd already alerted her to the possibility that I'd have to cancel, but I called back and left a message that I was on my way. Rather than take the Golden Gate back to San Francisco, I took the long Richmond Bridge across the bay to Berkeley and down to Oakland, again with thanks to the Android navigation app.

After pulling up in front of her house, I tried calling her, texting her, emailing her… No response. Well, I had some time to kill, so I consulted my map and walked down to nearby Lakeside Park on Lake Merritt, where I found a big gazebo with power outlets I could use to charge my battery-depleted phone. I hung out there for an hour, watching kids play Friend or Foe, then walked up and down Grand Avenue looking for something to eat. Knowing I was still dangerously dehydrated, I picked up a bottle of Gatorade and a bag of chips and walked back to the car.

It was 90 minutes since I'd arrived, and I was disappointed that I wasn't going to meet up with Aditi. Furthermore, after already missing Linda, I was depressed about being blown off by another connection I'd planned to make. I climbed into the car and was just putting the keys in the ignition when she called. She came walking up a minute later, and we went up to her apartment to let my phone charge, then down to a nearby Whole Foods to eat and chat.

I'm so glad I got to meet up with her, because I wanted to talk to her about her meditation experience. I'd seen her mention going to Spirit Rock on Facebook, and since they're my clan, I wanted to know more about her experience: what she thought, what she'd gotten out of it, and whether it was something she was continuing.

Without getting too personal, she told me that her experience there had been deeply transformative, and had helped her turn her life around. I could tell from the way she talked and the words she used that she had absorbed the teachings.

It was inspiring for me to hear how she'd taken to the dhamma, and it was awesome sharing this new connection with someone I used to know reasonably well. Our conversation was without question one of the high points of my trip. And that renewed connection and the good fortune that she's experienced in the past few months really moved me.

It was at this point that I began to reflect on what I was getting out of the larger pilgrimage: my trip to California. Pilgrimages often feature unexpected trials and highlights, and I was certainly having both, from the lows of Linda's email and losing my wallet and being turned out of my hotel to discovering the joy and wisdom that my old friend was experiencing through her newfound meditation practice. I was indeed on a journey, with all the challenges and growth and joys that implies. And I still had 48 hours left in California, and lots of plans to fulfill.

Aditi and I moved to a little cafe where I had a cola and we continued our conversation. However, the clock kept ticking, and I wanted to get on the road before rush hour, because I had an appointment to keep in Redwood City, 45 minutes away. I grabbed my phone, we said our goodbyes, and I hopped the interstate southbound, crossing back across San Francisco Bay on the seven-mile San Mateo Bridge, which had almost no traffic.

At 5pm I pulled into the Holiday Inn Express and went to check in, only to be told that they had no record of my reservation. Oh, joy! Well, I pulled out my confirmation sheet, and the girl at the desk told me that there were no less than *five* Holiday Inn Express' on El Camino Real in Redwood City, and that mine was another half mile down the road.

That resolved, I went to the real hotel. They were anxious to see me, because they knew that my credit card had gone bad, but they were happy to take my cash-in-hand, along with a $100 security deposit. And with that, I finally had a hotel room! Going up there, I even had not one but *two* beds! What decadence, after sleeping in the car the previous night, and a campground the night before!

After hitting the bathroom, I knew what was next on the agenda: fluid replacement, and urgently! I went to a convenience store across the busy El Camino Real and spent $13 on Gatorade, water, cola, orange juice, and a bag of ice, and proceeded to scarf down as much as I could. I breathed a sigh of relief at finally having things back under control, then proceeded to dump all my stuff out of my bags and started rearranging. But then it was time to leave again!

At 7:30pm on Monday evenings, Gil Fronsdal leads a sitting and dhamma talk at IMC: the Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City. As I mentioned above, Gil is one of my dhamma heroes, and meeting him was one of the main goals of my trip. In addition to Monday's talk, I also planned to attend a Wednesday morning half-day retreat with him.

IMC was a quick two-miles up El Camino. I found parking and walked over to a low, church-looking building on a quiet semi-urban corner just two blocks off the main drag.

After milling about their reception area / walking meditation room and checking out their printed materials, I went into their meditation hall, grabbed a bench, and took up a spot on the floor, which unlike CIMC is carpeted. My 45-minute sitting was surprisingly tranquil, given the absolute chaos of the preceding 24 hours, but perhaps some of that was attributable to finally feeling like I was in control of my situation, and also fulfilling my longtime goal of sitting with Gil.

