Toast for Brekkie

Come On Eileen

It's one of those steamy summer nights, the kind that inspire movies like Palmetto and Body Heat. The kind that Jimmy Buffett would draw on when rhyming clammy with Miami. It's a night to end the dry spell and quicken the pulse with the flashbangs of 1.21 gigawatts, the crackling thunder rolling by overhead as if Sisyphus finally let loose his eternal reward.

The rain blew in just as the clubs were closing down; a quick sprint to the car kept me dry. I sat back and thought of all the reasons I'd rather have walked there nonchalantly. Not that my shirt wasn't already soaked from dancing; but it would have been nice to take advantage of the hot, sexy rain. Alas. No use wishing.

It's the kind of night that jolts the fingers to life, rumbles the walls and rattles around the thoughts clanking about up in the attic. I can't say much about the last two weeks without spilling it all. I'm still dizzy after stepping off the ride.

You could say it was like a roller coaster, going from the highest high of Discovery's Return to Flight to the lowest low of discovering we still have a foam problem. Though that will soon be fixed, mind you.

You might liken in to a merry-go-round, spinning and spinning with no signs of stopping. Delara was in town for a week (yay!) so as the workday ended the party began. Between snorkeling, yoga, biking, camping, two rock concerts and a handful of movies we fit a month's worth of adventure into 7 short days. Of course, we are specialists.

I'm more inclined to borrow Abs' ferris wheel metaphor; even as you're riding up, someone else is going down. It all happens simultaneously, the highs and the lows, the ebb and the flow, in a great big circle spiraling through space. That might be why you're likely, regardless of the circumstance, to find a grin on my face. Ha! Take that, Jimmy!

Incidentally, spiraling through space is exactly what Commander Collins and her crew are doing at this very moment. By now all the tiles are thoroughly inspected and ready for reentry, the crew marching busily along with their myriad tasks. If anyone can put on a determined grin, shoot straight and bring that bird home safely it's her. And when those seven step out onto the ground, then...then, my friend, is when the party begins. And I'll be there. Grinning.

Deliverance

I can remember spending hours in college reading Jack London, camping in the Smokies, rock climbing, and generally considering myself an outdoorsman. I read about Christopher McCandless with fascination and remember being riveted by the coverage of Aron Ralston. Like most members of our endlessly insulated society, I love to read of stories of survival. From the comfort of your easy chair, it’s easy to critique the mistakes, carelessness, or hubris of those that find themselves fighting for life. I used to fantasize about my own will to live; I speculated that my tenacity and wit could get me through Armageddon. It took but one weekend to show me that I’m more of a city slicker than I ever imagined.

I’m not one to sit around and wait. If I make plans and no one wants to go, hey, that’s fine. So three weekends ago I threw together a tent and whatever I could dig up in the kitchen and decided to kiss civilization goodbye. I was getting back to nature, by God. Let all those softies sit on the couch and rot.

I had learned enough from those survival stories to know that one should share their itinerary when venturing out alone, so I called Grandma June since my parents were out of the country. We chatted for a while and she wrote down all the major points of the trip: Ocala National Forest, Alexander Springs, Paisley Woods bike trail. Ok, got it? Good. Love ya, grandma!

Ignoring the postmodern irony of driving two hours to reach the wilderness, I found myself at the entrance to the forest. Like a prudent little boy, I stopped at the ranger station to see where I could find the springs and the bike trail. After a friendly howdy the two ladies on the porch left the comfort of their rocking chairs and gave me all the details about what I’d read online. Dean and Dell told tales of freshwater springs flowing 30,000 gallons per minute, inland snorkeling, and 21 miles of bike trails. I was practically salivating; I’d brought along my bike and diving mask. Before I left, they calmly reminded me to be on the lookout for 500-pound black bears and not to try taking my little compact car off the pavement. “We have what’s called ‘sugar sand’ around here. You need a four-wheel drive for the dirt roads or you’ll sink right down to the axle.”

