Ok now what?

I have been home for a little more than a week and I am discovering that being at home is not my natural state. I have been institutionalized. I am no different than a career soldier, or a ex-con who can’t adjust to life on the outside. That’s me and it sucks. It’s hard to interact with other people after being away for so long, conversation skills atrophy and issues of personal hygiene seem to take on lesser and lesser importance. I have unlearned how to be around others. After four weeks of the most significant face to face conversation being with the barista at Starbucks who is certain I ordered a half-caf, soy, lite whip mocha, it’s almost hard to speak English again. Does my lifestyle justify my job, or does my job justify my lifestyle? At any rate I am pretty sure I ordered an americano, black.

I thought I might share what I will call the media file update; what I have been reading, watching and listening to lately.

Book: Steve Coll: Ghost Wars: The Secret History of the CIA, Afghanistan, and Bin Laden, From the Soviet Invasion to September 10, 2001.
This book is the history of the US involvement in Afghanistan, and it is very illuminating. Nothing like buying communist made Chinese AK-47's to supply to Afghan rebels to kill communist Russian hoards!

TV/DVD: Lost, Season One.
Twin Peaks meets Survivor. Suggestion? Less Survivor more Log Lady. I’ve heard that Cooper has retired to regular walks in Suburban Atlanta.

CD/iPod: Thom Yorke: The Eraser
I first heard heard Black Swan as I was crossing the Missouri river from Missouri back into Nebraska and I thought: “No kidding, how did I get here?” Just consider some lyrics: “...it’s the price that you’ve got to pay, do yourself a favour and pack your bags, buy a ticket and get on a train, buy a ticket and get on a train, because this is f**ked up, f**ked up...” Other songs to consider on a soundtrack to life on the road: Man in a Suitcase, the Police “I’d invite you back to my place, it’s only mine ‘cause it holds my suitcase” and 1000 Miles Away, the Hoodoo Gurus: “I spend half my life in airports doing crosswords or attempting to sleep and when the bar is open you’ll often find me warming a seat.”

I’ve been home a week and I have already started planning for the next one. This is effed up, effed up.

The smell of home in the morning

"Home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Welcome JF." I am home again, home to my city, my community and my apartment, and my head is still spinning from road. Some numbers to consider from the last month, 25 hotels, 5000 km of driving, three states, four plane rides, three airports and no duty free scotch. I was at full stride for four weeks and now I have come to a complete stop, now where do I start?

It starts with my own bed, linens and pillows, followed the right cup of coffee in the morning, the one I've done without for the past month, and then the wander. It takes a couple of days to get over the full stop and to allow that recognition of place to settle in. I know this place. It is an act of convincing one's self. This is home, this is where I am comfortable and this is where I belong.

After a couple of weeks on the road the days become one, and unfortunatly they all become Saturday. Every morning begins with the question: "What the hell am I doing awake so early on a Saturday?" The hard thing about this is that after a few weeks on the road I find myself waking every morning a few minutes before the alarm rings. The worst is the idea, then, that waking so early on a Saturday is a voluntary act.

Bad Day at the Office?

But I bet you've never had to dodge traffic on an interstate, in the rain, to stand on a lane barrier, to take a picture of a building. Colleague and intrepid photographer, Steve Li, shows us what it takes to get the job done. Well done Steve, you are a credit to the rest of us, now come down off your horse, and stop raising expectations. And in case you are wondering, there is no hazard pay, it's all in a day's work.

My Slippers Must be Broken

Ok, so my bike shoes are niether ruby nor are they slippers but they click when I walk and this must count for somthing. Perhaps not. Perhaps the magic in my shoes is only great enough to bring me here, and not enough to get me home. I arrived in Kansas yesterday and I have been looking for a tornado ever since. I even heard a klaxon this morning but no such luck, perhaps it was a warning to check my air conditioner.

Yesterday's drive from Nebraska took me down county roads past ranches, farms and the remains of one room school houses. I passed grain silos and corn fields and even a stop on the Pony Express and though I kept my eyes peeled I've yet to see Dotty or Toto. So Dorothy, where are you? And where's you little dog too? So far there's been no Scarecrows, no Lions and no Wizard of oh holy crap what the hell is that smell? Oh yeah it must be the meat processing facility down the street. Imagine putting rotting meat directly on a stove element and seasoning it with moldy macaroni and cheese.

All things considered I had a nice stop for lunch yesterday in Manhattan; Manhattan Kansas. Home of Kansas State and Aggieville, which seems to the college community strip, home of cheap pitchers and bucket nights. At any rate it was a good place to stop for an hour and get out of the car for some food and to stretch my legs even if it was freakin' hot. I would have been quite content to wait out the heat with a couple of the aforemention pitchers. Seriously though, the people I'v met have been super jolly and friendly and all too accomodating considering my random and eratic lane changes.

And from the "Just so you know" file:

What No. 23 Looks Like

Just in case you were getting jealous of my fantastic travels over the great plains I thought I would offer a peak at typical accomodations on such voyages and this is the 23rd different motel room of this trip. I suspect that even Lewis and Clark had more comfortable digs. Well at the very least they came through the area long before Tyson set up a meat processing facility which you can smell from blocks away. Very similar smell in fact to the one I described in an earlier blog regarding road kill and convection oven-like temperatures.

