A few days ago, we were awarded a day off in Binghamton, NY. Considering that the past four years of my life were spent nearly an hour away in sunny Ithaca, and considering that I still maintain some seriously nostalgic feelings for the place (See my previous post), I naturally hastened back there for the day off. Mario was kind enough to pick me and a couple of my fellow riders up, and we all went down to Second Dam to do some gorge jumping. While I was there, however, I couldn't escape the strange feeling accompanying the dawning realization that I no longer had any real claim there. Of course, my memories, my friends, my professors, the time I spent there; those things will always be with me, but on a very physical level, I no longer belonged there. I did stop into my apartment, briefly, to see Mario and to take a quick shower, and already I missed the familiar trappings that made the place my home for a year. Knowing all of these objects were less than five miles away didn't do much to alleviate the feeling of displacement, however, as a coded lock and a strong metal door separated me from my possessions. It was an incredibly disconcerting realization when it dawned on me that I came into town carrying a bag and a towel, and that at the end of the day, I would be leaving with the exact same things on hand. I couldn't go into my room and lie on my bed; I couldn't sit on my couch and watch television; I couldn't go into my own fridge and pour myself a glass of water, even. I felt almost phantom-like, floating through a familiar existence without any real agency, without a chance to reach out and affect anything around me. When I had to watch Ithaca disappear behind me once more, it was as though I was again saying goodbye to an old friend, unsure as to when we would meet again.
But of course, we press onward on our journey across the country, on our mission to raise money and awareness for affordable housing. Out of Binghamton, we rode out of New York and into Pennsylvania. The weather and the rest of a day off were on our side as we made a 50 mile day seem like a walk in the park. The gentle rolling hills of PA seemed to simply carry on the terrain of New York, yet imbue them with a distinctly different character. Like two musicians rhapsodizing on a theme, grass turned to grass and hill turned to hill--and before long, we were in Wysox. The small size of the church and the building we were put up in might have initially seemed like an impossibly small space, but it became a bit of a bonding experience, knowing that you were likely to sleep only inches from the person next to you. And that's something, I think, that makes this trip so incredible--wherever you landed that night, you knew the person next to you would be just as comfortable there as anywhere else. Despite our constant close proximity, we seem to be coming together more and more as a unit, and each person seems to be falling into a kind of niche. The personalities on this trip are varied enough that things stay constantly interesting. I should wonder how much more the dynamics on this trip will change--and in which ways.
Out of Wysox, we rode on US-6 until we hit Wellsboro. The day of biking was easily one of the most miserable. Anthony and I rode out ahead, harder than we've ever ridden before to try and escape the traffic and the fumes, partially fueled by frustration and peanut butter sandwiches. Once we made it into Wellsboro, however, we were rewarded by a friendly pastor, a public pool, and a community that went over and above the call of duty in accepting us. Along with a number of discounts, the local bike shop donated a pump to our cause--which was desperately needed--and the movie theater just down the road from the church discounted move tickets to Toy Story 3 and The A-Team. As I said before, Anthony and I rode hard. We arrived a full 3 hours before sweep team, and so we stopped off at a diner for some second lunch. It's strange--the day I felt least like biking, I managed to plow through nearly 60 miles before noon. But I suppose the day could have gone either way, if I woke up frustrated: I could have ridden slowly and been miserable all day, but perhaps not have tried too terribly hard; or I could've ridden as fast as possible and gotten it all out of the way. In retrospect, I'm glad I did it the quicker way. Wellsboro turned out to be quite the pleasant little town.
Last night, we were in Coudersport, PA, staying in the "Youth Barn" of the Couersport Alliance Church. Again, we were put into a somewhat cramped space--but once again, it turned out to be a great opportunity to spend some quality time with the entire group. So often it seems as though we are spread out, either thinly trailing down the side of the road in small groups, or pressed to the walls of a full-sized gymnasium, well out of shouting distance from one another. So the nights where you almost trip on seven people en route to the bathroom are kind of nice, in their own way, and they certainly help to combat any feelings of isolation or loneliness that might creep in from being away from one's own family, house, or familiar surroundings. Though it does sometimes get hard, even with all these wonderful people. Travelling from place to place has is allure--seeing parts of the country that are brand new, for instance, or the thrill of shuttling down a steep hill in the Allegheny National Forest--but it does wear on you to never really have a place to call home. So our van is our home; our trailer is our home. These things travel with us as we go, and provide us a sense of stability. Our bikes are our bodies, and our fellow riders are our brothers and sisters. We raise awareness for housing by going without, by relying on the kindness and generosity of others, by hoping and trusting that at each new destination, we will have a host with a smile on their face and an open door. This is never something that can be taken for granted. Even now, as I type this from a computer at a YMCA in Warren, I am very aware that tomorrow morning we will be once again placing our belongings into the trailer, vesting ourselves once more in spandex and sunglasses, and heading westward towards yet another temporary destination. Before I have any time to settle in here, I will be moving on again. I am only grateful that, for me, this state of being is self-imposed and not necessary. It returns me to the very reason I am biking: to give those who have no place to return to a home of their very own.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Biking Clearly
The past few days have been home to both some of the more challenging and more rewarding parts of the trip so far. We have ridden over 150 miles in the past two days, and we have tacked well over 4,500 vertical feet in those days, as well. Starting out of Poughkeepsie, we rode over the Hudson river on a newly opened suspension bridge, before cruising through New Paltz straight towards the base of a mountain. This was our first real mountain challenge--a climb of over 1,000 feet spread out over six or so miles. The grueling pace slowed down many riders, but finally reaching the top rewarded us with an unparalleled view. From the far side of the mountain you could see for miles over rolling hills, into valleys, and across the crests of other mountains. Biking over a mountain very physically reinforces the kind of challenge/reward system that works in other aspects of life, and embodies the values our parents insist we take to heart. Work hard, they say, because the payoff will be worth all the sacrifice. Get a well-paying job so that you can better enjoy the time you're not at work; study hard in school so that you can get by more easily; train diligently in your sport so that your successes come more frequently.
