Moments in the Sun

This morning I was rushing out the door with a little more than an hour to run a set of errands before my next call for work started. With the front door of the house no more than 6 feet behind me, I stopped dead in my tracks for a moment.

The late Fall sunlight was streaming through the trees, casting long shadows across the yards and catching the morning dew on the front lawn grass, creating a field of morning stars. The temperature was in the mid-forties and steam rose from the peaks of my next door neighbor's house. It was quiet, apart from distant traffic that created a steady rushing sound; more like a low ocean shore or the sound wind makes when blowing through the evergreens on a mountaintop. It was a Moment.

I wrestled on what to do--keep going to the car and get my errands wrapped up or stay on the front porch to absorb the Moment for all it was worth?

Instead I ran back inside the house and called my wife and daughter to join me. "Just come out front!," I urged them.

My wife joined me back on the porch. The daughter unit made it as far as the point where the house heat stops and the cool air started before voting with her feet back inside. Not even the dog would venture outside. Don't get me started on the cat.

So my wife and I stood there in the morning Moment. No talking, all sensing. After a few seconds, I decided it to be photo-worthy.

Within two photos the Moment was gone. We were still there, as was the cool air, trees, houses, morning dew-laden grass, but the sunshine had faded behind thickening clouds. And with that, I bade the wife goodbye and sprinted out to the car, Moment behind, but still in my memory.

One Person's Difference

(This is an excerpt from my weekly newsletter to the Redmond Lacrosse Club.)

What kind of impact can one person have on someone's life? How impacting 10, or 100, or 1,000? It's possible and happens everyday.

This last weekend I attended a memorial service for a Horace Mann teacher who recently passed of cancer. David Wobker was what we hope all educators aspire to be. He was passionate about teaching and possessed a sharp intellect that often left you questioning the deeper meaning of his comments. By the turnout of the service, it was clear that David has impacted the lives of hundreds of families on Education Hill. He was special.

Our lacrosse club continues to build on a tradition that has influenced the lives of hundreds of families in and around Redmond. Our goal is provide your sons with a rich athletic experience, and have fun while they do it. We need volunteers to do it. Whether it's field prep, helping at club events, fundraising, or being a member of the Board, your contributions go a long way.

Can't Talk Now--I've Got an Orca to Catch!

"Whendlegltchby."

 "What?"

"When do the orcas come by?"

This was the start to my brief exchange with a fellow camper recently at the San Juan Island County Campground. It was not going to end well. Before I continue that story, let me set the stage...

It's Wednesday afternoon of my weeklong vacation from work. I had ridden the Tiger to Anacortes and hopped the ferry to San Juan Island for a quick, overnight getaway.

Seven years ago, I had taken the family to the SJI County Campground for our first Pacific Northwest camping trip. We have wonderful memories from that trip. It's location on a bluff above the Haro Strait--the strip of water that separates the US from Vancouver Island, Canada. You can see VI on any clear day. And during one magical moment on the first trip, we were awoken to a pod of orcas swimming by. It's a memory that will stay with us forever.

I wasn't expecting magic this trip, just peace and quiet. And it started exactly as planned. I rolled up to the camping spot on my bike with no one around. There were two reserved spots between mine and the patch of grass that leads out to the bluff. The one closest to the grass (#20) was empty, while the one right next to me (#19) had a medium-sized tent already pitched. The occupants weren't there, but I figured that it probably belonged to a couple who was out exploring the island.

After unpacking and setting up camp, I explored the area (no orcas to be seen) and then retreated to my tent for a nap before dinner. Naps are very important when camping.

"WAAAAAIIIIIGGGHHHH!!!"

What in dear Lord?

"WAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIGGGGGGHHHH!!!!!"

OK, so it seems my next door neighbors included a combination of air raid siren, harpy, and a set of long nails scratching on a portable chalkboard. In other words, a toddler. A very, very unhappy toddler.

Waking up from camping naps is tricky business. You know you've been sleeping and you know that you probably could have been productive by wandering the area and picking up random trash or identifying poisonous mushrooms. If you do not execute your sleep state evacuation correctly, as in gradually and peacefully, you are likely to emerge as an enraged yeti who has not been able to remove hair balls from his nether regions and to which said hair is being pulled out with each movement.

