Ornoth

If identity politics is your jam, you may find this post in poor taste. I’m sorry. I’m not here to criticize how you or anyone lives their life. But if you’re incapable of finding any humor in the situation, this probably isn’t suitable for you. And I admit that my stale humor’s probably ten years out of date. But having said that…

O.L. Reigns!

I find it interesting that folks have taken identity politics to the point where they are able to choose to alter something as objectively verifiable as their genetic race or sex and impose respect of that preference upon the population at large. Yes, I know I’m conflating sex and gender; it’s hard not to, given that most people present them as the same.

What’s interesting to me here isn’t the interplay of race/gender/sex and society, but the ability of an individual to override an attribute that is as seemingly inherent and immutable as one’s chromosomes: an attribute determined not by social convention but by the laws of nature. I’m not saying it’s wrong to do so; just that it’s an interesting development.

Which becomes the springboard for my own take on the matter. If an individual is allowed to alter something as seemingly fixed and measurable as their race or sex – and enforce that preference – then it should be considerably easier for an individual to change an attribute that’s an entirely man-made social construct. For example, our legal and corporate systems give full sanction when people change their names, or spouses, or families.

In that spirit, I’d like to announce a change in my own public identity. I am pleased to inform you that I now identify as nobility, rather than one of the common folk. You shall henceforth address us as “Lord Ornoth”.

This should be quite easy for you to adapt to. After all, we are merely taking a different place within an entirely man-made social convention: that of socioeconomic class.

And according to public discourse, it’s a minuscule step to go from a hetero middle class white male Boomer to traditional titled nobility. It’s hardly any change at all! Nowhere near the magnitude of changing something inborn such as one’s race or gender.

Your obedience shall please us. With kindest regards,

Lord Ornoth

P.S. Oh and one final thing you might want to be aware of: I also now identify as a little teapot.

Amongst the most annoying myths of our time is the commonly-held belief that women keep their living spaces cleaner, tidier, and better organized than men do.

Now I happen to be a man, and throughout my entire career my desk has been the cleanest one in my office. And my firsthand experience with the women I’ve lived with… Well, I’d like to relate a couple of my real-world experiences, for illustrative purposes. And for entertainment value.

I’ve always bought fresh orange juice, rather than frozen concentrate. However, a woman I once lived with would bring home those little cardboard “cans” of concentrate and pull one out of our freezer and leave it on a counter to thaw before mixing it with water to make OJ.

On one memorable occasion, she left one out to thaw on top of our microwave, which sat on the kitchen counter. She left it there long enough for it to thaw.

She left it there long enough for it to ferment.

She left it there so long that the pressure from the ongoing fermentation caused the sealed canister to violently explode in the middle of the night, scaring us out of a sound sleep and coating the floor, the counter, the microwave, the under-side of the kitchen cupboards, the wall, and yes even the ceiling with sticky, rancid, orange glop.

I don’t know about you, but that kind of thing just doesn’t happen in my experience living alone or with other men.

But lest you think that’s one isolated data point, let’s consider the fascinating habits of one of the other women I’ve lived with…

This example of the fairer sex operated on the assumption that one should only wash dishes as needed. You need a saucepan? Dig one out of the pile of grime-laden dirty ones that covers the kitchen table and spills across the floor, and give it a quick wash.

At the time, we lived in a ground-floor apartment where the front door went straight from the front yard into the kitchen. This was a certified boon for my housemate, because whenever she cooked something sticky, smoky, stinky, or even the least bit messy, she could throw the dish outside on the lawn before sitting down and eating her meal. The dirty dish would usually sit outside overnight, forgotten.

That worked great for four months out of each year. For the other eight months, the inevitable snows of a northern Maine winter would bury the dirty cookware overnight, benevolently hiding all evidence of her cooking ability.

Things got better and better for her as winter plodded on. She had to do less and less cooking, because there weren’t any dishes left in the house to use, and there weren’t any dirty ones to wash, either! A veritable feminine idyll.

Needless to say, we somehow survived those long Maine winters subsisting on instant Cup-a-Soup and no-name cheezy poofs. Then, in April the reluctantly receding snows would reveal a front yard littered with rusted pots and pans bearing the unrecognizable remains of Shake-n-Bake chicken and burnt mac and cheese. Two months later, after she worked up the fortitude to clean up the front yard, we would eat like kings for four months… until the snow flew again and our dishes started disappearing.

So before you buy into the hateful old sexist line that men are irredeemable slobs, I’d urge you to do a little empirical fact-checking. I think you’ll find there are a large number of women who cannot keep their living environment tidy (never mind sanitary), and an ample number of men who can and do… Even without the prodding of some mythical fastidious woman.

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 recently read this article which cites a study by the Women’s Philanthropy Institute at Indiana University that reported finding a significant gender bias in philanthropic giving.

Actually, the article’s tone was a little more strident than that, loudly proclaiming that “Women are the conduit for change on the planet,” and backing that claim up with further observations that “Women across nearly every income level gave significantly more to charity than men, nearly twice as much in some cases,” and “Women gave more often than men and […] they also give more in total dollars.”