Naturally, it is not simply that a challenge should be endured or survived. Indeed, if that were the case, then reward might actually come from a lack of effort, an avoidance of that which is difficult. Instead, the reward is a result of the very things it took to endure the challenge. The grit, the determination, the pain, the suffering... all of these things create the reward, they are the reward for completing the challenge. Of course, it is natural to struggle under duress; it is natural to lose one's clarity when faced with an obstacle. If this happens, then we have to wonder, at what point does this struggle become a reward? When is it that I stop feeling defeated, and begin to feel as though I am going to leave this situation a better person? Admittedly, when I find myself in these situations (say, when climbing a mountain), I begin to think about the same things. I begin to doubt my strength, my training, my ambition. To think about these things is natural, but to give into them is defeat. So when I am struggling, I struggle to think clearly; I try to recognize my ambition, my training, my strength. I try to let the bike carry me forward instead of pounding it, one pedal at a time, into the earth. There are a number of things that can cloud your vision when biking uphill--fear, doubt and anger are just a few-- and none of these things will help you to get to the summit. So it is necessary to press them out of your mind. Recognize them, but press them out of your mind. It is a biking meditation, carrying you forward to the clarity and nirvana of an effortless descent.
Naturally, it is not simply that a challenge should be endured or survived. Indeed, if that were the case, then reward might actually come from a lack of effort, an avoidance of that which is difficult. Instead, the reward is a result of the very things it took to endure the challenge. The grit, the determination, the pain, the suffering... all of these things create the reward, they are the reward for completing the challenge. Of course, it is natural to struggle under duress; it is natural to lose one's clarity when faced with an obstacle. If this happens, then we have to wonder, at what point does this struggle become a reward? When is it that I stop feeling defeated, and begin to feel as though I am going to leave this situation a better person? Admittedly, when I find myself in these situations (say, when climbing a mountain), I begin to think about the same things. I begin to doubt my strength, my training, my ambition. To think about these things is natural, but to give into them is defeat. So when I am struggling, I struggle to think clearly; I try to recognize my ambition, my training, my strength. I try to let the bike carry me forward instead of pounding it, one pedal at a time, into the earth. There are a number of things that can cloud your vision when biking uphill--fear, doubt and anger are just a few-- and none of these things will help you to get to the summit. So it is necessary to press them out of your mind. Recognize them, but press them out of your mind. It is a biking meditation, carrying you forward to the clarity and nirvana of an effortless descent.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Bike and Build Days 1-5
I'm sure everyone who's following this blog has been waiting patiently for some kind of an update. As I anticipated, access to the internet has definitely been sparse, and the idea of updating my blog via my iPhone is tedious, at best (and soul-crushing at worst). But at the moment, I have found myself a computer and a bit of free time to type. I don't know when I'll be able to update again, so I will try to catch you up on everything I've done so far on these first five days of Bike and Build.
On the first day, Dad and I drove into Providence from Ithaca, arriving before the sign-in time. We went out to get a bite to eat after dropping my bike and my bag, before saying our goodbyes. The primary objective of the first day was to get to know everyone and get to know a little bit about the trip. We all learned about our chore groups, what it means to ride sweep, and how a typical day of riding might look. The rides themselves are more or less self-led; we each have a cue sheet that the leaders print off for us in the morning, but after we leave the overnight location, we're basically on our own until lunch. Fortunately, whoever is in front is tasked with the duty of chalking all the major turns so that the riders behind them can know better where they need to go. The sweep riders bring up the rear, ensuring everyone gets to the host location by the end of the day. By the end of THIS day, however, we all went to bed excited, with thoughts swimming around in our brains about the day we finally bike out of Providence.
On the second day, we stared to fall into a routine. After an early wake-up and a quick breakfast, we went to a nearby parking lot to practice some stopping and turning drills. These were interesting because they were all about pushing yourself and your bike to a limit, and then trying to avoid a simulated obstacle such as a car, or a dog, or something else. So we had to figure out how to stop going full speed, and how to turn at a 90 degree angle. Shortly after this we had lunch, and then went on a 20 mile shakedown ride to make certain all of our bikes were in working order. Besides that, this day was mostly full of presentations on safety, Habitat, and the future of Bike and Build.
Next we had a build day. We all biked to a local Habitat home and assisted the workers there in painting the inside of the house and the doors. My particular group was stuck working on doors in a cool basement--which was really fun for a while, but then eventually became tedious due to the poor ventilation and the accumulation of fumes. Before the day was over, however, we all managed to get free ice cream from a passing ice cream truck, which really boosted everyone's morale. That evening we had some free time in order to run errands, and a couple of the guys on the trip and I made a special run to CVS so we could buy tacky brithday surprises for one of our riders who was turning 22 on the next day. That night, after he went to sleep, we wrapped his bike up in saran wrap and stuck candy into the cocoon. We also tied a disney princess balloon to his saddle so he would feel especially loved.
The next day was our first real ride day. We were scheduled to ride about 40 miles out of Providence to a little town in Connecticut called Pomfret. By this time I had already decided that my goal for this trip would be to find out which state (or which creamery) along the route has the very best ice cream. In order to be considered, however, I decided that they have to make their own ice cream and that the ice cream must be donated to the cause. I was told that Newport Creamery on Smith street in Providence was the best ice cream in the city, so I stopped off there and tried to work a little "donation magic." Luckily, the manager there, Ed, was a nice guy and it was fairly easy to convince him that he should be the first one to set the precedent for my free ice-cream binge. I got a small cone with one scoop of vanilla. In order to remove variables from the equation, I have decided vanilla on a cake cone is what I will ask for everywhere. After riding out of Providence (on some really crap roads...) we came to far more open road, and were able to pick up the pace a bit. Riding out of the city was a wonderful feeling, and passing green fields full of flowers on either side of me gave me plenty to look at.
The overnight location in Pomfret was great (I managed to find a couch to sleep on); it was a modest church house with a large basement and a neat upstairs, and the people of Pomfret came out to support us and feed us through the magic of potluck. We were all very appreciative, especially when one member of the congregation, Chaz, handed out some free cycling caps to a few among us who had especially unique fundraising ideas.
Today we rode 60 miles from Pomfret to Granby. The group I was in took the lead early, and we biked along for a while without too much interruption. As we were stopping to chalk, directly before one of our turns, however, Anthony (one of my fellow riders from the UK) looked up and asked "do you think that's an ice cream cone over there?" I, of course, got very excited and recognized this as another chance to use my donation magic to get some free ice cream (and also evaluate a creamery from CT) so we stopped off for a bit to get some. The owner, Jim, at first seemed a little reticent to give us anything for free, but after chatting him up for a little while, he handed us ice cream and said we needn't bother paying. Riding high off of another successful round of "donation magic," my group blazed through to the midpoint of the ride, looking for the van and lunch. At about mile 33, however, we hadn't seen the van, and began to wonder. At this point it was just three of us, Anthony, Spencer and I, and none of us had seen any van or trailer, so we pressed on. At about mile 38, however, we knew we had to have missed it, so we pulled off and called Paige, the leader in the van. Unsurprisingly, she told us that she had stopped around mile 33. We all collectively express our frustration, and then decided we should just press on and find something nearby to eat instead of retracing our steps. So we rode on for a bit, before realizing that the next road on our cue sheet wasn't coming up anytime soon. So again, we stopped, but this time we consulted the locals to find our way on track. A local woman and the postman helped us with their road atlas, and got us back on track. As it turned out, one or a few of the roads on the sheet were inaccessible, and so the leaders ended up rerouting the entire group to avoid the road we never even found.