I waved goodbye and found myself at the campsite a quick five miles down the road. It was populated with Florida residents of the southern-fried flavor, most with RVs, A/C, and TV. Now, I’m not too much of a purist to begrudge the camping experience to others, even those who bring along some of the amenities of home to take the edge off of sleeping in the woods. But a desire to rough it was not the reason I only took along what I had from home instead of raiding the store en route. In reality it was an effort to save money for an upcoming trip to Miami. Lord knows one night in South Beach costs as much as five camping trips. It was thus that I had a water bottle but no bottle clip on the bike; a wallet and cell phone but no saddle bag.

Delighted to make it to camp in the early afternoon, I set about pitching the tent and unloading supplies. “See? I knew this was a good idea. Try to drag anyone else along and you always end up late to the site, fumbling with tent poles in the dark.” I’d planned to bike first, then cool off in the perpetually 72-degree water, but Alexander Springs proved too much of a temptation. After camp was set I hopped on the bike and raced down to the headwaters.

The place was teeming with humans. It was no surprise, as local archaelogical digs have confirmed that American Indians lived here for thousands of years. I marveled at the changes that have taken place over that time contrasted with the unchanging reasons we keep coming back.

A quick smear of lens cleaner and I splashed in, the sensation more brisk than any mass-marketed tea could ever be. The turquoise depths instantly supplanted my previous daydreams; I marveled at the water’s clarity as my snorkel and I became reacquainted. Within two minutes I ventured over to the boil, where the sandy floor of the pool gave way to a ring of underwater grass fringing the deep vents. As I swam over the grass I was struck by the depth of the spring. Air floated up from wet-suited scuba divers thirty feet below, flowing around my body like the bubbles of a gigantic spa. I didn’t have my fins, but in no time at all I was testing the limits of my lungs. I dove progressively deeper down the face of the rock, the force of the current fighting the whole way. Three, four, five times I would pop my ears on the way down in response to the increasing pressure. Soon I was face to face with the divers, waving as they nonchalantly drifted about. Looking up, I saw the legs of swimmers flailing in the distance as they treaded water. This had to be the deepest I’d ever dived.

Back on the surface I watched to see how far other snorkelers would go. I’d been to the bottom, what else could there be? A middle-aged man in full scuba regalia (weight belt, hooded wetsuit, flashlight, giant fins) soon answered my question. He disappeared into the darkness of the venting caves in slow motion. What seemed like eons later he reappeared and calmly rose to the surface, sans tank.

“How did you do that? You were under there at least two minutes!”

“Practice. Don’t move too much. Be calm; don’t think. I saw you diving earlier, right? You were going pretty deep. Just keep at it.”

I lost time thereafter, practicing and marveling at how snorkeling mirrored meditation, though slightly riskier. It was 4:30 before I’d had enough of the cold and swam back to begin the bike ride, being sure to stop by the water fountain to prehydrate.

I quickly slopped some sunscreen on my freckled arms and shoulders, then spent a few minutes trying to rig a water bottle carrier out of an old t-shirt. I finally gave up, and without a thought decided to leave my money, phone, and water at camp. It was only 11 miles to the halfway point, Clearwater Lake, and surely they had water there. I mean, come on. I can skate 12 miles in an hour! I’m fit. This is just a day trip. I’ll be back in time for a sunset dip. Besides, who needs to carry all that miscellaneous crap? I’m already carrying a camera in my pocket to document the ride. That’ll weigh me down enough as it is.

My inability to find the trailhead should have been the first clue. Even traveling past that spot a day later I could barely see it. I turned around to stop by the front office of the campsite for directions. Sure enough, it was where I’d been looking, just substantially obscured by undergrowth. It’s easy to find the coarse, not-to-scale brochure maps amusing when you read them in an air-conditioned building. It’s another thing entirely to be forced to rely on them when you’re out in the wilderness. Of course, that wouldn’t be a problem for Mr. Mountainbike. I wasn’t even taking a map! I could trek my way out of the Alaskan tundra! I discovered a second clue once I actually got on the trail: there was only one tire track in the otherwise undisturbed sand. Ah, screw it. 11 miles. Psh. Besides, there can’t be much elevation in the state with the lowest highest point in the US, so it wasn’t as if there were actual mountains to climb, right? I took off through the brush in top gear, weaving in and out of saplings like a rogue imperial speeder bike. This was cake. I stopped after the first mile where the path intersected a desolate dirt road and snapped a congratulatory self-portrait.