That was me; enraged yeti. 

Once I gathered my senses I realized what was happening and calmed down. I've been that dad before; the one faced with the crying child with no way of understanding how to quiet the child or remove their batteries so the neighbors don't call the cops or protective services. Now I was just a grumpy yeti who has to leave his cave in order to pick up berries for dinner at the local Very Berry store.

Exiting the tent, I gave the dad holding the harpy siren a look that suggested "I've been there--hang in there--it gets better," but I probably just looked pissed off. Regardless, he later apologized for disrupting my yeti nap and we established ourselves on good terms. I kept reminding myself of this each time the harpy siren went into public service announcement mode to let everyone know she was unhappy. This occurred every 90 minutes.

It also turns out that my neighbor did not understand how children are made, because by my count he had accumulated 4 of them and they were all very young. That probably means that he and his wife are probably going to have more. Maybe they have a plan to replace their harpy siren every 18 months with a new harpy siren, and the one on duty was just the latest model. I didn't think of this at the time as I was mostly curious how they all fit into that small tent. They weren't a large-sized type of people, but six human-sized organisms occupying a tent of that size was like watching clowns emerging from a tiny clown car. But without all the creepy clown-stuff that comes with clowns.

Still, my desire for peace and quiet would not be denied. At sunset, I wrote the following in my notebook:

The Sun is a handbreadth above the horizon. Skies are mostly blue and wisped with clouds. I feel the Sun's heat while a gentle wind from across Vancouver Island cools me. Seabirds sit on the rock 100 yards from shore. Silent now, having ceased their dinnertime chatter. Below me and to the north 50 yards, two couples rest in their kayaks. I have sole and temporary use of this park bench, though not the point; another man occupies the other bench while a book occupies his attention.

As the Sun dipped over the horizon and the campground quieted down--quiet hours are 10:30pm to 7:30am--all the campers settled into their nighttime routines, consisting of later dinners and campfires.

Remember that part of about quiet hours? Yeah, well, it figures in pretty soon, so pay attention. Because when you check in to the campground, the park ranger goes through a list of rules. The first one is that quiet hours are between 10:30pm and 7:30am. The second rule is to pack your food away for night. The raccoons are pretty common on the island and pretty bold, so pack your food away in something they can't rip into. When you show up to check in to your spot, the ranger explains this very clearly. Unless, you are late and miss his speech. It's not a problem if you've camped before and understand a basic tenet of camping, which is, animals will eat food if you leave it out. It may be a problem if you are a member of the Black Lung Family.

The Black Lung Family showed up after the park ranger's office closed. I don't know what time exactly, but it was like one of those moments in movies when darkness suddenly falls. Like when the plague of locusts descends on Egypt, Christ dies on the cross, or vampires attack. The Black Lung Family (BLF from now on) arrived in their early 90s model Jeep Cherokee and took the spot on the other side of the harpy siren manufacturing family. There were two elders and two idiots. The idiots live in Olympia, while the elders recently moved from Oklahoma. They seemed to have suffered some sort of horrible disfiguring accident because each only had only arm. The other arm was a cigarette holder. They'd apparently been living like this a long time because they were constantly experiencing prolonged bouts of coughing. I almost named them the Emphysema Family, but this would have given them an unnecessary sense that they deserved compassion. Anytime you light up cigarettes in the company of others, you lose that compassion. Anytime you light up in the presence of children, you lose it, too.

Wait, lighting up in front of children? Yes, our new neighbors. The ones who took the coveted spot right next to the grass that leads out to the bluff were coughing and smoking in the presence of young children. And everyone got to smell the smoke.

And they were loud. Not loud as in, "I want to make sure you hear my voice from 25 yards away," but loud as in "I think we're currently at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert and standing 5 feet from the speakers and I know you can't hear me but I'm going to shout anyway because I've been drinking for 8 hours." They were loud and up past the quiet hour mark. What time was that? That's right: 10:30pm.