Next came his dhamma talk. My visit coincided with the first in a series of talks on the Eightfold Path that Gil was starting. While he planned to devote one evening to each of the path factors, this first session was an overview of this central Buddhist teaching. One of the things that I most admire in Gil is his ability to take something like the Eightfold Path, which he has talked about dozens if not hundreds of times, and come up with something fresh and insightful to say about it. He's quite a talented speaker. If you're interested, you can play or download that evening's dhamma talk.

During the announcements, one woman had indicated that she would answer new people's questions, so after the talk I cornered her. I'd emailed IMC a couple times, asking to reserve time for a teacher interview with Gil during the Wednesday morning retreat. I'd received replies, but no solid confirmation, so I wanted to make sure I was on Gil's interview schedule. She suggested I ask Gil, so once he was through with the usual post-talk questions, I introduced myself and expressed my interest in reserving a time for an interview.

What I hadn't expected was his response. He jumped up from his cushion and said, “Well, let's go do it right now!” I was taken by surprise, and as he led me out of the meditation hall, I immediately started trying to recall all the things I had thought about covering with him. However, it became apparent as he rifled through a drawer in the reception room that he'd meant to sign me up for a time, not actually conduct the interview, which was where my mind had gone! Whew! I penciled my name in the first slot and thanked Gil profusely for his help.

That done, people were disbanding, and I made my way back to the car. It was 9:20pm, but I still had one more activity planned for this ridiculously overbooked day. I called my old friend Rena, who reported that she was on her way to the hotel to meet me. So I drove back and only had to wait a few minutes before she arrived.

Rena is one of my loyal writers from back when I ran the DargonZine online fiction magazine, and it has probably been five years since I saw her. We hung around the hotel room and chatted for a good 90 minutes, just catching up. She asked about my Buddhist involvement, so I explained some of that, and then we talked about how things are going for her. As with Aditi, she's been through some rough times, but has made some awesome, positive changes in her life that I was delighted to hear about. It was nice of her to drive over to the hotel from her home in Half Moon Bay, and it was nice to end the day with another great visit with an old friend I haven't seen in years.

We could have talked much more, but Rena knew I was sleep-deprived and emotionally exhausted, so she kindly made her exit at 11pm. I climbed into bed, looking forward to my first night in a bed in three days, and my first full night's sleep in five days.

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

Originally, since there was nothing going on at IMC, I pictured Tuesday would be the day I spent visiting with Linda and perhaps Rena. But with Linda bagging out and Rena busy with work, I found I had the entire day free. So Tuesday was officially dubbed “recovery day”.

So yes, I slept a full eight hours, which was such a treat! Then I got up and took a good, long shower. I also shaved and brushed my teeth for the first time in days. It felt like such luxury! Then I went down to the hotel lobby, where they had a hot breakfast on offer. I stuffed myself with scrambled eggs, a cinnamon bun, and cereal. I was starting to feel almost human again!

I spent almost the entire day in the hotel room. I downloaded the GPS logs of my bike ride, and ran all my (very stinky) bike gear and dirty clothes through a load of laundry. Since it was now October, I closed out my Pan-Mass Challenge fundraising database and updated my annual fundraising charts with this year's total. I gassed up the rental car and downloaded my boarding pass for the next day's flight home to my phone. I called BofA to request a replacement ATM card, and was overjoyed when the replacement Visa card I'd ordered Monday night arrived in a Fedex envelope. I caught up on Facebook, posting that “Losing one's wallet while traveling feels remarkably like having one's nuts placed in a vise.”

I even sent out a reply to Linda's email which hopefully expressed my profound disappointment while acknowledging that she was free to choose not to meet up.

And I also took my remaining wad of cash and entered it all into Where's George. Now that I had a working Visa card, I figured that if I didn't use all the cash here, it would make a good stash to bring down to Foxwoods for a birthday casino trip.

So with all that stuff going on, before I knew it 5pm had rolled around and it was time for supper. I walked down to an Indian place called Suraj, a huge sprawling place which featured surly waiters and was overrun with unruly children.

Returning stuffed to the hotel, I re-packed all my belongings, since upon waking I would be headed to the half-day retreat, and then from there straight to the airport for what I hoped would be my flight home. I thought I was prepared for the TSA, but I couldn't be certain. Despite a good night's sleep, I was still bone tired, and you can't imagine how much I was looking forward to getting back to my home in Boston!