I hadn’t even broken a sweat. The forest changed character as the miles went by, with ivy here, some moss there. Pine trees gave way to palmettos. Parts of the forest were still charred from a recent fire. Every few minutes I’d cross an ATV path, briefly downshifting to make it through the tire-sucking sugar sand that the rangers had warned me about.

Then somewhere around the fourth mile my body started to whisper something about water. As I hopped off my faithful steed to take another photo, I noticed I had broken into a glistening sweat. "Eh. I’m almost five miles in. We’re good." This time of year the sun doesn’t set until 8:45, so the temps remain above 85 even at night. Hot, to be sure, but bearable. My heart rate was up, but I was breathing normally. My quads showed zero signs of stopping. I was back on the bike.

A few minutes later I got winded for the first time. The stopping and starting was having an effect, and the terrain was really starting to undulate. I crossed another path and the trail turned into moguls. These were three-foot deep troughs, one after another all the way into the distance. It was obvious that the cumulative effect of motorbikes had destroyed my bike trail. Speed was the only way to keep from bogging to a complete stop. I tried to ride the edges, but the brush pushed me back in. After only an eighth of a mile I was forced to stop; the lactic acid was finally building up. “This can’t be right. There was a sign back there prohibiting motorized vehicles,” I thought. Grudgingly I backtracked through every one of the moguls. Sure enough, I’d missed a turn off. The forest fire had melted the bright, yellow trail marker; it lay curled up and discolored on the ground. I let out a heavy sigh; all that work was for nothing. "Can’t these guys even maintain a trail?"

Apparently others had missed the turnoff as well, because the pathway was getting worse. Large trees blocked the path, requiring what was now an arduous dismount. The sand was no longer distinct; I was running over vegetation and working hard to follow each new turn. Markers were missing left and right. I crested a hill, came around a blind and finally rode up to one of the landmarks I’d memorized: the power lines. I stopped and gathered my thoughts, now obviously slowing with each new liter of sweat.

The power lines. This means I’m only five miles in. Five miles? Not even halfway? The first twinge of apprehension was quickly chased away by determination. "I can do this." But first another self portrait, though maybe more of a grimace than a smile.

The grade of the trail increased ever so slightly, and my legs began to protest. The internal monologue took on a reprimanding tone. “Why didn’t you bring any water? That was genius, genius. You haven’t seen a single other person out here. The burned-out trees aren’t providing any shade. You know you’re already dehydrated, right?” I ignored the voices and pushed on.

The calm meditation of the spring was beginning to give way to the harsh philosophy of what amounted to a desert. Solitude can amplify your thoughts. I began to seriously consider what would happen if I passed out. I also started looking for water. I found this cactus and only pride and an unwillingness to stop kept me from eating it.

A mile later and I started to wish I’d gone for that cactus. I was now at the stage where one starts talking to the universe. “Um, hey, I could really use some help here. I’m a tad parched.” A cloud rolled in to dump a sum total of five drops of rain on me. I stuck out my tongue in desperation.

Things became surreal. Just when I couldn’t pedal any further uphill, I’d crest a ridge and be rewarded with a short coast. I begged aloud for water and a lone hiker appeared, the only person I ever saw on that path. He said hello, but his tone seemed somewhat mechanical, and something told me to push on. What was anyone doing out here on foot, five miles from the closest trailhead and so close to sunset? I told myself it was just a few more minutes. Besides, dehydration could have me hallucinating.

Minutes later the hiker became the cactus. “Why didn’t you just ask him for some water? Are you going to let pride kill you? Things are getting serious, you know…oh, wait, look over there!” Down a hill I could see what amounted to a large puddle of stagnant water. I wrestled internally with the pros of hydration versus the cons of swampfunk, and quickly decided that if I stopped I might never get going again. I also reminded myself I wasn’t even halfway done with the trip yet. Once I reached Clearwater Lake I had to turn around and go all the way back.