Undeterred, my group (which had just gained a new member, Chris, who was just as lost as us) hit up a local shop for pizza, talking up the bartender (Karie) and a few locals (Tom and "Random Drunk Guy") to try and drum up some donations. Tom gave us a $20 bill on the spot, and Karie managed to get us $5 off on the pizza. So four guys ate a satisfying meal for about thirteen dollars at Elaine's Pizza in small town CT. IT was really interesting to meet all of these people who lived and worked in a town that, for all intents and purposes, isn't even on the map. And they also had spectacular pizza.
There's certainly more to tell about this day--our second reroute, our absolutely FANTASTIC dinner, our surprise yogi at the church--but it's getting late and we're up early biking 50 miles tomorrow to Kent. I hope that you're all following the route on www.bikeandbuild.org. You can find some of the pictures I've taken on my iPhone on my Facebook. I'm not sure how easily I can put pictures on here with such intermittent access to computers, so please go there to check out my moble uploads.
On the first day, Dad and I drove into Providence from Ithaca, arriving before the sign-in time. We went out to get a bite to eat after dropping my bike and my bag, before saying our goodbyes. The primary objective of the first day was to get to know everyone and get to know a little bit about the trip. We all learned about our chore groups, what it means to ride sweep, and how a typical day of riding might look. The rides themselves are more or less self-led; we each have a cue sheet that the leaders print off for us in the morning, but after we leave the overnight location, we're basically on our own until lunch. Fortunately, whoever is in front is tasked with the duty of chalking all the major turns so that the riders behind them can know better where they need to go. The sweep riders bring up the rear, ensuring everyone gets to the host location by the end of the day. By the end of THIS day, however, we all went to bed excited, with thoughts swimming around in our brains about the day we finally bike out of Providence.
On the second day, we stared to fall into a routine. After an early wake-up and a quick breakfast, we went to a nearby parking lot to practice some stopping and turning drills. These were interesting because they were all about pushing yourself and your bike to a limit, and then trying to avoid a simulated obstacle such as a car, or a dog, or something else. So we had to figure out how to stop going full speed, and how to turn at a 90 degree angle. Shortly after this we had lunch, and then went on a 20 mile shakedown ride to make certain all of our bikes were in working order. Besides that, this day was mostly full of presentations on safety, Habitat, and the future of Bike and Build.
Next we had a build day. We all biked to a local Habitat home and assisted the workers there in painting the inside of the house and the doors. My particular group was stuck working on doors in a cool basement--which was really fun for a while, but then eventually became tedious due to the poor ventilation and the accumulation of fumes. Before the day was over, however, we all managed to get free ice cream from a passing ice cream truck, which really boosted everyone's morale. That evening we had some free time in order to run errands, and a couple of the guys on the trip and I made a special run to CVS so we could buy tacky brithday surprises for one of our riders who was turning 22 on the next day. That night, after he went to sleep, we wrapped his bike up in saran wrap and stuck candy into the cocoon. We also tied a disney princess balloon to his saddle so he would feel especially loved.
The next day was our first real ride day. We were scheduled to ride about 40 miles out of Providence to a little town in Connecticut called Pomfret. By this time I had already decided that my goal for this trip would be to find out which state (or which creamery) along the route has the very best ice cream. In order to be considered, however, I decided that they have to make their own ice cream and that the ice cream must be donated to the cause. I was told that Newport Creamery on Smith street in Providence was the best ice cream in the city, so I stopped off there and tried to work a little "donation magic." Luckily, the manager there, Ed, was a nice guy and it was fairly easy to convince him that he should be the first one to set the precedent for my free ice-cream binge. I got a small cone with one scoop of vanilla. In order to remove variables from the equation, I have decided vanilla on a cake cone is what I will ask for everywhere. After riding out of Providence (on some really crap roads...) we came to far more open road, and were able to pick up the pace a bit. Riding out of the city was a wonderful feeling, and passing green fields full of flowers on either side of me gave me plenty to look at.
The overnight location in Pomfret was great (I managed to find a couch to sleep on); it was a modest church house with a large basement and a neat upstairs, and the people of Pomfret came out to support us and feed us through the magic of potluck. We were all very appreciative, especially when one member of the congregation, Chaz, handed out some free cycling caps to a few among us who had especially unique fundraising ideas.
Today we rode 60 miles from Pomfret to Granby. The group I was in took the lead early, and we biked along for a while without too much interruption. As we were stopping to chalk, directly before one of our turns, however, Anthony (one of my fellow riders from the UK) looked up and asked "do you think that's an ice cream cone over there?" I, of course, got very excited and recognized this as another chance to use my donation magic to get some free ice cream (and also evaluate a creamery from CT) so we stopped off for a bit to get some. The owner, Jim, at first seemed a little reticent to give us anything for free, but after chatting him up for a little while, he handed us ice cream and said we needn't bother paying. Riding high off of another successful round of "donation magic," my group blazed through to the midpoint of the ride, looking for the van and lunch. At about mile 33, however, we hadn't seen the van, and began to wonder. At this point it was just three of us, Anthony, Spencer and I, and none of us had seen any van or trailer, so we pressed on. At about mile 38, however, we knew we had to have missed it, so we pulled off and called Paige, the leader in the van. Unsurprisingly, she told us that she had stopped around mile 33. We all collectively express our frustration, and then decided we should just press on and find something nearby to eat instead of retracing our steps. So we rode on for a bit, before realizing that the next road on our cue sheet wasn't coming up anytime soon. So again, we stopped, but this time we consulted the locals to find our way on track. A local woman and the postman helped us with their road atlas, and got us back on track. As it turned out, one or a few of the roads on the sheet were inaccessible, and so the leaders ended up rerouting the entire group to avoid the road we never even found.