Now although I care about sexism, I’m also sensitive to reverse sexism, and this article raised my hackles from the start. Even if there is a statistically significant difference in philanthropy by gender, what is the value of reporting it in this manner, other than to reinforce tired stereotypes of women as nurturers and men as competitive and selfish? Gee, that’s progressive!

Of course, my indignation wouldn’t have justified a blog post were the issues of gender and philanthropy not personal, exacerbated by my predilection for numerical analysis. So…

As you well know, I’ve spent the last ten years fundraising for the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and off the top of my head I hadn’t noticed any gender bias (one way or the other) in the donations I’ve received.

But that got my curiosity up, so I went and ran the numbers. While I can’t speak for national trends, here’s my real-world results.

	First, I looked at the gender breakdown of the people who have sponsored my Pan-Mass Challenge ride since 2001, throwing out four donations that explicitly came from couples. I came up with 105 women and 134 men. Contrary to the study’s findings, I have 30 percent more male sponsors than female. Huh. Interesting.
	Second, I looked not just at people, but at the total number of donations they made. Although I had fewer female sponsors, perhaps they actually donated more frequently. No, that wasn’t the case either. I have received a total of 226 donations from women, and 339 from men. Again bucking the study’s findings, the men who sponsor me have given 50 percent more donations than the women. Wow! I hadn’t noticed that.
	My third measurement was designed to account for any possible gender bias in the makeup of my donor list. After all, I am a guy, and I might have a proportionally larger number of guy friends, right? So I divided the number of donations by the number of people making them, which told me the average number of donations made per person. If that article was right, surely the average lady would donate more frequently than the average man. No. As a group, the women who have sponsored me have done so an average of 2.15 times, while the guys have averaged 2.53 donations per person. That did close the gap a bit, but the men have still made 20 percent more donations per person than the women.

Nothing I’ve described so far validates the article’s claims. In fact (and to my surprise), it’s actually the opposite; if we go by number of donations, the men have been 20 to 50 percent more forthcoming in support of my PMC ride than the ladies.

Surely that can’t be right, tho. Let’s look further…

So far I’ve only focused on how many donations people made. Remember that the article also claimed that women give significantly more (dollar-wise) to charity than men, sometimes twice as much. Okay, let’s start looking at my numbers in terms of dollars and (perhaps) sense.

	Chart number four shows how much money I have received from each group. Note that I have explicitly excluded all funds received from anyone’s employer matching gift programs; this is purely individual donations. Again, the boys have the edge, contributing nearly $32,000, while the women account for only $16,000. Yes, those numbers are correct. While the study claims that women often donate twice as much to charity as men, over the past decade they’ve only given half as much as the men gave to my Pan-Mass Challenge ride. In this case, the article’s assessment that “women are the conduit for change on the planet” must be reversed, because my male friends have given twice as much as women in the effort to stop cancer.
	Again, since there are more men in my sample than women, we have to correct for that. This chart shows what happens when we look at those numbers on a per capita basis. As you can see, each woman who has sponsored me has given, on average, $155. That’s not per donation; that’s each person’s sum total of all their donations since 2001. At the same time, each man has given, on average, $237. So extrapolating all that out, over ten years the average male sponsor has given me $80 more than the average female sponsor. It’s not twice as much as his female counterpart gave, but it’s still over 50 percent more.
	Finally, let’s forget the ten-year tally and boil it down to one final number. Just how big is the average donation? Girls versus boys! Sorry, girls. The trend still holds true. The average donation I receive from a woman is $72.25, while the average donation from a man… $93.65. On average, every donation I get from a man is 20 dollars more than what I would get from a woman. In the final tally, men have given me 30 percent larger donations than women.

Of course, those are just averages, and there are tons of people of both genders who give much more or much less. The point isn’t to make anyone feel self-conscious about how much they give. I’m not challenging anyone or any group of people to increase their giving. I’m just describing how things have gone down, because I was curious and maybe you are, too.

I’d actually also be interested to hear what others’ fundraising stats are like. More is always better when it comes to data!

To summarize all that: the analysis of my Pan-Mass Challenge fundraising shows that I have 30 percent more male sponsors. As a group they have made 50 percent more donations, and they average 20 percent more donations per person than women. Men have given twice as much total money as women, 50 percent more money per person, and their average donation size is 30 percent larger than those given by women. It’s a surprising result, made doubly so by how consistently the results reinforce one another.

All this is starkly contradicts the conclusions in the news article I first mentioned.

Even if it doesn’t jibe with my firsthand experience, it’s still possible that the study behind that article was done with scientific rigor and its claims are valid.

On the other hand, the news article was written by a woman reporter, quoting the woman director of a woman’s philanthropy institute that, together with a women’s advocacy organization (Fenton), conducted a gender-based study whose conclusion (unsurprisingly) made women look better than men and depicted women as “the conduit of change on the planet”. Doesn’t sound like a recipe for objectivity to me.

