Rest in Peace Good and Faithful Servant

Today we are celebrating Dad's long and loving life with a service at the Methodist Church for anyone in the community who wishes to participate. Yesterday the family experienced a tender moment when the Military Honor Guard recognized Dad's faithful service to this country in WWII by playing Taps, displaying the flag, and then folding it and presenting it to my brother. The slow-motion salute was a powerful symbol of respect, one that had a more profound impact on me than I expected. Actually, I did not know what to expect.



My brother, sister and I placed Dad's ashes next to Mom's in their niche. The finality of this simple act is also profound, as if to say, "This chapter of your life is over." The notion of closure may be elusive to some, but as I saw their matching oak boxes side by side, I felt they were once again complete. And for that, I am grateful.

Catharsis for $161.25

In high school English class I was introduced to the notion of "catharsis", experiencing spiritual release through an intense emotional experience, or in the case of the Greeks, purification through tragedy. The notion seemed very grand, something that ought to involve blinding light and the parting of the clouds so that a heavenly voice could speak directly to the stunned mortals. I imagined the score would include the swelling of an angelic choir and the obligatory pipe organ deep pedal note.

Everyday life can offer a similar, if not more modest, experience when long-deferred projects come to fruition, when actual process is made. This weekend was made up a collection of tasks which when taken individually are pretty mundane. But taken as a whole, I think I might have just had a mini-catharsis without the tragic plot. The amazingly good weather motivated me to change the oil in the truck, a long overdue chore which I used to do with a regularity that would make my Dad proud. He was an automotive engineer and taught me the importance of routine and preventive maintenance for engines. As I removed the drain plug and oil filter, the wrench slipped from my hand and fell into the used oil. When something like this happened while Dad tutored me, I recall him saying, "That's exactly what I didn't want to happen." The memory made me smile.

After replacing the drain plug, installing a new filter and refilling the crankcase with oil, I topped off the brake fluid reservoir and took Roman to the p-a-r-k. The truck ran quietly and confidently, despite its 265,000 miles and 21 year-old frame. So the logical next step was to load the truck with as many crates of "stuff" destined for the swap meet as would fit.

Arriving at the Solano Drive-in about 9am, we were well-behind the regulars and hard-core swap meet crowd who setup at 6am to hawk their wares and prowl for treasure. Before we had unloaded our crates and setup our humble display, shoppers were helping themselves by looking in the truck bed, opening boxes and asking "How much?" I thought their behavior oddly bold, but then I realized this is a different community with its own norms for acceptable or customary behavior.

Interacting with and observing the humanity at the swap meet was fascinating. Generally, people were very nice, if not eccentric. One elderly gentleman made several visits to our table, declaring each time, "I'm not here to mess around!" On his final visit, he bought an imitation Persian runner, a hose spigot and a German license plate for $4. It's true what they say about "one man's junk." Interest in our table came and went in small waves of families strolling, hard-core shoppers looking for a deal and kind people who had time for conversation.

We sold over half of the stuff by volume but not by value. Most transactions were for less than $5, so it took quite awhile to amass our earnings of $161.25. After failing to sell a Lebadang lithograph I purchased in 1981 for $150, we looked it up on the Internet and found out it is worth $1,300. Another transaction, and another mini-catharsis to come.

Decompressing in the Alps

There is good reason why people come to Annecy, the City and the alpine lake. Here one can feel any hint of stress disappear. The air is so clean that I find myself taking many deep breaths in disbelief, savoring the freshness and clarity, especially after experiencing so much second-hand smoke in Monaco and Cannes. A former Chateau transformed into Hotel Tresoms provides the perfect setting for complete relaxation. We are set apart from the traffic of the City on a mountainside above the lake. Here one eats only when hungry, rests when drowsy, and enjoys the birdsong of Spring without any interruption. This is perfect place to affirm the health benefits of vacation: the absense of schedule, deep rest and extraordinary cuisine.