What does poison oak look like?

I know the blog is terrible need of an update. What can I say? I’ve been busy, but I am also at odds over the idea. Isn’t a blog essentially an act of ego? Well maybe I’ve just been mostly busy, and somewhat lazy.

My time in Lincoln is coming closer to it’s end and hopefully that means that I am getting closer to coming home, though it still feels like a month away even if it is just over a week. I have been busying myself with riding this past week and have gotten out for a few great rides in the Lincoln area. I broke down and bought a set of cross tires - off road tires for road bikes - and took to the trails around town which has been a great escape from the thoughts of work and office politics which seem to permeate my thoughts when I am shooting.

Lately I have been dwelling on an incident that happened in the office a couple of weeks ago when I was very publicly excluded from the congratulations for a recent success, a project which I spent six weeks working on. It’s unnerving how easily these things come between me and my day or how dominant that inner dialogue becomes; what we would have said given the opportunity to say it.

A few days ago the heat broke and leveled off at about 85 and I got to head out for a ride through the trees. Somewhere along the trail that inner dialogue drowned in the sound of the cicadas in the trees and the rumble and whistles of a near by train. There I was suddenly giddy, spontaneously smiling and laughing, the world had disappeared except for the hard brown earth and the verdant green of Wilderness Park. Nothing mattered in that moment, not work, not disinterested clients and not loneliness. In the park, on the trails, I suddenly felt very connected to everyone else on the trails, everyone I crossed and everyone who had left their tracks before me. The only thing left to worry about was whether or not that last grove I rode through was poison oak. I guess I should find out what poison oak looks like.

On Friday night a colleague and I returned to a restaurant in Lincoln which I had been to twice before. It can be a great local place with nice food and warm service but on Friday I came to wonder if the restaurant experience is on a sliding scale. The first time you go to a restaurant, a decent one anyway, they treat you great, the food is good and the service is attentive, they want you to come back. When you go back the second time the restaurant is grateful and rewards you for returning. The service is even more attentive, water glasses never get past half full, the bread is warm when it hits the table, and your wine glass is a little fuller than it should be. But all bets are off for the third visit. They impress you on the first visit, reward you for the second, but by the third they know you’re coming back, so you’ll have to endure what ever service they can spare for the night! Oh well.

The picture is from the Mill coffeehouse, not the place in question, in the Haymarket in Lincoln. It’s a great local place, good coffee and free internet access. It’s just a cool place to hang out and, as Steve Li can attest, attracts a nice looking crowd. Not that I would notice such things!

Lunch Break at Big Sal's

Actual conversation overheard at Big Sal’s at 27th and Vine in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Woman at the bar: “So you’re a Canook huh?”

Rob: “Well I guess if you are a Yank, I can be a Canuck.”

WATB: “So I guess it depends on where yer from then?”

Rob: “What does?”

WATB: “Bein’ a Canook.”

Rob: “Not really.”

(Rob: “Can you say knuckle?”

WATB: “Knoockle?”

Rob: “No, not like noodle, knuckle.”

WATB: “Knookle?”

Rob: “Nevermind.”)*

WATB: (to an entering customer) “Hey Bill, hot enough out there for ya? How’s the sidin’ bis?”

*Dialogue in brackets may have occurred only in the author’s head.

The Trouble with Goals

I don’t like country music and I was never a fan of Garth Brooks, but word is he was pretty good at what he did. He sang, he played guitar and he sold millions of cds. He must have been doing something right and you have to appreciate that even if you can’t stand the music. It was in this spirit that I anted up ten bucks on my one day off in Nebraska to see the Americruise Hot Rod show at the Lincoln fair grounds last Sunday.

Since giving up the Falcon almost three years ago my interest in cars in general has actually diminished and though I am not interested in ever owning one there is something to a hot rod that I appreciate. Beyond all that chrome and steel which I find very distracting there is the effort, skill and passion that went into the build. This is what I appreciate. I don’t really care for the noise and some are just garish but when a hot rod is done right it is easy to recognize the skills and commitment which led to the final product. Who am I kidding? There is just something cool about building a shiny car that goes fast.


After the car show I headed back into down town for a coffee at the Mill coffeehouse in the Haymarket district before heading out for a ride. It was Sunday, the sun was shining, I had the day off and the alternative was to spend the day in a smokey motel room at a truck stop in rural Nebraska watching HBO.

The problem with setting goals for one’s self is there may be an expectation of actually meeting them. This was what I was faced with after riding two thirds of my planned ride on Sunday. I planned on riding 75 km to meet my goal of averaging 200 km/week on this trip. The problem with this was that after 50 km, which is no small accomplishment for a 210 lb man in 35 C heat, I still had 25 km to go. Crap. Enter the distance index (See Iowa Heat Index below). The distance index represents the distance a ride feels like. It is a formula whose variables include wind speed, air temperature, and actual distance. It is safe to assume that there are no know values to represent the distance index of the last 25 km of Sunday’s ride.

With wobbly legs and ribbons of salt on my jersey I made it back to the Mill for an iced coffee beverage, a healthy dose of conditioned air and a change of clothes. Thanks to the Mill for the fine coffee, cold air and the bathroom I use as a change room.