I Miss My Dad

I miss my Dad. As an adult child of an elderly parent, I understand on many levels that it is the normal course of life for my father to precede me in most things, including the final transition out of this world. What I was not prepared for was the long, slow goodbye of dementia, a disease which gradually fades the substance and spirit of a person until an unfamiliar entity remains. So while he is still living, I am grieving the loss of his presence in my life, the connection that a father and son enjoy through love, conversation and shared experience.

Dad was always the go-to guy in the family, able to fix nearly anything mechanical or electrical. Often he devised unique solutions for tricky problems, and he even made his own tools or “jigs” for special woodworking challenges. His father was an electrician, and in WWII Dad was a B-29 flight engineer; so he came by his skills through legitimate life experience. Perhaps one of the most precious gifts he gave me was how to “get the feel” of something so that I could safely use power tools, ride a bicycle, gap a sparkplug and control a chain saw.

The interface between human and tool can be powerful when understood and deftly used. Dad demonstrated infinite patience with me while under his careful observation I learned to solder, make precise wood cuts with a band saw or correctly mount and position the work at hand in a bench vise. For as long as I can remember, he encouraged me to observe, participate, practice and finally master many tasks by hand. No doubt about it, this is greatest gift he has given me, freely and without judgment or expectation.

The understanding of “how to” goes far beyond mere coordination: it is the ability to produce the intended result by anticipating how the human-tool system will behave. Application of this awareness, this sense of being able to select the correct approach, act with intention and respond to any unintended consequences has paid huge dividends in my life. I have successfully applied this acquired sense to many activities my father never attempted or mastered like snow skiing or playing the piano.

Now 91, Dad’s capacity for understanding the world around him has diminished to the point where simple tasks seem insurmountable one day and familiar the next. His memory fails him in ways far worse than merely forgetting: he sometimes blends memories of people and events into a new reality which never really existed. When he is aware of this having happened, he is understandably upset and frustrated. So our family tends to just go along with whatever spontaneous comments he makes to avoid drawing attention to the fact that he is slipping. This is an uncomfortable but necessary accommodation.

The notion of pre-grieving a parent’s passing may seem odd to some. I find it allows me to embrace the reality of his decreasing presence in this world without being in denial about the inevitable. I have stopped railing at the Furies over his unfortunate path which helps me focus on making whatever time he has left as healthy an experience as possible. I don’t know whether any true healing can start yet for the loss of my father, but I am confident that having integrity around what is and what is yet to come keeps me grounded.

Someday soon there will be a eulogy to write. I have no idea what will come to me as suitable for his memorial. Perhaps I’ll get the feel of it, just as Dad taught me.

Out of the fog and into the frying pan

I am Molly’s wingman. From a moto enthusiast perspective, we are an odd couple: an Italian naked street bike and a high-performance motard. From a rider perspective, we are cut from the same cloth, seeking a safe and exhilarating ride while improving our skills and confidence.

We have had two great excursions on our motos. During an unusually warm spell in January, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge together, riding safely in formation to appear as a “unit” to other motorists. We toured the Marin Headlands and looped back across the GG Bridge for a delicious lunch in the Avenues.

Our 2nd excursion to Moss Beach Distillery included many microclimates relatively short trip. We experienced calm sunshine in the Avenues, blowing fog on Skyline, crosswinds near the beaches, heavy overcast at Devil’s slide. I noted the lowest temperature at Skyline, about 52 degrees, much cooler than I expected for July. The ever-changing lighting, wind and road surface conditions offered many opportunities to be a better rider. Even though traffic was not particularly heavy, we had an ample supply of drivers with poor judgment to keep us on our toes anticipating our next defensive maneuver.

After a wonderful lunch in the City and time spent reflecting on the day, I headed across the Bay Bridge toward home where I knew it would be much hotter. The temperature in San Francisco was in the low 70s mid-afternoon, and by the time I reached the Bay Bridge the air temperature had dropped to the 60s. Approaching the Caldecott tunnel which connects the cooler Bay Area to the warmer inland Diablo Valley, I noted the gage read 72. Exiting the tunnel, my air temperature gage behaved more like the second hand of a watch as the indication read 80, 81, 82, 83 and kept going. In less than a mile it read 90, 91, 92, 93 and by the time I reached my exit at Lafayette, the reading peaked at 103 degrees.

The effect of dry, hot air on my body was powerful, even through my protective gear. I realized how quickly the moisture was leaving me, and that soon I would be a mummy if I didn’t reach home to rehydrate. The last temperature I saw was 105 degrees when turning into my driveway, relieved to have made it. So in a mere 30 miles, I drove out of the fog and into the frying pan.