Just when I thought I’d lost my mind, the trail dipped and I started coasting. I passed a horsebarn in the middle of the woods, but sailed ahead. A minute later I popped out into an empty parking lot. I could hear something in the distance. It sounded like gangsta rap. I turned a corner and heaved a sigh of relief. Clearwater lake. It has water in the name. All my neurons simultaneously aligned and one word dominated my consciousness. Water.

I stopped to talk to the ranger at the campground gate. “I’m staying at Alexander Springs and just biked over here.” She looked at me like I was a Martian. “Do you have a water fountain?” “No, sugar, but there’s a faucet right over there.” Praise Jesus.

I nearly drowned myself gulping it down. It wasn’t refreshing; it was vital. I didn’t enjoy it like one would a lemonade on a hot afternoon. I drank reflexively. My body shoved my brain aside and took charge. “If you’re not gonna take care of me, I’ll just do this myself.” I was too dazed to care.

The gangsta rap was soon explained as I trudged down to the lake. I was too exhausted to do more than glance at the people playing dominoes at a picnic table. I went straight for the water, not caring in the least what the temperature was. It was like a bathtub. I calmed down and let my survival anxiety wash away.

It quickly became evident that I was not alone in the lake. The fish nibbled at my toes and a stranger struck up a conversation about how secluded the place used to be before all the tourists arrived. I looked around and counted four kids in the lake. Yeah, man. It must’ve been nice before the hordes arrived.

A yelp went up from one of the boys. “Snake!” I turned around and a water moccasin swam by about a foot from my face. I couldn’t have cared less, even if I’d had the strength to move. Still, I took it as a sign to go, and said goodbye to tourist-man.

I psyched myself up for the trip home. It wasn’t necessary to take the same path; in fact, the return leg was only nine miles, two shorter than the way I’d come. I paid another visit to the water faucet and started off.

Unh-uh. No way. 100 yards into the woods and my legs were on fire. The rest in the lake had cooled them down and they weren’t about to pump it through sand for nine more miles. I looked up to the sun, dipping much lower in the sky than I’d expected. I checked the time. 6:50?! It took me two hours to get here?

Think, man, think. I turned around and stopped at the trailhead map. Excellent! Clearwater Lake was on a main road, Highway 42. Just at the edge of the map I could see it intersected Route 538, which paralleled the trail back to Alexander Springs. I can do this. I rolled out onto the main highway and quickly realized the difference between a road-mile and a trail-mile. Even having long since burned through any carbs, I was able to ride in top gear. In less than a mile I’d found 538. This was it. I was actually going to make it home before sunset.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a yellow road sign. It didn’t register at first, because you don’t see this variety very often. It was a picture of a two lane road disintegrating into little dots. Underneath it read PAVEMENT ENDS.

My heart sank. I rounded the bend and was confronted with sugar sand disappearing into the distance. This is 538? Was this some kind of joke? Only then did it occur to me that this was the road I’d crossed less than a mile into the journey, just after leaving camp. Brilliant.

Ok, don’t panic. Back to 42. Now, left or right? I knew if I took a right I could go all the way around to Hwy 19, back past the original ranger station and end up at Alexander Springs after 25 miles. “Surely there’s a paved connecting road to the left. There has to be.” I turned and headed north, off the edge of the trailhead map and into the unknown.

Looking back, I probably should have taken the sure route. Call it pride or determination, but I pushed on. And on. 42 slowly swung from north to east, past endless swamps and forests. I needed a cutoff, and soon. “How many miles has it been? It’s getting dark. Are you sure about this?” Finally, a road to the north appeared. I turned off 42 with vindicated jubilance.