Anyway, I was soon off to sleep. It's said that I can sleep through anything. Or so I've been told. Dunno, I'm usually asleep when people say it. My sleep lasted until 4:47am. Why so exact, you ask? That's because it was at that time the following morning in which the BLF was visited by a family of raccoons. I know they were raccoons because I heard the BLF shout this several times and I know it was 4:47am because I hard them shout this several times. Absconded hoy dog buns fit in, as well. The excitement from their campsite lasted about 10 minutes before I uttered and admittedly weak, "Be Quiet!" I was afraid of waking the harpy siren. Just my lucky, she would sleep through the Great Raccoon Invasion of 2016 but my request for quiet would have kept her up for hours.

Sleep, once again, won me over. But by 6:30am I was awake. Early mornings are special times when camping. The nocturnal animals can still be active, everything is still and quiet, and you are aware of being among people still asleep. It's a great time to have coffee and chill. Which brings us back to...

"Whendlegltchby."

 "What?"

"When do the orcas come by?"

It was BLF elder. There she was. In my campsite, lit cigarette stinking up my morning.

It was disappointing that BLF moved into our neighborhood last night. Even more so that they smoked and shouted the whole time. But with the early morning wake-up I had reached my limit. You know that little red guy from "Inside Out?" Anger? Well, he made an appearance that morning--from my brain, past the filters, and directly out my mouth.

"It's quiet hours. Everyone here is quiet. You people were up making noise at 4:47 this morning."

This was not a shouted statement. My sister taught me years ago that it is much more intimidating to speak in a low voice when mad than it is to shout. So I said it low. And I emphasized. Every. Word. It had the desired effect. As soon as I said the word "morning," she spun 90 degrees away from me, dropped her head, and walked back to camp. No one from that camp said anything until I left an hour later.

If I had been in a better mood, I would have toyed with the idea that wild orca pods are on a Seaworld-like schedule. Heck, I would have given her a specific time and place to be on the island. I thought of this missed opportunity while retrieving the water bucket from the campground water spigot. Right there, on the campground bulletin board, was this gem:

Apparently, a lot of people at this campground ask this question. So many that the forest ranger had to put up a sign. I feel for that man.

After dousing the flames of the fire, my adrenalin also diminished and I started second-guessing my response to BLF elder. I resumed packing up camp. A few minutes later, a couple walked by to talk. Gloria and Mark. An older couple traveling with their dog, Zoe. They were in the site on the other side of me and disappointed I was leaving. Seems that they approved of my presence, and they realized that once I was gone, the good behavior would leave as well.

With my final moment of vindication, I saddled up on the Tiger and headed home.

I don't think I'll ever camp here again.

The Motorcycle Man

A quick share of this article: http://www.richmond.com/life/bill-lohmann/article_ee46b2d9-ffb4-50ff-8ff5-c83cc0e00611.html

Greener Pastures, Open Roads, Peace of Mind

It's been nearly 10 years since I kicked my George Bailey mindset.

Bailey, played by Jimmy Stewart, was the main character of "It's Wonderful Life." Throughout the movie, he struggles to escape his hometown of Bedford Falls for a larger world of adventure:

George Bailey: [George hears a train whistle] There she blows. You know what the three most exciting sounds in the world are?
Uncle Billy: Uh huh. Breakfast is served; lunch is served; dinner...
George Bailey: No no no no. Anchor chains, plane motors and train whistles.

That was me 10 years ago--couldn't wait to leave Northern Virginia. I was born there and lived there most of my life. It was the hub for my spoked wheel life--I would move away only to return after a few years. My final (final?) escape took a dogleg route to Seattle by way of San Antonio. Since then, we've been living--I mean--really living. But it was that 2-year stint in San Antonio that really helped to set me straight.

See, I was working at a company that was not a good fit. I had a great salary, reserved parking space, and country club membership--all perks of the company. But to say I was unhappy working there would be an understatement. To say that I self-medicated through Scotland's Finest would not be incorrect. The toll it took on my health and well-being was visible.

This won't be a list of that company's problems or a few problematic people I encountered; I still have a lot of great friends in SA, and if it weren't for that experience, I might not be where I am today. But the company was a bad cultural fit. There were plenty of signs, but one memory in particular stands out: I was having lunch with a friend toward the end and we were talking about my next career move. He commented that he could see that I was forcing myself to change to fit the company's culture and that he could see that I didn't like it. That was my wake-up call. When your mental struggle manifests itself physically, you are not in the right place. So I got the hell out of Dodge.