(A rare fogless day from the Marin Headlands)

Zealotry in any form is dangerous

On November 5, 2009 at Fort Hood military base in Texas, thirteen people were killed and 30 injured in a massacre by Major Nidal Malik Hasan. News of the tragedy has dominated the US media, and the debates over the Major Hasan's motives are likely to consume all the political oxygen for the foreseeable future. The collateral societal damage is predictable: grieving and angry people will ascribe the tragedy to religion, challenging the patriotism of American Muslims serving our country because we have been engaged in a war on Islamist terrorism for most of this decade. Instead of jumping to "furious and intemperate conclusions" about why this occurred, I was struck by the vivid, almost inherent conflict in the fabric of the perpetrator.

What has been revealed to us is that this person is a man, an American, a soldier, a psychiatrist, and a Muslim. He was also scheduled to be dispatched to the war in Afghanistan. Certainly there are other important attributes of who he was at the moment he made the decision to use violence against fellow soldiers and fellow Americans. What perplexes me is how any single vector of one's being could so completely overpower the integrity of the entire person so that violence of this magnitude results. Call it radical fanaticism or extreme zealotry, my tenet is that any form of this mindset is unjustified and tragically dangerous.

Stepping back from the Fort Hood events, I ask myself a broader question: how might each of us explore ourselves, our own personal philosophies, beliefs and principles, to determine if we might be motivated to act with a singular purpose? I'm not suggesting confining the examination to violent outcomes, but any unthinking, unreasoned one without considering the consequences. Sadly, one doesn't have to look far to see how we treat one another when motivated by prejudice, hatred or greed. What if instead we treated each other with respect, integrity and generosity? Can we agree to replace fear with understanding?

Returning to the tragedy at hand, I offer the BBC link as an access way for more editorial from the global press:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8347361.stm

Oktoberfest in zwei Nächten

The Oktoberfest weekend was like a mini-vacation for us. Friday night we attended a fundraiser at St. Stephen's where the Friars (pun intended) made the most delicious sauerbraten and warm potato salad I have ever eaten. Apparently they began the process days ago by soaking meat in brine and performing other time-consuming steps to yield the most tender and flavorful meal ever served in a church fellowship hall. I wore my lederhosen (buckskin) from Bavaria to support the theme of the party and, quite frankly, because they are comfortable.

On Saturday we had SFO Symphony tickets to hear Yefim Bronfman play Brahms' 2nd piano concerto, a magnificent and difficult work. We chose to continue the German theme by eating at Suppenkuche (soup kitchen http://www.suppenkuche.com/dinner.html) at the corner of Laguna and Hayes. Normally if you are there by 6pm, you can be seated right away. But because of Fleet Week, Oktoberfest, Columbus Day and the President's Cup Golf event, the restaurant was packed and a 45-minute wait faced us. Undaunted, we each downed 1/2 liter of Erdinger Hefeweizen, a light wheat beer, while waiting for our table. Our meal was extraordinary with tender venison, the mandatory red cabbage and spaetzle. And then we shared one order of apfel strudel. Yum!

I love the serendipity of sitting family style at Suppenkuche. We sat with five thirty-somethings who were celebrating the near-ready launch of their new business. In these tough economic times, it's delightful and motivating to discuss possibilities with brilliant, enthusiastic and smart people who are turning their vision into reality. Perhaps they shared with us a glimpse of "...the next big thing..." in technology.

Our symphony seats provide a good vantage point for the soloist's hands, so I was in heaven listening to Brahms while watching the amazing technique required. The gracious performer signed CDs after the concert, and we drove home happy, well fed and feeling as if we had a mini-vacation without the jet lag.

Sunday was a day to do absolutely nothing, and that's just what we did because we are good at it! Right now there is a eucalyptus fire in the fireplace, burning hot and clean, and the pasta is nearly ready for dinner. Dennis harvested what may be the next-to-the-last batch of organic tomatoes from the garden. Along with his tender basil and some fresh mozzarella, the feast continues.

Turns Out You Can't Get Anything You Want....

....at Alice's Restaurant. But that's okay because just the experience of being there was, to use a '60s phrase, "Cool!". Yup, I'm a Bay Area Native who had never been to this infamous place before Sunday. But thanks to my Riding Buddy, Molly, we found ourselves heading south on Skyline to the little berg of Woodside. At an odd sort of confluence of small, country paved roads, one finds a collection of restaurants with many motos parked in front. To my casual eye, I was the only Italian sport bike in the lot. But that's okay because I'm used to being the outlier.


Molly and I have the same approach to riding: have fun and arrive safely with all body and bike parts in good order. We thoroughly enjoyed the road winding through the redwoods, despite the 49-degree air temperature. The sun came out which kept us comfortable while we enjoyed our lunch outdoors (the propane heater at our table did not work). I enjoyed holding on to my cup of hot apple cider as much as I enjoyed raising my core temperature by drinking it.