Undeterred, my group (which had just gained a new member, Chris, who was just as lost as us) hit up a local shop for pizza, talking up the bartender (Karie) and a few locals (Tom and "Random Drunk Guy") to try and drum up some donations. Tom gave us a $20 bill on the spot, and Karie managed to get us $5 off on the pizza. So four guys ate a satisfying meal for about thirteen dollars at Elaine's Pizza in small town CT. IT was really interesting to meet all of these people who lived and worked in a town that, for all intents and purposes, isn't even on the map. And they also had spectacular pizza.
There's certainly more to tell about this day--our second reroute, our absolutely FANTASTIC dinner, our surprise yogi at the church--but it's getting late and we're up early biking 50 miles tomorrow to Kent. I hope that you're all following the route on www.bikeandbuild.org. You can find some of the pictures I've taken on my iPhone on my Facebook. I'm not sure how easily I can put pictures on here with such intermittent access to computers, so please go there to check out my moble uploads.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
$4000
A few days ago, I finally reached my fundraising goal of $4,000!
Months ago, when I signed up for this trip, I acted on impulse and crossed my fingers that I'd be able to make the whole thing happen: $4000 minimum fundraising goal, eight hours of on-site building for sweat equity, researching and spreading the word about affordable housing.
Of course, I wouldn't have been able to meet this goal without the generosity and kindness of everyone who donated to my cause. I want not only to thank those who gave large sums of money (though of course, they all deserve endless gratitude) but especially those who gave some smaller amount, because they put in whatever they could manage on a limited budget. These smaller donations added up to over $600, which is an extremely good indication of how many little bits can add up to a substantial whole.
I'd like to take a moment now to thank everyone who donated to my cause:
The Ithaca College faculty and staff who donated gave more than just monetary support; these generous supporters have been there for me for two, three, or even four years of college, helping me to succeed and always being there for me when I needed them.
Beth O'Neill
Jessica Ecock
Kevin Murphy
Claire Gleitman
James Swafford
Ericka L Smith-Schubart
Lauryl Tucker
Kathy Eldrid
And again I have to thank all of my friends who helped me out in this endeavor. I know that during college everyone feels the pressure of money, with student loans bearing down on us and with a job market that can only be describes as abysmal–so I especially thank you all for finding a little something, be it $10 or $50, to give to the Bike and Build cause.
Isaac Hattem
Dave Seidorf
Christopher Schell
J M Daines Ewing
Kayla Ann Baughman
Christopher Nickelson
Heather Fields
Matt Barnhart
Eryn Bauer
Christopher Lisee
Mitchell Sholty
Adrienne Gosztonyi
Kyle Luckett
Lauren Way
Brigham Mosley
James Grandner
Mario Burgos
Joseph Fraioli
Daniel Haack
Brian Erickson
Neil Shapiro
Cole Lechleiter
Daniel Hoerner
And of course, the largest donations came from my family and those who I've come to consider family, and they deserve perhaps the greatest thanks of all. These are the people who have already sunk countless hours and dollars into my upbringing, and whose generous donations made up well over half of my total fundraising goal.
Nana and Papap
Aunt Deborah and Uncle Danny
Charles Berry
William Ewing and Sarah Daines
and of course,
Mom, Dad, Linda and Nicole, without whom I'd never even have made it this far.
Months ago, when I signed up for this trip, I acted on impulse and crossed my fingers that I'd be able to make the whole thing happen: $4000 minimum fundraising goal, eight hours of on-site building for sweat equity, researching and spreading the word about affordable housing.
Of course, I wouldn't have been able to meet this goal without the generosity and kindness of everyone who donated to my cause. I want not only to thank those who gave large sums of money (though of course, they all deserve endless gratitude) but especially those who gave some smaller amount, because they put in whatever they could manage on a limited budget. These smaller donations added up to over $600, which is an extremely good indication of how many little bits can add up to a substantial whole.
I'd like to take a moment now to thank everyone who donated to my cause:
The Ithaca College faculty and staff who donated gave more than just monetary support; these generous supporters have been there for me for two, three, or even four years of college, helping me to succeed and always being there for me when I needed them.
Beth O'Neill
Jessica Ecock
Kevin Murphy
Claire Gleitman
James Swafford
Ericka L Smith-Schubart
Lauryl Tucker
Kathy Eldrid
And again I have to thank all of my friends who helped me out in this endeavor. I know that during college everyone feels the pressure of money, with student loans bearing down on us and with a job market that can only be describes as abysmal–so I especially thank you all for finding a little something, be it $10 or $50, to give to the Bike and Build cause.
Isaac Hattem
Dave Seidorf
Christopher Schell
J M Daines Ewing
Kayla Ann Baughman
Christopher Nickelson
Heather Fields
Matt Barnhart
Eryn Bauer
Christopher Lisee
Mitchell Sholty
Adrienne Gosztonyi
Kyle Luckett
Lauren Way
Brigham Mosley
James Grandner
Mario Burgos
Joseph Fraioli
Daniel Haack
Brian Erickson
Neil Shapiro
Cole Lechleiter
Daniel Hoerner
And of course, the largest donations came from my family and those who I've come to consider family, and they deserve perhaps the greatest thanks of all. These are the people who have already sunk countless hours and dollars into my upbringing, and whose generous donations made up well over half of my total fundraising goal.
Nana and Papap
Aunt Deborah and Uncle Danny
Charles Berry
William Ewing and Sarah Daines
and of course,
Mom, Dad, Linda and Nicole, without whom I'd never even have made it this far.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Ithacan Odyssey
Just as I have had so much time lately to contemplate my college experience as it is represented by my possessions, I have had tine to give a great deal of consideration to the actual place, as well. When I was a senior in High School, applying to colleges both near home and far away, Ithaca represented for me the ultimate escape. It was a chance to get away from all of the difficulties of high school; it was a way to escape a life that I was growing increasingly dissatisfied with, and a state I'd always felt somehow marginalized in. Even though Texas was objectively good to me–I'd never been in a fight, or been mean-spiritedly mocked for my sexuality–I couldn't ever escape the sensation that if I stayed there for college, I might go insane. Everything seems bigger and more dramatic at the time, of course. I know now that even if I'd stayed back home, I would almost certainly have been fine, and graduated on time without problem.
But I never would have fallen in love with Ithaca. Though perhaps not so well-known or mythological as Odysseus' beloved Ithaka, this town serves as a welcome port to many incredible people, and even harbors quite a bit of surprising history thanks to a few unlikely claims to fame. In the past, Ithaca has been famous both for its Ithaca Gun Company, which used to produce nationally-coveted firearms in the late 1800s, and its presence in early American silent film. But didn't fall in love with Ithaca because it is the home to Namgyal Monastery (the North American seat of the Dalai Lama) or because residents here set the world record for the largest human peace sign, or even because it bi-annually produces the nation's third-largest used-book sale; no, I fell in love with Ithaca because, like Odysseus, the moment I left it, I knew I would battle tooth and nail to get back.