The Old Town (la vielle ville) is a mere 15-minute hike down the hill. Pictured above is the 12th - 16th Century Island house which has served as a fortress, castle and prison. The river flowing around both sides of this tiny isle is fed from the clear waters of Lake Annecy. On a sunny 40F afternoon around, the locals were lined up for ice cream, walking their dogs and pushing strollers. People here are more apt to jog or ride a bike than smoke, a refreshing change for visitors from elsewhere in France. For dinner in the Old Town We enjoyed a wood-fired calzone, essentially a pizza folded over at the last minute of baking. Here they insert a fresh egg just before pressing the lip of the dough closed. Upon cutting the calzone open, one finds the delicious yolk blending with rest of the contents: ham, fresh mushrooms and mozarella.

At Les Tresoms, lunch was a 5-course gourmand experience. None of the courses were familiar to me, but all of there were uniquely delicious and satisfying. A gespacho of tomatoes and pesto provided a savory introduction to the meal, with just a hint of aged parmasean. A frail cylinder of thin and crispy frites held chunks of local freshwater white fish and asparagus in a light sauce. Spring lamb chops prepared a point were tucked next to seasonal vegetables with the juices of the meat providing a natural compliment. Local fresh cheese was served with orange marmolade (a first for me to combine sweet and savory in this manner) which yielded an unexpectedly delightful contrast on the pallet. The dessert came in a 3-tiered glass presentation. We were instructed to eat from the largest to the smallest: vanilla custard with a fragile, flakey pastry; diced pineapple with vanilla bean; and a lavendar infused shaved ice with a dollop of rich white gelato to cleanse the mouth.

The French have an expression for food which tickles the mouth: amuse-bouche, literally "to amuse the mouth". Truly our experience here has amused our entire beings!

Monaco Grand Prix

The Grand Prix of Monaco is quite an affair. Formula 1 race car engines are just like any ordinary 3 liter engine, except they produce 800 horsepower at 15,000 rpm, numbers which were beyond engineering possibility a few years ago. Using the City streets, the course is laid out and barricaded off so that only those who pay for tickets can observe the action in real-time. However, if you climb the palace ramparts you are afforded a view of the pits (see photo above) and you can hear the screaming engines echoing through the high rises like so many super hornets. Large video screens across the City display the action for the ultra rich patrons viewing from their yachts moored in the harbor.

The Serendipity of travel struck again when we found ourselves in this Camelot like principality known as Monaco. The Grimaldi family negotiated well several centuries ago to retain their little slice of the French/Italian Riviera without becoming part of any other country. France provides military protection in case any marauding bandits show up with evil intent for the throne. The son of Prince Rainier III and Princess Grace (the actress Grace Kelly) is the current monarch (Albert II), and his focus is to make Monaco a sustainable and unique place on earth for the Monogasques (citizens) and visitors alike. First impressions suggest he is succeeding.

Today there was a break in the driving of the Grand Prix, allowing the wealthy to drive their high-end cars on the course. We sat at a Cafe beside the Royal Casino and let the parade come to us as Porches, Lambourghinis, Ferraris, Rolls Royces, Bentleys, Mercedes and Audis drove by. The pedestrians and photographers limited the speed at our S-turn from 0 to maybe 8 mph. It was time to see and be seen.

The only thing more expensive than the cars was the female footwear. I have never seen such exotic and improbable shoes. Paparazzi were busy photographing anyone who could even remotely have been "someone".

Papal Time in Avignon

The audio guides are a brilliant invention because they give the tourist a quick summary of why something is historically significant. Touring the Palace of the Popes in Avignon, France, one is reminded of the turmoil of the 14th century in Europe. The Pope fled Rome and set up camp in Avignon, ordering a new palace/fortress to be built of course. So in 1309, work began on the complex above and continued for 30 years or so. Politics were such that 9 Popes in succession lived here before returning the Holy See to Rome. I think the duration of 9 Popes' reign is a long time, even in Papal time.