On the ride home, we found ourselves behind an inexperienced rider which concerned me for safety reasons. One never, ever applies the brakes on a moto while banked in a curve; however, this person did so repeatedly which told me that s/he did not really know how to ride. At the first legal and safe place to pass, I did so, but Molly chose to hang back.

We met up at the Scenic Overlook where Hwy 92 took us on separate paths home.

My trip home took me across the San Mateo Bridge, then up 880 briefly to 580, then 13 and the Caldecott Tunnel to 24. The total saddle time was 2-1/2 hours, my longest to-date. And I arrived comfortable, yearning for more. I am not sure where Molly and I will end up next...perhaps at the Beach during a window of nice autumn weather when the wind is not blowing sand across the Great Highway.

Here's Molly's account of the trip:

http://m-dash.blogspot.com/2009/10/alices-restaurant.html

Bird Strike

Recently some large birds, Canada geese I believe, flew into the engines of a commercial jetliner causing the pilot to perform an amazing emergency landing in the Hudson river. While everyone survived, there were injuries for some on board. And for the next several weeks, any tidbit of a story that involved birds, airports and jets was trotted out as "news".

I have found that some species of birds fly in unpredictable paths during their takeoff. Most notably, doves seem to fly erratically whether taking off because they were finished eating or to avoid being eaten. I marvel at what sounds like squeaky wings when they suddenly depart from beneath our birch trees in the front yard.

On a motorcycle, one must anticipate the trajectory of any object on the freeway so that appropriate changes in course and speed can be made to avoid a collision. Sometimes, very large bugs become visible with less than a second to spare, and I know that my leather jacket will protect me from harm as the insect ends its life on my torso. Almost as soon as my brain identifies the object, it calculates and compares our relative paths to alert me whether a collision is inevitable. For these smaller critters, I do not intend to swerve or put myself or other drivers at risk. But how would I react if the "critter" was a bird?

A few weeks ago, I was commuting to work on a particularly clear and bright morning. My route takes me past a beautiful wetland along Highway 680, a wetland frequented by many kinds of birds. I will never know the reason the group of doves (hardly a flock) decided to launch as I approached them at 66 mph, but they did and my brain did its calculation. Riding as a commuter in the diamond lane, I have more flexibility than motorists to my right; however, one stragling bird was unable to gain enough altitude across 3 lanes of traffic and it was clear we were going to meet violently. I held on to the handlebars tightly and leaned my torso forward to be a low and as battering ram-like as possible.

Full-face helmets have their advantages, not the least of which is keeping all debris out of the driver's eyes, nose and mouth. Shaped like the nose of a 747, my helmet tends to deflect most things caught in the breeze as it divides around me. The clumsy dove, however, was too large to be influenced by my eddies as it slammed into the brow of my helmet just above the visor. When you consider that the dove was hit broadside by a solid object traveling 66 mph, well, the outcome is clear.



My moto did not waiver in its course, my helmet was easily cleaned, I was not injured, nor did I have to make an emergency landing. Survival of the fittest indeed applied as the herd of doves was thinned by one that day.

The Bee

The Knoll Pool at The Ridge is aptly named because the desert community of Minden, NV is visible to the southeast while the green Lake Tahoe basin is visible to the north. At 7800' of elevation, I chose to gently glide through the pool rather than doing laps, taking my time to acclimate to the reduced oxygen.

What summertime and pools have in common at most elevations is the inevitable discovery of a drowning insect. The honeybee was nearing the end of his struggle, legs flailing uselessly as his body bobbed wherever the children's waves sent him. I paused, remembering the two times I was stung, and the fact that I'm allergic to bee stings and did not have my Epipen handy. In less time that it takes to read this sentence, I remembered that nasty yellow jackets had stung me without provocation, which is how I learned of my severe allergy. This honeybee was probably just doing his job when he became stranded by an errant splash of pool water.

I cupped my hands under water to ensure adequate cushion for the bee, and then I lifted my make-shift bowl and set him on the pool deck. Initially, he walked, staggered really, in an erratic path. Perhaps this was the remnant of his frantic attempt at swimming. Then he abruptly stopped walking and stood still on the warm pool deck in the full sun. I stayed in the water, watching him, cautioning approaching barefoot humans to give him a wide berth.

After several motionless minutes warming in the sun, the bee began to "groom" himself, forelegs wiping over his head like a fly, tentative movement of wings, abdomen noticeably flexing. I thought this was good news and hoped a hungry Bluejay did not intend to appear and ruin the moment.

When the bee suddenly lifted off and flew away, I felt a sense of connectedness to creation. What a perfect way to ease into a summer nap.