Fortunately, I didn't have to deal with selfish Gods, six-headed beasts, or one-eyed monstrosities in order to return to Ithaca after my first summer away. After having returned, however, I have yet to leave this place for more than a few weeks at a time. This trip to Seattle, though I know it will be an incredible experience, nevertheless will be tinged by a subtle longing for a place I have come to know so well. When I roll out of Ithaca towards Providence, it will mark the beginning of a departure of indeterminate length; I will watch Ithaca disappear behind me, and I will not know for certain when–and if–I will ever return.
So I have to come to terms with this departure. I have to accept that I may never actually live in Ithaca again. If I have to go, if I have to watch the town vanish in my rear view mirror, I can at least always look back on some of my favorite images I've taken while here. I don't claim to be any great photographer, but in my time here I have taken a good number of pictures, in an effort to capture just what grants Ithaca such a special place in my heart.
Ithaca in the fall has always been a sight to behold. At a certain point past September, the trees explode with color, into hues you didn't even know nature could produce, before a rough wind comes by to shake the foliage free into the air like autumnal confetti.
Before winter gets into full swing, there is a kind of barren pause, where the skeletal trees rattle their branches in protest, and the damp air chills you to the bone. But the gorges are still rushing water, and a carpeting of fallen leaves changes the timbre of a walk through the woods. On a clear day in late fall, the frozen sky can be more invigorating than a cup of strong coffee.
Fall also brings with it the Apple Harvest Festival, one of Ithaca's most popular events. Unlike the Ithaca Festival, which takes place in the summer and therefore excludes a great number of students, the Apple Harvest Festival entertains students from both universities. It's almost impossible to resist buying a Shoofly Pie from the quintessential Amish family tent, or to keep from utilizing a near-obsolete mathematical measurement, the peck, when buying apples for a homemade apple crisp.
Though Ithacan winters can be harsh and unforgiving, they can also be breathtakingly beautiful. Coming from the south, I'd had very little experience dealing with snow–but after my first year of snowfall in Ithaca, I knew for certain that I was going to like having a proper winter. The serenity and calm that fresh snow offers is unlike anything else in the world, and life seems to slow down a bit in the winter, as if it were simply relaxing under the calming blankets of white.
Spring is slow to come to Ithaca–the snow melts reluctantly, leaving the largest piles of shoveled, boot-blackened snow lingering until late April. All of this moisture, however, seeps into the roots of Ithaca's multitudinous array of plant species, and rewards the area with fast-blooming flowers and verdure. At this point, life returns to Ithaca, and a once-dormant landscape springs into bustling action.
The spring is also the Ithaca Crew racing season, an eight-week sprint from late winter to early summer full of sweat, exertion, victory and defeat. The Cayuga inlet is the recipient of much of this effort, as full of blood, sweat, and tears as it is water. These innocuous buoys mark the finish line; they maintain the goal towards which we rowed every Saturday for weeks; they symbolized the accomplishment we were always looking to achieve. For most of the time, they float inert in the water, unaware of the power they wield–but for a few hours each weekend, they command the attention of every onlooker for miles.
With summer comes the weather that every Ithacan dreams of. The Farmer's Market opens up for locals to vend their varied wares, and tow-headed children run up and down the banks of Lake Cayuga, wondering how it is that in this age where technology so often destroys innocence, they can still dance unabashedly in the lapping surf.
So I am called away from my Home to battle the injustices of the world. I have to take to my trusty steed and ride across the country in hopes of making this world a better place for those without privilege. I have to trust my future to the fates, and have faith that they will see me through to the end of my journey. I can only hope, when it comes time for me to return to Ithaca, I, too, will have the blessing of Aeolus and the determination of that eponymous Odyssian hero.
But I never would have fallen in love with Ithaca. Though perhaps not so well-known or mythological as Odysseus' beloved Ithaka, this town serves as a welcome port to many incredible people, and even harbors quite a bit of surprising history thanks to a few unlikely claims to fame. In the past, Ithaca has been famous both for its Ithaca Gun Company, which used to produce nationally-coveted firearms in the late 1800s, and its presence in early American silent film. But didn't fall in love with Ithaca because it is the home to Namgyal Monastery (the North American seat of the Dalai Lama) or because residents here set the world record for the largest human peace sign, or even because it bi-annually produces the nation's third-largest used-book sale; no, I fell in love with Ithaca because, like Odysseus, the moment I left it, I knew I would battle tooth and nail to get back.
Fortunately, I didn't have to deal with selfish Gods, six-headed beasts, or one-eyed monstrosities in order to return to Ithaca after my first summer away. After having returned, however, I have yet to leave this place for more than a few weeks at a time. This trip to Seattle, though I know it will be an incredible experience, nevertheless will be tinged by a subtle longing for a place I have come to know so well. When I roll out of Ithaca towards Providence, it will mark the beginning of a departure of indeterminate length; I will watch Ithaca disappear behind me, and I will not know for certain when–and if–I will ever return.
So I have to come to terms with this departure. I have to accept that I may never actually live in Ithaca again. If I have to go, if I have to watch the town vanish in my rear view mirror, I can at least always look back on some of my favorite images I've taken while here. I don't claim to be any great photographer, but in my time here I have taken a good number of pictures, in an effort to capture just what grants Ithaca such a special place in my heart.
Ithaca in the fall has always been a sight to behold. At a certain point past September, the trees explode with color, into hues you didn't even know nature could produce, before a rough wind comes by to shake the foliage free into the air like autumnal confetti.
Before winter gets into full swing, there is a kind of barren pause, where the skeletal trees rattle their branches in protest, and the damp air chills you to the bone. But the gorges are still rushing water, and a carpeting of fallen leaves changes the timbre of a walk through the woods. On a clear day in late fall, the frozen sky can be more invigorating than a cup of strong coffee.
Fall also brings with it the Apple Harvest Festival, one of Ithaca's most popular events. Unlike the Ithaca Festival, which takes place in the summer and therefore excludes a great number of students, the Apple Harvest Festival entertains students from both universities. It's almost impossible to resist buying a Shoofly Pie from the quintessential Amish family tent, or to keep from utilizing a near-obsolete mathematical measurement, the peck, when buying apples for a homemade apple crisp.