The many rooms open to the public include the various vaults and treasuries where valuables were stored, the "Jesus" room, the Pope's apartments, vast dining halls, the kitchen and an unremarkable chapel. Wherever a window is located one can see the thickness of the walls. In some cases, I estimated this to be over 10 feet of solid limestone. No wonder this structure has survived 6 centuries and counting. The audio guide provided interesting observations about the lavish feasts which occurred here. The Pope and his trusted "carver" had the only knives in the room for fear of assassination. Even the King of France, when he deigned to visit, sat at a table below the Pope. Oddly, superstition reigned in terms of detecting treasonous plans: a probe made of whale bone and precious ivory was believed to have the ability to detect poisons in the food.

The bridge at Avignon (le pont d'Avignon) is famous for many reasons, not the least of which is the children's rhyme "Sur le pont d'Avignon, on y danse, on y danse, sur le pont d'Avignon, on y danse tous en ronde" which translates to "On the bridge at Avignon, we all dance there, we all dance there, on the bridge at Avignon, we all dance there all in a circle." Any French citizen today of a certain generation can sing this song, just as Americans can sing "Ring around the rosie".

The bridge was created as a result of a conversation God had with a certain Monsieur Benezek. He claimed that God told him to build a bridge across the Rhone river, everyone laughed, and the church leaders said that if it was true then he should be able to lift a massive boulder as a proof of God's sponsorship. The story of Benezek's sainthood declares that he, indeed, lifted the boulder and threw it into the river as the first foundation of the original bridge (which fell down in the 17th century). Again, superstition reigned in this society regarding floods and the dangers of crossing a bridge. Men of letters of the day wrote that "...one cannot cross the bridge at Avignon without meeting 2 monks, 2 mules and 2 whores."

We enjoyed a Galette for lunch which is a savory crepe with contents of your choosing. I had spinach and goat cheese while Dennis enjoyed ham, tomatoes, mushrooms and goat cheese. The Galette is very filling and healthy at the same time. Yet another recipe to work on at home.

L'economie en France

The notion of economy is broad here, and it manifests itself from macro to micro. While Europe is considering a $1 trillion bailout for Greece, Portugal and the rest of the "Eurozone", we see the signs of conservation and sound economic practices in every day life. The hotels often require your room key/card to be inserted in a reader to keep the lights on. The objective is clear: when you leave the room, why waste electricity? Toilets have two flushing options, a light flush for liquid waste and a more substantial one for solid, therby conserving water. Our VW Passat rental car is comfortably getting 40 mpg (diesel) even when driven at the autoroute speed limit of 130 kph (81 mph). Rather than indulging in excess, the French use just as much as is needed.

When it comes to food, the portions are modest by American standards, but still provide ample quantities to savor the meal and feel pleasantly satisfied. Last night we enjoyed local lamb chopes and ratatoille, the latter being a very delicious mixture of tomoatoes, zuchini, eggplant, bell peppers, onions and olive oil. The melded flavors were amazing, so this is one dish I resolve to learn upon returning home. My lunchtime chef salad came with the dressing spread on the plate, then the salad and other ingredients place on top. This approach provided just enough dressing for each bite, and none was wasted. But does the notion of excess exist in other cuisine? Croissants are buttery because their extraordinarily flakey dough uses just as much butter as needed to meet the French standards of what a croissant is. Rather than attempting to pass a simple roll as something more, each kind of pastry is made following centuries old rescipes precisely. My mille feuilles patry (literally "thousand leaves" of exceedingly thin dough with strawberries and custard filling) tasted exactly as it should have, and as I remember it to be, because no corners were cut when selecting ingredients or preparation.

I am impressed how conservation of resources and predictable outcomes can live side by side in a society which prides itself on uniqueness and sustaining the culture. Lesson learned!

3 Centuries

Sometimes it is difficult to imagine how long a century is. Attending the Paris ballet in the former home of the Opera is a means to grasp the notion when one notices the hall was dedicated in 1669 and the ceiling was painted nearly 300 years later by Chagall in 1964. Chagall picked up where the original architects left off naming composers by including Berlioz and Rameau on his fresco. Outside one finds the names of Bach, Mozart and other classical composers carved into the building with larger than life letters.