Wednesday, 3 October 2012

Due to all the craziness in my sleep pattern over the previous week, my body had no idea why I shouldn't be up at 5:30am on Wednesday. That was okay, because I'd gone to bed at a reasonable hour, and it gave me time to pack up and vacate my hotel room. But not without another hot breakfast, which this time included french toast!

I checked out of the hotel and showed up at IMC about a half hour before the retreat began at 9:30am. In fact, as I got there, I spied Gil taking the garbage out to the street! I also was cornered and interrogated by an elderly Filipino woman who was very vocal about being a Catholic, but who was interested in meditation. I tried to give her much support and comfort as she was able to accept, then went inside for the sitting.

Interviews began after the first 45-minute sitting period, and I followed Gil into a small but sunny interview room. Since his online dhamma talks had played such an important part in my philosophical development, my goal for our interview was merely to express my deep gratitude to him. At the same time, I was bearing similar messages from other people he didn't know, and I felt like I should represent the larger body of unseen people his talks have influenced over the internet. So I started out with that, although that didn't take very long to communicate. Gil seemed genuinely attentive and quietly appreciative of the input.

That segued naturally into my history of practice as well as my challenges. I articulated the two biggest questions in my practice, which include the role of concentration practice and the predominance of emphasis on the jhana states in the canon suttas, and my dilemma of what to practice with, when I'm usually tranquil enough that no major issues come up to demand my attention.

Now, having listened to so many of his dhamma talks online, I think of him as a ridiculously wise and gentle person, and an exemplary male role model, so I value his input. What he said was very important to me. His overall response was that he affirmed where I was heading and how I was approaching things, and that it was appropriate and good to have some of those kinds of open questions about practice.

The one big question that he posed to me was where I thought my practice was going. He didn't offer any more clarification than that, so I expressed my skepticism about nibbana as some achievable final end-state, leaving that as another of my open questions. From there I went to the more practical level of whether I was headed toward monastic practice or chaplaincy or teaching or hospice work, and there too I said I was leaving those open, to develop if and as they would. I added that caring for an elderly parent was the most immediate challenge on my horizon.

When asked what motivates me to practice, the answer I gave was threefold: to alleviate my own suffering when it happens, to craft healthier and more compassionate relationships with the people around me, and to reach my deathbed with a deep sense of ethical satisfaction with my actions and life choices.

One genuine moment of humor came when I explained to him the challenges I'd faced during the bike pilgrimage when I'd lost my wallet. His response was that I missed an opportunity; instead of sleeping in the car, I could have just stayed at Abhayagiri and joined the monastery as a monk!

So I came away from the interview very pleased. I felt satisfied that my expression of gratitude had been received, and that Gil and I had connected in our discussion of my practice. I really felt good about it.

After a brief period of walking meditation and the second 45-minute sit, Gil offered a few thoughts to the retreat group, and then we spent a few minutes cleaning the center; I cleaned up the cubbies where they store meditation benches and zafus, then helped clean the floor of the reception area. Then we sat down for an informal lunch where I chatted with a few folks who wanted to hear about practice in Boston. Then it was 1pm and I took my leave as Gil encouraged me to return again sometime.

Now it was back to logistics mode. After grabbing some snacks at a convenience store, I drove up to the airport, where I was able to return the rental car with only a minor delay to redirect charges to the new Visa card. Then the shuttle train to Terminal 3, where I got in line for security: hopefully my last hurdle to getting home!

At the head of the line, the TSA agent had me step to the side and called his manager over. I gave him everything I had: a photocopies of my passport and drivers license, electric and mortgage bills, and paycheck stub. He had me recite my address, and then reluctantly said I could go through. I was in!

The only question I had left was the multi-tool I'd brought for cycling. Somehow it had gotten through security in Boston, even though it had a knife blade as one of its many attachments. Well, it went through in SFO too, so I grabbed my stuff and strode out into the terminal at 2pm, thinking myself home free. What a relief!

With a full two hours until my flight, and having had nothing to eat at IMC, I grabbed a $14 hot ham sandwich and fries and a lemonade at one of the airport lunch counters. It was pricey, but it went down well, and it was the only substantial food I'd get all day.