Though Ithacan winters can be harsh and unforgiving, they can also be breathtakingly beautiful. Coming from the south, I'd had very little experience dealing with snow–but after my first year of snowfall in Ithaca, I knew for certain that I was going to like having a proper winter. The serenity and calm that fresh snow offers is unlike anything else in the world, and life seems to slow down a bit in the winter, as if it were simply relaxing under the calming blankets of white.
Spring is slow to come to Ithaca–the snow melts reluctantly, leaving the largest piles of shoveled, boot-blackened snow lingering until late April. All of this moisture, however, seeps into the roots of Ithaca's multitudinous array of plant species, and rewards the area with fast-blooming flowers and verdure. At this point, life returns to Ithaca, and a once-dormant landscape springs into bustling action.
With summer comes the weather that every Ithacan dreams of. The Farmer's Market opens up for locals to vend their varied wares, and tow-headed children run up and down the banks of Lake Cayuga, wondering how it is that in this age where technology so often destroys innocence, they can still dance unabashedly in the lapping surf.
So I am called away from my Home to battle the injustices of the world. I have to take to my trusty steed and ride across the country in hopes of making this world a better place for those without privilege. I have to trust my future to the fates, and have faith that they will see me through to the end of my journey. I can only hope, when it comes time for me to return to Ithaca, I, too, will have the blessing of Aeolus and the determination of that eponymous Odyssian hero.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
A Valediction for the Inanimate
I looked down into the porcelain eyes of the Buddha. I ran my hands over his cheeks, his impassive smile, the tight bun atop his head. He looked back at me from behind a coat of glossy red paint, awaiting judgment. I thought of the true Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, of his teachings, his sermons about desire and about want, about trying to remove oneself from the cycle of suffering that binds us all together, suffering based on our inability to ever truly satisfy our insatiable desire. I wondered, did I want this porcelain Buddha head? Or was that just the desire speaking?
Over the past few days, I have gone through a process of shedding my skin; that is to say, I have been slowly getting rid of many of my possessions, objects that, for the past four years or so, I have defined myself by. I have gone through hundred of pages of writing, ranging from haphazardly recorded class notes to meticulously polished essays, and I have rid myself of a great deal of this work. (Those things I found irreplaceable I have deposited into a file folio, for later consideration.) I have considered strongly my ability to exist independently from my terraced bookshelf, from my black faux-leather office chair, from my Dieux Du Stade calendar with all the impossibly attractive Frenchmen. I have been on a tear to rid myself of a great number of thing--partially as house cleaning, and partially as soul cleansing. I, like so many others I'm sure, began to feel burdened by my possessions, as though my things were owning me; I began to imagine myself buried under a mound of sentimental but useless objects, incapable of freeing myself due to a lack of sheer will. I knew that I had to somehow thin the herd. I knew that I wouldn't be satisfied until I got rid of some of the clutter that for so long occupied so much of my space. So I gave away my terraced bookshelf; I put my office chair in the campus exchange; I bid adieu to the many men of Dieux Du Stade.
I have put my hands on nearly every one of my possessions over the past week or so. Some of these things I have moved from one room to the next for four years now, until I could have the strength to pass them along to someone else–or more often, before I could simply throw them away. By placing my hands onto these things, however, I have had to consider them individually; I have had to pause and ask myself, "what is this object, and what does it mean to me? What will I lose by throwing this out? What would I gain by keeping it?" In this way I have had to weed through each and every object in my room. Thirty-five dollars in Canadian currency–keep it; I may return some day. A mousepad bearing the logo of the Ithaca College Office of Multicultural Affairs–pass. I don't even have a mouse, after all. An e-flat bugle I snagged from my band director in high school–keep; when am I ever going to find another e-flat bugle? Each thing seems to have its own life, its own story. The lifeless objects–this spiral full of notes on biology, that overdoor coat hanger–don't sing out to me, they don't reverberate in my hands... but there are other items, ones whose value is undeniable, which send sensations through my fingers and into my core, resonating with their undeniable worth. I pick up the blade end of a broken Ithaca Crew oar (a "borrowed" object that never found its way back to the Ithaca boathouse) and it immediately fills me with the familiar sensations I knew and loved while I was a rower at Ithaca. I can almost feel the backsplash against my skin as I hold the truncated oar shaft; I can feel the burning in my legs and my lungs that I always knew would set in by the third 500. I pace the oar back down, and it rests, inert. But there is something more there, and I feel it every time my hand comes in contact with it.
I have passed over surely hundreds of items in the past week, judging the worth of each thing. Which of these four watches do I really need to keep; do these senior photos of my high school friends retain any sense of their former sentimentality; what value does this Family Fun Run 5k t-shirt hold for me? I turn each of these objects over in my hands, and I think of not only these things in my life, but of the people, as well. If I were to place hands on each of my friends, acquaintances, peers, professors, respected or revered idols, which of them would I keep? Which of them would sing out to me with the clarion tone of that broken oar; which of them would hit a dull note, and be fated to be forgotten?
Then I think of all the people who have been so important to me over the years: My mother, who held me when I was first born, who made sure that nothing would harm me until I was old enough to protect myself; her partner, who came into my life when I was still young, and would–tentatively at first–embrace me like I was her own son; my friends, who have given me a place to belong and a sense of family even so far from home; my professors who've embraced my intellectual interests, who have bolstered my academic pursuits with enthusiastic and unwavering support. All of these people at one time put their hands on me, like I have done with each of my material possessions, and they have turned me over in their hands, considered my accomplishments and my shortcomings, and have decided, for one reason or the next, that I was worth keeping, worth encouraging, worth saving from the "to be discarded" pile.
The porcelain Buddha knows, however, that he is not meant to be kept here. A vague paradoxical object–meant at once to remind us that we should escape from want while at the same time existing as an object to be desired–he knows his path is moving forward towards some new station. I allow myself to be removed of this covetous desire, to let the Buddha go and to tell myself I don't need him to bookend my collection of modern drama. Nevertheless, as he sits there in the pile along with an ill-conceived crescent folding chair, some somewhat sickly looking throw pillows, and a cracked plastic tissue-box cover, looking plaintively at me with his glossy eyes, I feel a slight pang of loss.