Seating in the 5 levels is quite tight, perhaps reminding us that 17th and 18th century Parisians were shorter and more compact than 21st century ballet patrons. Our box had 6 individual, movable chairs; however, only the front 2 had an unobstructed view of the stage. Being in seats 3 and 4 (effectively a 2nd row) we enjoyed it when the dancers happened to leap into view, whether on point or not. Regrettably, the two patrons behind us saw nothing but could hear the beautiful music by Chopin.

The tribute to Jerome Robbins included a hilarious reenactment of The Mistake Waltz during which 1 of the 6 ballerinas always lands in the wrong location, faces the wrong way, or in some other obvious way ruins the choreography. The audience roared with laughter, applauding wildly when the music stopped while she realized her mistake and walked defiantly to the correct position. At the end, the male dancers literally folded the women like chairs and props, carrying them off stage helter skelter. The female dancers demonstrated amazing physical conditioning, holding their bodies stiff as manikins as they disappeared from view.

Leaving the Opera House, the crowd walks down the same marble steps used by more than 3 centuries of patrons, continuing the wear patterns on each step. To think of who has walked there before leaves me truly aware, as aware as I can be, of how long a century is.

The Serendipity of Travel

Flying backwards in a newly configured 767 was an interesting experience. The seating is configured 2-2-2 across the plane with each pair of seats alternating direction. Within the module one had a large video screen with remote control, built-in table, lumbar support which automatically inflated/deflated and considerable space to stretch. The seats could be made to recline or lie completely flat, making a surprisingly comfortable bed.

Chicago was briefly visible (above) as we queued up to land at O'Hare, changing planes for Charles de Gaulle. The transatlantic 767 was configured the same way, only we faced forward for that flight.

One never knows who might appear in the course of travel. In the Red Carpet Club in SFO, we saw two friends whom we had not seen in years. One came out of retirement and is traveling extensively, and the other consults on the road nearly every week. It was good to catch up briefly and affirm that we will all try to get together more often. I hope that comes to pass.

In Paris we were hosted by Francois and his father Daniel for a delightful lunch in the Marais district. I met Francois when riding motos with Molly on Mount Tamalpais back in February. Exchanging email resulted in us actually meeting. The white asparagus was in season and rivaled the flavor of spargel in Bavaria. Who knew a chance meeting on the side of a road overlooking Marin in the fog would lead to a new international friendship?

The TGV (train grande vitesse, or train of great speed) moved us at up to 320 km/hr (192 mph) from Paris to Aix-en-Provence. I had to laugh at the contrast between the transportation and the station. On the one hand, we enjoyed one of the most efficient, safe and environmentally friendly means of transport on the planet. Yet when we arrived in Aix, there was 1 working elevator to move passengers from the platform up to the skybridge which led to the station. Thus a 9-car train emptied hundreds of passengers on to a platform and the single, humble elevator moved 6-8 at a time to the station. One would have to wonder why the excellent design principles of the train were not carried through to the stations as well.

Travel with your intuition and instincts turned on full blast to savor the uniqueness which awaits.

A Timless Brasserie

Bofinger (bow-fahn-zhay) near the Place de la Bastille in Paris is one of the few remaining 19th century Brasseries. The decor is authentic, down to the scratches in the wood trim, the massive mirrors, even the ancient half-wall urinals with elaborate porcelain details. We made a reservation for Friday evening, but were told that there were no tables left on the main level beneath the beautiful stained glass ceiling. Upon arrival, the maitre d'hotel could not find our reservation on his list. Remaining calm paid off: he seated us near the center of the sought-after dining room.

The escargots (snails) were perfectly prepared with just enough garlic butter to clog an artery. Thinly sliced artichoke, offered in the style of "carpaccio", was an exceptional starter in flavor and artistic display. Being allergic to red wine posed a problem when ordering our main course because both of us ordered beef (Entrcote and Chateaubriand) and the tuxedoed waiter expected us to order a traditionally compatible wine. Our exchange (in French) went something like this:

"We would like a half bottle of the Sancerre from the Loire, and a half bottle of the Reisling from the Alsace".

He paused, and through a politely crumpled face he observed, "But you have ordered two white wines." His point was clear: how could one possibly consider eating beef and drinking white wine during the same meal.