A mile later the pavement ended again. No matter, there’s a road leading west that’s paved. “Nevermind that it’s in the direction you just came from.” I followed that road a mile or so to where it too became sand. This was getting old. I turned around, chiding myself. “Great. You’ve just added four miles to this little impromptu triathlon. What next?” I made it back to 42 and considered turning back the way I’d come, but there was no arguing with my pride. I took a left a plugged on.

Desperation began to creep in again. I still had no way to carry water, and even though I was on pavement I was still in the wilderness. I was not about to knock on any doors in this neighborhood, if you could call it that. “He just showed up at my front door, wearing a helmet, sunglasses, no shirt, and sweating. He was obviously insane and a threat to my family, officer. I had to shoot ‘im.”

A few more miles and I came upon a gas station. The door was fully obscured by years-old stickers and the ceiling was about seven feet high. I asked the clerk if there was a bathroom and he simply pointed. Around the corner I found the unmarked door and opened it. A caption appeared before me just like in Trainspotting. It read, “Worst Toilet in Florida.” Undeterred, I leaned over to drink from the sink that hadn’t been cleaned since before I was born. That swamp water didn’t look so bad anymore.

I emerged from the bathroom and asked a customer at the register if there were any nearby roads that cut north. “Where you tryin’ to git to?” “Alexander Springs.” “Alexander Springs? No towns called that ‘round here.” “It’s a campsite in Ocala Forest.” “Oh. Well, you need to get to Hwy 19 and take that north. That’s about 25 miles down the road.” "There's no roads to the east?" "Nope."

Utter despair. I walked outside and made a half-hearted attempt to bum a ride, then got on the bike and headed back the way I’d come. I looked up to the horizon to see the sun disappearing. “That’s it, George. You’re riding home 50 miles in the dark. With bears. Nice one. You might as well enjoy the sunset. It’s probably your last.”

Two miles of backtracking and I’d had enough. I began to listen for cars approaching from the rear and sticking my thumb out from the handlebars. That didn’t work, so I started holding my arm out wide. Miraculously, a white SUV stopped, and out popped a couple teenagers. “You looking for a ride?” Yes. Yes I am. “I’m trying to get to Alexander Springs.” “Hell, that ain’t no problem. See if you can fit your bike in the back. Help him out there, John.” Soon we were packed up and headed down the road. I was spilling over with gratitude. “Well, we saw you riding down the road about an hour ago. Figgered you just needed a lotta exercise.” I gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Now, there’s a shortcut to where you’re going, but I don’t like taking dirt roads.” I don’t blame you. “It’ll be a little further, but we’ll stick to the pavement.”

The boys resumed their conversation and I was soon learning all about cousin Lydia until John looked over to the driver. “Junior, you know what we’re gonna pass, don’t you?” “What, the smokeshop?” Apparently they were trying to quit. “Ok, change of plans. We’re taking the dirt road after all.”

A short while later I recognized the turn onto 538. As the sand approached, Junior showed no signs of slowing. Before I could protest, he hit the dirt road at 55mph. Suddenly I could add rally racing to the list of the day’s adventures. “Man, you should be glad you weren’t trying to ride this on a bike. I seen 600-pound bears out here.”

For all his original protests, Junior sure didn’t seem to mind the sand much. As his conversation with John got more animated, he alternated hands on the steering wheel, sometimes letting go completely. He steered with his knees trying to light a cigarette. So much for trying to quit. Every few minutes the rear would swing out wildly, and he’d cackle and bring it back into line. There was no seatbelt in the back. I had visions of cartwheeling down the road in a white SUV. I considered donning my helmet.

The conversation turned to their girlfriends and it quickly became evident that if these were my guardian angels, they had recently fallen from grace. I had the privilege of hearing all about John’s father’s attempt to “turn him gay” by forcing him to watch various vividly described videos. I also learned which girls to avoid if I ever ended up part of the Ocala dating scene. Useful stuff.

At those speeds it was no time before we were out of the woods and at the campsite entrance. Naturally I had no money to offer John and Junior, just my heartfelt and abiding thanks. They shrugged it off. “Hell, we didn’t have nothin’ better to do. Just don’t go getting yourself lost in the woods no more!”