Over the past few days, I have gone through a process of shedding my skin; that is to say, I have been slowly getting rid of many of my possessions, objects that, for the past four years or so, I have defined myself by. I have gone through hundred of pages of writing, ranging from haphazardly recorded class notes to meticulously polished essays, and I have rid myself of a great deal of this work. (Those things I found irreplaceable I have deposited into a file folio, for later consideration.) I have considered strongly my ability to exist independently from my terraced bookshelf, from my black faux-leather office chair, from my Dieux Du Stade calendar with all the impossibly attractive Frenchmen. I have been on a tear to rid myself of a great number of thing--partially as house cleaning, and partially as soul cleansing. I, like so many others I'm sure, began to feel burdened by my possessions, as though my things were owning me; I began to imagine myself buried under a mound of sentimental but useless objects, incapable of freeing myself due to a lack of sheer will. I knew that I had to somehow thin the herd. I knew that I wouldn't be satisfied until I got rid of some of the clutter that for so long occupied so much of my space. So I gave away my terraced bookshelf; I put my office chair in the campus exchange; I bid adieu to the many men of Dieux Du Stade.
I have put my hands on nearly every one of my possessions over the past week or so. Some of these things I have moved from one room to the next for four years now, until I could have the strength to pass them along to someone else–or more often, before I could simply throw them away. By placing my hands onto these things, however, I have had to consider them individually; I have had to pause and ask myself, "what is this object, and what does it mean to me? What will I lose by throwing this out? What would I gain by keeping it?" In this way I have had to weed through each and every object in my room. Thirty-five dollars in Canadian currency–keep it; I may return some day. A mousepad bearing the logo of the Ithaca College Office of Multicultural Affairs–pass. I don't even have a mouse, after all. An e-flat bugle I snagged from my band director in high school–keep; when am I ever going to find another e-flat bugle? Each thing seems to have its own life, its own story. The lifeless objects–this spiral full of notes on biology, that overdoor coat hanger–don't sing out to me, they don't reverberate in my hands... but there are other items, ones whose value is undeniable, which send sensations through my fingers and into my core, resonating with their undeniable worth. I pick up the blade end of a broken Ithaca Crew oar (a "borrowed" object that never found its way back to the Ithaca boathouse) and it immediately fills me with the familiar sensations I knew and loved while I was a rower at Ithaca. I can almost feel the backsplash against my skin as I hold the truncated oar shaft; I can feel the burning in my legs and my lungs that I always knew would set in by the third 500. I pace the oar back down, and it rests, inert. But there is something more there, and I feel it every time my hand comes in contact with it.
I have passed over surely hundreds of items in the past week, judging the worth of each thing. Which of these four watches do I really need to keep; do these senior photos of my high school friends retain any sense of their former sentimentality; what value does this Family Fun Run 5k t-shirt hold for me? I turn each of these objects over in my hands, and I think of not only these things in my life, but of the people, as well. If I were to place hands on each of my friends, acquaintances, peers, professors, respected or revered idols, which of them would I keep? Which of them would sing out to me with the clarion tone of that broken oar; which of them would hit a dull note, and be fated to be forgotten?
Then I think of all the people who have been so important to me over the years: My mother, who held me when I was first born, who made sure that nothing would harm me until I was old enough to protect myself; her partner, who came into my life when I was still young, and would–tentatively at first–embrace me like I was her own son; my friends, who have given me a place to belong and a sense of family even so far from home; my professors who've embraced my intellectual interests, who have bolstered my academic pursuits with enthusiastic and unwavering support. All of these people at one time put their hands on me, like I have done with each of my material possessions, and they have turned me over in their hands, considered my accomplishments and my shortcomings, and have decided, for one reason or the next, that I was worth keeping, worth encouraging, worth saving from the "to be discarded" pile.
The porcelain Buddha knows, however, that he is not meant to be kept here. A vague paradoxical object–meant at once to remind us that we should escape from want while at the same time existing as an object to be desired–he knows his path is moving forward towards some new station. I allow myself to be removed of this covetous desire, to let the Buddha go and to tell myself I don't need him to bookend my collection of modern drama. Nevertheless, as he sits there in the pile along with an ill-conceived crescent folding chair, some somewhat sickly looking throw pillows, and a cracked plastic tissue-box cover, looking plaintively at me with his glossy eyes, I feel a slight pang of loss.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Complications, Crud, and a Christening
Some of you may already know this, but for those of you who don't: My bike, out of the box, gave me quite a few problems. As a disclaimer ahead of time, I will admit that, after assembling what I could have assembled on my own, I should really have just taken the darn thing into one of Ithaca's wonderful LBS and had them go over it. But I was impatient. And lazy. Mostly Lazy.
At any rate, on my first ride with my (mercifully patient) friend Brian Erickson (P2SF alum 2008), everything had started out just fine. Prior to this ride, I'd only been on an indoor trainer, and even then, not nearly as often as I would've liked to be, so this was a road test to get all the kinks out. We rode down and out of the circle apartments, without incident. As we were riding down the hill towards campus, however, my front wheel began to wobble unsteadily. Knowing that this was a bad thing, I decided to stop and hop off of my bike. Upon inspection, it turned out that my spokes were completely loosened out of the nipples that held them taut to the rim. At the time, I was determined that I would complete this ride, so in a moment of hypermachismo, I thought "sure, I can just tighten these down with my hands. no problem!"
Needless to say, that's impossible. Unless you're a robot. Or the Hulk. Or the robot-hulk. An in any of those three scenarios, you'd likely lack the dexterity to do so anyway. So I had my roommate Mario come and pick me up as I sat, dejected, on the street corner with my busted bike tire and a small cloud of disappointment.
Getting back to my apartment, I broke out my handy-dandy Zinn and the art of Road Bike Maintenance and a spoke wrench and got to work with my ignorance. I tightened a few spokes, convinced I was doing well, before I realized... this is probably like tightening a drum: each spoke corresponds to another spoke across the way, and the tautness of one end manipulates the tautness of all ends. Having realized this, I plowed ahead anyway, shrugging and saying to myself "eh, it'll be okay."
Clearly, it was not. On my next longish ride out (again, with the almost Bodhisattva-like Brian), things went well on the outset again--this time for almost twenty miles. Like the last time, however, complications set in concerning my front wheel and its aversion to tight spokes. Exasperated, I hopped off of my bike to tighten the one or two loosened spokes I could see. As I was getting back onto my bike, however, I turned around to see that my back tire was flat. Now on the verge of cursing any number of gods, I sat down with the tire-irons and spare inner tube that I had just brought on a whim before leaving the house to change the flat. I was planning on riding out my stock tires, at least for one or two hundred miles, but after getting a flat on my very first ride, I decided that they would be the first to go.