That degree of built-in gender bias in the underlying study’s genesis, sponsorship, execution, conclusions, and reporting really bring its validity and its conclusions into question.

But who knows? Maybe women do give more money to charity more often than men. But it won’t be proven by this study conducted by the Women’s Philanthropy Institute.

Ladies… I don’t mean to pick on you exclusively, but sometimes you are such hypocrites.

Let’s talk about the toilet seat, shall we? You expect male visitors to leave the toilet seat the way they found it: down, right? And woe to the hapless man who forgets even once!

Well, now let’s talk about the grim reality. The protocol in my house is that both the toilet seat and the toilet lid stay down. Yet how many times has a female guest left the seat down, but the lid up? Just about every one.

It’s common courtesy for a visitor to leave your house in the same state it was in before you arrived. So why is it so difficult for most women to honor the same rule you so vocally demand that men live by?

Let’s take another example: the Brita. In some houses, the Brita pitcher stays on the counter, full of room-temperature water; in others, it is found inside the fridge, where the water stays cold. I don’t go around putting your pitcher in your fridge, so why do some of my female friends self-righteously insist upon always leaving the damned thing out on the counter?

And the toilet paper… Given that the 51 percent of America that is female uses 87 percent of the nation’s toilet paper, one might expect them to predictably replace the roll in the same orientation they found it. Results indicate otherwise.

How about the shower head? Do you leave it pointed in the same direction it was when you arrived? And on the same spray vs. stream setting? And did you remember to set the tub/shower toggle back to the setting it was on before you arrived?

Really? You know what? Your sistren don’t.

I guess I’m beginning to see the value in having a guest bathroom. But irrespective of that, can we lose the double standard? You’re not gaining my respect by falsely accusing me of thoughtlessness, then turning around and engaging in the very behavior you condemn all of mankind for.

I used to work for a company that analyzed hospital patient stays, and one day I got bored and read through the government’s huge master list of all the things that could go wrong with you. I saved the best ones and posted them as the world’s funniest medical diagnoses.

Years later, I worked for a client that analyzed worker absences, and one day I got bored and read through the government’s huge master list of all the jobs that one could have. I saved the best ones and posted them as the world’s funniest job titles.

Now I work for a client who analyzes prescription drug transactions, and today I was looking through the government’s huge master list of 186,500 drug codes. Honestly, I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; I was just in there working with some data. But what did I find? A drug with the name:

4 WOMEN FEMME BERRIES

I think you can expect a full list of some pretty freaky drug names in the near future. But in the meantime, I’ll let you muse for a while on just what the heck kind of drug “4 Women Femme Berries” might be.

So I was having one of those initial get-to-know-you conversations with a new friend. She’d perused my blog a bit and had a couple interesting observations after reading my most recent post about feelings here.

In response to my lifelong question about whether I have emotions and to what degree, and my pursuit of those elusive feelings, she offered the following: Don’t confuse strength of emotion with depth of emotion.

That’s really an interesting thought: that one can have deep/meaningful emotions without being particularly demonstrative or effusive. Is it true? Can someone have such depth while still showing a placid demeanor to the world?

Certainly there are things I feel strongly about that I don’t visibly manifest for others’ benefit, and sometimes I’ve been criticized for expressing deep emotions in this journal that were hidden from others who were present at the time! So maybe it’s true: when talking about feelings, emotional strength and depth are independent variables.

The other thing dealt with gender roles and preconceptions.

We’re all very used to thinking about men as penile: all about probing and penetration and aggression. What people fail to remember is that men also have testes. And what do testicles do? They hang out. They’re there, but they generally don’t get in the way. They’re pretty simple and easygoing.

Can that be extended to our conception of masculinity? Certainly men have the ability to be laid back, easygoing, strong, and paternal, in a way that women generally do not manifest. It’s that quiet strength and calming presence that often gets very lost in the public conception of masculinity. My friend contrasted it with the nearly hysterical “dyke dramas” that spiraled out of control in an all-female household she’d lived in.

She also extended the metaphor to include the womb in childbirth as an alternative model for the feminine: embodying pushing, rejecting, and loss, rather than the usual welcoming and nurturing.

I don’t have so much to say about that, myself, but I thought it worth including as a point for thought. But I do definitely think we need to do a better job correcting the balance between the image of male as pushy, demanding, and violent versus that reassuring, protective, and steadying presence that is probably a more accurate depiction of masculinity.

“The test of a man is how well he is able to feel about what he thinks. The test of a woman is how well she is able to think about what she feels.”

A couple of you responded to my earlier posting here that solicited reactions to the above statement.

You probably knew I was trolling, but that’s okay. Here’s the rest of the story…

Yes, that statement was made by a prominent feminist. It’s probably the most well-known quote from Mary McDowell, an early suffragette, labor activist, abolitionist, and best buddy of Jane Addams. She was a social reformer at Hull House, the WCTU, the AFL, and the Women’s Trade Union League.