"We have allergies", I explained. Without hesitation he suggested an alternate approach and even offered us un gout (a taste) just in case we might change our minds. I politely declined and he fetched the two half bottles and put them on ice in a bucket between the narrowly spaced tables.

The beef was delicious, grilled to perfection and accompanied by green beans, frites and tomatoes. Yes, two orders of creme brulee confirmed that Bonfinger retains the top rating of 10 for that amazing dessert. Whether it was serendipity or lack of maintenance, we both enjoyed noticing that the clock in the dining room displayed 7:05 on its unmoving hands, as if time has truly stopped in this unique and special place. Indeed, Bonfinger is timeless.

We will continue to enjoy Paris by following our stomachs and intuition.

Harley and Me

In front of Rosie's Bench, Volcano, California.

There are communities within communities. While the brotherhood of bikers (all genders included) is universal, bikes of a feather do flock together. Never was this more apparent than on Saturday's ride through the Gold rush foothills of Amador County, CA. Seven riders from our moto club at work showed up for the ride: 6 were on Harley Davidson Motorcycles, including the matching jackets, bandannas, and even special tiny bells hung on the underside of the bike to ward off highway gremlins. There is so much I do not know about the customs and protocols of this very friendly gang.

Like the bellows of an accordion, the gap between riders in formation expands and contracts to maintain the safe zigzag pattern as the traffic and road conditions change. As the only sport bike, and foreign to boot, I felt like an F-15 fighter among a posse of Boeing 747s. We rode through ghost towns like Plymouth, Drytown, Jackson, Fiddletown and Volcano. It is not an exaggeration to say that nearly 100 motorcycles were parked in front of the boardwalk hosting the historic Rosie's Bench. Every single bike but mine was a Harley. It reminded me of Sesame Street when the puppets sang, "One of these things doesn't belong, one of these things is not like the other..." It wasn't hard to find the outlier.



I have never been a member of a gang, but this group of gentle riders earned my respect and undying gratitude for letting me join the club, if only for the day.

Travel Details

Miles ridden: 253
Duration (actual saddle time): 5 hrs 9 minutes
Average mpg: 49
Average speed: 48 mph
Maximum speed: 92 mph (very briefly to reform the 7-bike zigzag on I-80 when 2 cars separated the group)

Poppies by the Bay

Sunday afternoon provided a warm, calm day which made the hills come alive with vigorous blooms. I noticed the poppies are abundant this year, especially after the so-called "normal" rainfall we have enjoyed for the past several weeks. I rode the Shiver up Reliez Valley toward Pacheco, then turned toward Orinda which takes one along the Bear Valley Road. This road is frequented by bicyclists and motorcycles, and everyone shares the road to play nicely. I noticed the poppies (above) along the berms by the bike lane and I could not resist stopping.

After reaching the San Pablo Reservoir, I turned south toward Orinda, taking the Fish Ranch Road top of Grizzly Peak. Many magnificent views are offered from this road on the ridge. The flat light of afternoon and the sun's glare on the Bay made the entire City a surreal monochrome. What a stark contrast to the green hills and blossoms just a few miles away.

My last discovery was a splendid off-leash dog park near the Caldecott tunnel. Apparently, the "Old Tunnel Road" has been converted into a Park where one can walk man's best friend off leash. Roman and I will have to return and investigate further.

Fog? What fog?

Joy gave me a book of moto rides in California for Christmas 2008. (Yeah, I'm slow). One of the easy-to-access recommended destinations is Mt. Tamalpais in Marin County. Anyway, today Molly and I took advantage of a break in the welcome rain storms and we sought the summit. The road poses far more interesting terrain than my straight-line commute. Ascending to the summit involves following a tightly coiled 2-lane road with many blind corners, magnificent views and the opportunity to share the lane safely with brave folks on bicycles.

Molly made textbook perfect turns on the unfamiliar road, braking before the turn, and then maintaining speed or accelerating through it. I like following her because we are of like mind: to arrive safely and have fun. As we rose above the mist and low fog, we enjoyed glimpses of the Pacific Ocean, the foothills in Marin and even San Francisco. The summit had limited sight lines and was really a parking lot providing access to trails which cover the park. Part way down, we paused at a remarkable overlook and met a delightful French tourist from Dijon. He graciously took our picture and tolerated my Belgian accent.