In order to resolve all issues with my front wheel, I took it in to the shop the next day. They told me it was "pretty bad," which I interpreted to mean "don't fuck with this stuff, just bring it in, you dolt." Confident in the integrity of my back wheel, I was eager to put my bike back together with two tensed, trued, and ready to tumble wheels. Unfortunately, my back wheel would be the next thing to let me down. It had always been problematic--the plastic spoke guard would rub against the spokes and rattle like a skeleton on speed--but about 100 miles after my front wheel drama, I found loose spokes on this wheel, as well.
I found said loose spokes because I was trying to clean my tires, which had been covered in a fine film of tar thanks to an inexplicably sticky street past Old King Road. By the time I knew I was riding in tar (and not just, say, oil/water/brake fluid) it was too late to turn back, and I began picking up tiny rocks and other possible puncturers in the goop on my wheels. I flinched every time a rock was flung up into my bike's frame; I could hear each tinny pinging sound as it happened, over and over again. Frustrated by the goop, the spoke guard, the spokes themselves, and frightened about any other possible deathtrap awaiting me in the depths of my bike's deeply troubled existence on this earth, I took the poor thing in this morning to the shop and simply told them, "Fix it."
I've never been much for naming things. Ever since I was younger, I feel as though many of my most cherished possessions have remained either nameless, or named by that which they are. I believe I once had a frog named "Mr. Frog." Since I started playing the trumpet in sixth grade, I've met a number of people who've named their B-flats. (Though this one always kind of freaked me out. Do I name it a girl, like a car? And if I do, is there some kind of pseudo-Freudian implication because I blow on a decidedly phallic end, placing my lips suggestively over it countless times in a year? Taking it a step further, if there is a sexual component, wouldn't it be more natural for me to name it after a guy? Or is that too much to confess, when people ask its name?) Many people I know have named their cars, but mine remains unnamed. I guess I have a hard time ascribing gender to something inanimate. Perhaps I'm too steeped in psychosexual thinking to make any gendered, inanimate object not stand in for the phallus, so I've in general avoided naming things at all. But I know I'll be expected to name this bike, as well... and in this instance, I think I actually have something fitting that I can stand to live with for at least this entire summer.
Based on all the problems, complications and embarrassment this bike has called me, I christen it l'Enfant Terrible, the Terrible Child.
Maybe after 3,800 miles or so, it will finally grow up.
At any rate, on my first ride with my (mercifully patient) friend Brian Erickson (P2SF alum 2008), everything had started out just fine. Prior to this ride, I'd only been on an indoor trainer, and even then, not nearly as often as I would've liked to be, so this was a road test to get all the kinks out. We rode down and out of the circle apartments, without incident. As we were riding down the hill towards campus, however, my front wheel began to wobble unsteadily. Knowing that this was a bad thing, I decided to stop and hop off of my bike. Upon inspection, it turned out that my spokes were completely loosened out of the nipples that held them taut to the rim. At the time, I was determined that I would complete this ride, so in a moment of hypermachismo, I thought "sure, I can just tighten these down with my hands. no problem!"
Needless to say, that's impossible. Unless you're a robot. Or the Hulk. Or the robot-hulk. An in any of those three scenarios, you'd likely lack the dexterity to do so anyway. So I had my roommate Mario come and pick me up as I sat, dejected, on the street corner with my busted bike tire and a small cloud of disappointment.
Getting back to my apartment, I broke out my handy-dandy Zinn and the art of Road Bike Maintenance and a spoke wrench and got to work with my ignorance. I tightened a few spokes, convinced I was doing well, before I realized... this is probably like tightening a drum: each spoke corresponds to another spoke across the way, and the tautness of one end manipulates the tautness of all ends. Having realized this, I plowed ahead anyway, shrugging and saying to myself "eh, it'll be okay."
Clearly, it was not. On my next longish ride out (again, with the almost Bodhisattva-like Brian), things went well on the outset again--this time for almost twenty miles. Like the last time, however, complications set in concerning my front wheel and its aversion to tight spokes. Exasperated, I hopped off of my bike to tighten the one or two loosened spokes I could see. As I was getting back onto my bike, however, I turned around to see that my back tire was flat. Now on the verge of cursing any number of gods, I sat down with the tire-irons and spare inner tube that I had just brought on a whim before leaving the house to change the flat. I was planning on riding out my stock tires, at least for one or two hundred miles, but after getting a flat on my very first ride, I decided that they would be the first to go.
In order to resolve all issues with my front wheel, I took it in to the shop the next day. They told me it was "pretty bad," which I interpreted to mean "don't fuck with this stuff, just bring it in, you dolt." Confident in the integrity of my back wheel, I was eager to put my bike back together with two tensed, trued, and ready to tumble wheels. Unfortunately, my back wheel would be the next thing to let me down. It had always been problematic--the plastic spoke guard would rub against the spokes and rattle like a skeleton on speed--but about 100 miles after my front wheel drama, I found loose spokes on this wheel, as well.
I found said loose spokes because I was trying to clean my tires, which had been covered in a fine film of tar thanks to an inexplicably sticky street past Old King Road. By the time I knew I was riding in tar (and not just, say, oil/water/brake fluid) it was too late to turn back, and I began picking up tiny rocks and other possible puncturers in the goop on my wheels. I flinched every time a rock was flung up into my bike's frame; I could hear each tinny pinging sound as it happened, over and over again. Frustrated by the goop, the spoke guard, the spokes themselves, and frightened about any other possible deathtrap awaiting me in the depths of my bike's deeply troubled existence on this earth, I took the poor thing in this morning to the shop and simply told them, "Fix it."
I've never been much for naming things. Ever since I was younger, I feel as though many of my most cherished possessions have remained either nameless, or named by that which they are. I believe I once had a frog named "Mr. Frog." Since I started playing the trumpet in sixth grade, I've met a number of people who've named their B-flats. (Though this one always kind of freaked me out. Do I name it a girl, like a car? And if I do, is there some kind of pseudo-Freudian implication because I blow on a decidedly phallic end, placing my lips suggestively over it countless times in a year? Taking it a step further, if there is a sexual component, wouldn't it be more natural for me to name it after a guy? Or is that too much to confess, when people ask its name?) Many people I know have named their cars, but mine remains unnamed. I guess I have a hard time ascribing gender to something inanimate. Perhaps I'm too steeped in psychosexual thinking to make any gendered, inanimate object not stand in for the phallus, so I've in general avoided naming things at all. But I know I'll be expected to name this bike, as well... and in this instance, I think I actually have something fitting that I can stand to live with for at least this entire summer.
Based on all the problems, complications and embarrassment this bike has called me, I christen it l'Enfant Terrible, the Terrible Child.
Maybe after 3,800 miles or so, it will finally grow up.
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