The ordeal had ended. I found my tent in the dark, ate every granola bar I could find, downed three juice boxes and even drug my body to the showers to rinse off five hours of sand and sweat. As I lay down on the ground to sleep that night, I reflected on my hubris in challenging Mother Nature on a calm summer day in the Florida forest. I didn’t have much time to think about it, though, since ten seconds later I was sleeping like a rock.

The next day I awoke to the heat of the sun climbing in the sky. I took another swim in the springs, once again losing track of time. Hours later I struck out down the creek in a rented canoe, reflecting on my bike trek and soaking up the beauty of my surroundings. Wildlife was abundant, and each of my senses was quietly engaged. As the lessons of the previous day sank in, I floated downstream under bluer skies. Life is defined by death, the more difficult the effort of survival, the sharper the focus of reality. I basked in my new vision as the world slowly slid by.

Climb Dance

In an effort to explain why I'm so obsessed with auto racing, I offer perhaps the most compelling rally footage ever captured: an award-winning short film documenting Ari Vatanen's record-breaking run at the 1988 annual Pike's Peak International Hill Climb in Colorado.

It is a dangerous sprint of 12.4 miles to a 14,110-foot peak, a test of intelligence, awareness, and courage. It is straightaways at 130 mph plus and 156 gravel turns where comet tails of granite dust rise and fall to earth. It is cliffs of 2,000 feet with no guardrails. It is nirvana.

San Fermin

I can remember hearing that we experience time in a linear fashion to keep everything from happening all at once. Today...well, today I realized everything happens at the same time anyway.

Yesterday I wore myself out in the 90-degree sun playing volleyball for four hours after work. By the time I got home I realized the water I'd been drinking at the beach was not enough. I was desperately dehydrated and dizzy. I scraped together the only thing I could find to eat, a couple fried eggs on a tortilla. Note to self: eggs are not for queasy stomachs. No matter how much water I drank last night I couldn't sleep. I awoke every couple of hours to drink more then stumbled back into bed. Surely, I told myself, tomorrow will be better.

No such luck. The alarm radio went off bright and early with the news that London had just suffered a terrorist attack. The weight on my chest nearly kept me in bed. I trudged into work and kept my head down most of the day, forgoing engineering work for data entry and from time to time taking part in a somber discussion of the news from England.

I left work early to prepare for my dinner plans tonight. I was getting together with 20 or so friends at one of my favorite Thai joints. As people started to arrive my thoughts turned from London to the party. I realize now that I even forgot to ask for a moment of silence.

Leave it to the Beatles to sum up my point: life goes on. Always. I feel the loss of those in London, but I remind myself that people on this planet die every second. And we get new souls at an ever faster rate. It's tragic. It's beautiful. But it doesn't stop. I've wrestled with it, I've prayed about it, but in the end no matter what I do life continues. So I'm forced into the conclusion that even as I acknowledge and mourn the loss of my fellow humans, I simultaneously rejoice and celebrate in all the beauty of life.

The bulls still ran today. The Tour de France continued. I still celebrated my birthday. And when I die, every one and everything will continue on, unabated.

I would have it no other way.

Independence Day

Boy, you know you've been away for a while when you come back and your blog's front page is blank. Yikes. Hopefully the moblog has allowed some inference as to what I've been doing while away (Pssst. I'll give you a hint: it ends with "iami"). Rest assured the survival story of last weekend and the party story of this weekend will soon be posted.

In the mean time I offer you news of the success of NASA and JPL in striking Comet Tempel 1 with the Deep Impact probe. Huzzah! The flash of the 800-pound copper impactor was unexpected, but I guess that's what you get when you heat anything to several thousand degrees Kelvin. No doubt there are scads of data being processed by those diligent engineers at this very moment, and I hope we'll all soon know what makes up the heart of a comet. Perhaps, if we're lucky, it might hold a secret or two about the origins of life. Oh, and check out the movie from the impactor's view. It's scary watching a comet approach at 23,000 mph. And vaguely reminiscent of Georges Méliès' 1902 film Le voyage dans la lune.