We ate lunch on the deck of the Mountain Inn overlooking spectacular estates in Mill Valley. I recommend the pulled pork sandwich, yet I'm confident Molly enjoyed her heuvos rancheros. This outing was a very peaceful and beautiful experience, and it's definitely worth doing again.

The Sutro Tower in SFO as seen above the fog on Mt. Tamalpais


Total distance travelled: 103 miles

Average Fuel economy: 45 mpg

Total saddle time: 3 hours 5 minutes

Number of bridge crossings: 4

Highest gear used on Mt. Tamalpais: 2nd

Parking is Such Sweet Sorrow

I avoid crowds, like the ones you might expect Christmas shopping on a Saturday afternoon in Walnut Creek's Broadway Plaza. While I do enjoy seeing the decorations and sensing the joys of the season, too many people are, well, just plain cranky. The best display of this attitude is in parking lots where, for reasons I do not understand, ordinary people become filled with wrath.

So I rode ma moto to Walnut Creek, knowing that there are dedicated motorcycle parking places in the multi-story structure near Crate & Barrel. I did not gloat (visibly) as I passed a line of impatient drivers held up because someone far, far ahead was waiting for a vehicle to back out of their space. "Why was this particular space sought after?", I wondered. Anyway, I visited L'Occitane, Nordstrom and the Ecco shoe store, making purchases in all three. With my goods safely packed into my long and flexible backpack, I returned to find my bike one of 3 in the motorcycle area. "Nice ride" was written on a business card and stuck in my instrument cluster. I guess that's a compliment.

Leaving Walnut Creek, I noticed the drivers were beyond impatient, navigating erratically which is dangerous for those of us with less "buffer" to protect our bodies. So I took the back roads home, greeted by a wagging Roman in the front yard. We got inside just as the rain showers began. It was a very satisfying ride, especially the parking.

Snow on the Mountain

Mount Diablo often has a dusting of snow, but not to such low elevations as during last night's storm. Roman loved greeting all the people (especially the kids) who had the same idea we did: take a photo from the Dinosaur Park overlook off Taylor Boulevard.

We parked in the bike lane with everyone else and scurried up the hill while there was still some sunlight on the mountain. The array of camera equipment represented a pretty good cross section of photographers, from amateur to professional. Tripods and light meters abounded, but we just did some quick "point and shoots" to capture the moment. A nice gentleman took our photo, but couldn't get the horizon level, so I rotated the photo above.

During Christmas, we plan to document Roman's first encounter with snow...the climate he was bred for.

Mulberry Haiku

(The art of Japanese Haiku poetry involves three line stanzas, usually in lengths of 5, 7 and 5 syllables respectively. This post is my humble attempt at a Haiku approach to every day chores.)

Evil Mulberry
Leathery leaves unwilling
To decompose now

Squirrel autobahn
You gave access to the house
For creekside varmints

We prune you early
Before the leaves turn and fall
Branches chopped, leaves gone

Yellow fibrous leaves
Packed into recycle bin

Make us smile in peace

And now the backstory: for years we have mulched birch tree and liquid amber leaves into the vegetable garden area to improve the soil. What was once nearly impenetrable clay is now cake-flour like soil in which vegetables thrive in summer.

Mulberry leaves are fibrous, leathery and very reluctant to decompose. In Spring when the rototiller is asked to do the heavy work of turning the layers of soil, leaves and other vegetable matter, the Mulberry leaves sneer in denial. They form a slimy, almost chamois-like layer which merely churns around in an ever-thickening wad on the rototiller's tines. The only remedy is to remove this mess by hand, a very unpleasant task indeed.

So we have learned to prune the Mulberry BEFORE the leaves fall. Cutting the branches into lengths which fit in the bin, green leaves and all, we eliminate the double handling of the nasty leaves. And we really upset the squirrels by denying them easy access to the roof of the house from their nests in the Buckeye trees along the creek.

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