In my darkest career hour, I re-evaluated my goals and values and landed on top. Instead of focusing on job titles, salary, and the corner office, my new focus became the Work Experience, the Team, and the Deliverables. The result being the most productive, more rewarding, and most enjoyable years of my working life. And it's enabled me to better enjoy my family time and community involvement. Not to mention my family involvement and community time. It enabled me to take that cross-country motorcycle ride, which launched this blog.

And more than ever, it helped me understand that no man is a failure who has friends.

Bliznarok Day 2: Finding a Tribe

We are less than 24 hours since the White Beast arrived. 

She be constrictor, this Bliznarok. You can see her, plain as day, coming from the distance, yet she is upon you in a blink and you find yourself in her death grip. Mobility near impossible but your brain is still working while she slowly tightens her grasp. Soon she swallows you whole. 

Going it alone during the storm can sound appealing but there is safety in numbers, so my travel companion and I venture out into the storm in search of a tribe. 

The streets are empty as far as the eye can see. That which She allows us to see. We pass a lone worker shoveling snow outside the entrance to Peter's Restaurant. He's been at it a while, his face belying his lost cause. A brief "hello" and "good morning" and we are on the moving. His greeting more a chance to catch his breath than anything but else. 

At the Expo Hall we find our tribe. They've emerged from the drifts and snow banks seeking our same goals; a group, knowledge, and sustenance. The latter being the first we will lose in the coming days. 

Bliznarok Jonas, Day 1

There's a special kind of quiet in the city this morning. The normal hustle and bustle of the morning commute is absent. No impatient drivers rushing to jobs they hate. Tourists are missing; having cancelled their trips or are hibernating in their hotel room. That's my theory anyway--I still haven't left my room.

The end is near.

Bliznarok Jonas is nearly upon us and the City of Baltimore is looking forward to as much as Camp Rock 3.

It had been a rough night. The guy I'm traveling with is prone to conversations both laconic and verbose; he doesn't say much until he gets going. Sentence punctuation is optional. His sleep is very much the same; brief bouts of silence punctuated by rips and snores. Though maybe it wasn't the chainsaw symphony that kept me awake, but the thought of the impending storm. The blizzard's plodding approach has cast more concern and anxiety among Washingtonians and Baltimorites... Baltimorons... Baltimoreans... than rush hour traffic.

Breakfast is functional. Some sort of egg turnover with a slice of cheese in the middle and sausage patties that could be used as coasters. I go for a second serving.

Fox & Friends beats the storm panic drums in the background. A business traveler drones on the phone at the table next to me, while the rest of the Hampton Inn's guests enjoy what could be their last warm meal until spring.

I venture out. It's time to see what this storm has wrought.

What fools these mortals be.

The streets are distractingly... normal. Must be my imagination, or softened West Coast sensibilities. After all, our snow tends to stay in the mountains in a somewhat civilized fashion. Here, the chilled precipitation mixes with everyday life. Ironically bringing that same everyday life to a standstill.

But not here in Charm City, Not yet. Somewhere out there, a meteorological beast closes in on the hunt, seeking sustenance, with an insatiable lust for monochromacy and snow angels.

All we can do now is wait...

The Day After The Day After Tomorrow

DISCLAIMER: This is not a motorcycle posting, so feel free to pop that kickstand and gear up if it's not yer thang. However, I am flying from Seattle to Baltimore for the National Lacrosse Convention (#laxcon) for the weekend.

I have just one request for the weekend that goes out to the greater Washington-Baltimore populace: Can you please keep your scheisse together for one weekend?!

A supposedly monster snowstorm is headed toward DC and Baltimore at this very minute. Chaos is ruling the roadways and there isn't a gallon of milk or roll of toilet paper to be found in any store. Something about snowstorms turns all those meek policy wonks into survivalists

Baltimore Inner Harbor (Conceptual)

I just want to fly in, attend the conference, and fly out. So please, refrain from your snowgasms long enough for me to exit safely and securely, so I can return to Seattle where we have a civilized approach to snow; it stays in the mountains.