Then it was boarding time. I was actually going home! Boarding took forever due to the predictable human moron factor, but as I was standing in the aisle at one point a seated passenger looked up at me and said, “I know you. I read your Pan-Mass Challenge blog!” It is surprising enough that anyone reads my stuff, but to remember my name (having seen it on my PMC-issued backpack) flabbergasted me. It was another welcome moment of pleasure and humor on a trip that had more than its share of grim seriousness.

But I wasn't free of misfortune yet. As I approached my row, I saw that a woman in the aisle seat had plunked her two children in the the other two seats, including mine. “I'm sorry, but can you please switch seats, so that we can be together?” Sadly, as a caucasian male, in that situation I'm not permitted any answer other than, “Yes”. Once gaain it seems that being a member of “the privileged gender” is anything but.

So her child got the window seat I'd reserved, and for the next six hours my 6-foot 4-inch frame was wedged into a middle seat between a fratboy and a Middle Eastern man, one of whom had yet to discover the proper use of deodorant, with a brat behind me screaming and kicking the back of my seat. Even getting in twenty minutes early did little to help make the flight a pleasant one. But I had one inarguable consolation: I was home!

Not that home was anything to write home about. It was cool and dark and drizzling in Boston at 12:30am, and the ramp to Storrow Drive—the quickest way home—was closed. In California it had been sunny and 90 degrees all week, and I sure missed the sun. But I missed my bed more, and I was given a very enthusiastic welcome home by the Gradle.

My long and extremely eventful pilgrimage was over!

Epilogue

So first let's review my explicit goals for this trip.

The Buddhist Bike Pilgrimage was a great experience. The sites we stopped at were very interesting, and the dhamma talks surprisingly useful. The people were wonderful, and I wish I'd spent more time just riding and chatting with folks. And you just couldn't beat the weather. Would I do it again? If I was in the area yes, but it's too expensive a trip for me to make a special trip out there from Boston. The hotels especially add up really fast. But I'm very glad I did it, because it really was a memorable and rewarding experience.

Meeting and sitting with Gil at IMC was an absolute treat. He remains a wonderful role model and someone I respect tremendously. My only regrets are that I only had a couple days with him, and CIMC never seems to invite him to visit. His wisdom, gentleness, and insight are deeply inspiring, and I'm very glad I made the time to finally meet him.

Being unable to meet Linda was a big disappointment, because I was really looking forward to seeing how she'd changed and matured from the woman who walked out on our marriage twenty years ago. I of course have to respect her decision, but I'm deeply saddened that after all this time she's still uncomfortable enough for it to be a barrier to any friendship. But I'm satisfied that I made a sincere effort to reach out, and that's the only thing within my control.

Besides my stated goals, a lot of things happened that led me to view this trip as a pilgrimage unto itself, beyond the bike pilgrimage. And like any pilgrimage, it didn't play out the way I expected it to.

The adversity I encountered was very destabilizing. Beyond Linda's rejection, coping after losing my wallet was a major challenge. And being turned away by my hotel and being forced to sleep in the car was the kind of real low that I hadn't experienced in decades. I was also discouraged when I showed up at Aditi's and she wasn't around. So the trip featured a number of trials that provoked a whole lot of anxiety, which provided several unasked-for opportunities for growth.

But pilgrimages also include unexpected joys, too. Rena's visit was delightful, doubly so because I wasn't sure it was going to happen. Then there were just a ton of surprises related to the dhamma. As I mentioned, the talks that were part of the pilgrimage were surprisingly both pertinent and interesting, and meeting Gil was deeply inspiring. But the biggest surprise was hearing Aditi's story and the unexpected way the dhamma had played a part in her life, which I found truly touching.

Pilgrimage isn't just about getting to the destination; it's about the journey. When you undertake a pilgrimage, you open yourself up to serendipity, demonstrating a willingness to learn and grow through the joys and sorrows and challenges and victories that the journey provides.

I hadn't realized or expected that when I left Boston, but I experienced it throughout my California trip. It wasn't what I expected; it was both far better and far worse. But in the end I grew wiser and more experienced as a result, and hopefully I can bring that growth back to Boston and my everyday life, along with the memories gained during an extremely eventful and unforgettable trip.

I find myself in the mood to record a brief rundown of the major events of 2011.

In terms of my Buddhist practice, a few nice things happened. I completed a year of dedicated compassion practice, I became a paying member of CIMC for the first time, I began volunteering to read announcements at Wednesday evening dhamma talks, I continued attending CIMC’s Long-Term Yogis practice group, did another sandwich retreat, and attended our kalyana mitta group’s first weekend retreat. My daily practice thrived, partially due to finding time to sit during my lunch hour at work, and partially thanks to the mild competition fostered by the Insight Timer Android app, which allows one to earn badges and see how often one’s Facebook friends are sitting. Overall, I am comfortable with my meditation practice and happy with the results.

As alluded to, I also went back to work after a 2-year hiatus. Like any job, the new gig has its ebb and flow of both rewards and annoyances, but the influx of cash is certainly welcome. And despite having to overcome frequent outbreaks of stupid amongst my coworkers, I am getting to do the frontend design and development work that I enjoy. Unfortunately, it’s the longest commute I’ve had in a long time, but during the summer that gives me the opportunity to get some weekday bike rides in.

On the cycling front, the miles I gained by commuting didn’t quite offset the fact that working for a living meant I couldn’t spend summer days riding, so this year my mileage dropped from 5,000 to 3,000. But the income gave me the opportunity to do a long-needed complete overhaul of my bike and buy a new mapping GPS cyclo-computer. And I still did all my major events, racking up seven centuries, only one less than I rode in 2010. Notable rides included a rainy Jay Peak in Vermont with my buddy Jay, and a rainy three-state century with Paul and Noah. And I even had a training question published in the online magazine RoadBikeRider.

This year’s Pan-Mass Challenge was very memorable, as well. I began the season by attending my first PMC Heavy Hitter banquet and also the dedication of the PMC Plaza that comprises the entrance to Dana-Farber’s brand-new Yawkey Center for Cancer Care. I shared the ride itself with Jay, who enjoyed his first PMC. And despite riding on a loaner wheel because I discovered cracks in mine at the last minute, I still did my fastest Saturday ride ever. After the ride, I was delighted to find that a photo of me leading a paceline occupied the PMC Home Page for more than three months, and then was used again in a thank-you advertisement that Dana-Farber placed in 105 local newspapers throughout Massachusetts. Being the PMC’s poster boy and attending the dedication of the PMC Plaza both made me immensely proud of the years of work I’ve dedicated to the PMC and the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.

Despite all that, I have to say that I was frustrated by this year’s cycling season. This was the first time that I had clearly lost ground against my riding buddies, who admittedly are 20 years younger than I am. I don’t know whether that fall-off was because my competitive spirit has lessened, because work prevented me from training more, because of the natural fall-off due to aging, or whether there might be something more serious going on. All I know is that some of my rides (especially the Climb to the Clouds and the Flattest Century) were really painful, unpleasant slogs this year.

In the same vein, this was the first year where I felt that my health had declined. I found myself fighting frequent intense headaches that often included nausea and vomiting, especially when I traveled (which turned the Flattest Century and Jay’s Labor Day ride around Mt. Wachusett into terrible experiences). I also noticed that I sometimes experience cardiac issues when riding flat-out, where I feel a sharp, intense pain in my chest and my heart rate drops by about 15 bpm for 30 to 60 seconds. These have, of course, been added to the list of things that I need to bring to my PCP, but they’re also the first indications that my body is starting to decline. Which brings me right back around to my spiritual practice!

In other noteworthy events, I observed my tenth anniversary of buying my condo, and remain extremely pleased with that. I got to see the Cars perform live, which was truly a once-in-a-lifetime event. I got around to making ice cream flavored with Pixy Stix candy with SweeTarts bits mixed in, which was fun but not quite the confectionery orgasm that I was hoping for. And I decided to punt on my planned trip to California for the second year in a row; the good news being that I am more committed than ever to making it happen in 2012.

Speaking of which, I’m not making too many plans for 2012, but there are already some themes emerging. I’m going to spend a week on the Riviera Maya (outside Cancun) with Inna. I’m finally doing my first residential meditation retreat at IMS (5 days). I’m once again going to try to make California happen in September. Of course I’ll be doing my 12th Pan-Mass Challenge and probably Outriders, but I also hope to do some new cycling events, such as the Mt. Washington Century, the Eastern Trail Maine Lighthouse Ride, and/or the Buzzards Bay Watershed Ride.

So if things work out, 2012 will be an interesting year, too. With just nine hours until it begins, here’s hoping!