How Am I?

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Three weeks after ejecting from my roadbike and skimming across Center Street, I feel somewhere between two-thirds to three-fourths of the way back depending upon how much I’m asking of my bod. I don’t cry when choking on pistachios anymore. And I’m walking a lot, cycling a little, and I ran all of two miles yesterday even though I couldn’t breath very deeply at all. And I’m hoping to get the gills wet Monday at Masters swimming. Thanks to everyone who has checked in. Your texts and calls have meant a lot. They have made me feel a lot less alone.

More importantly, how is my soul five months after Lynn’s passing?

The second hardest adjustment has been the near complete loss of the connectedness to everyone who showed up for Lynn so consistently until the very end. Everyone, of course, quickly returned to their normal lives. I understand that, but it has still been disorienting. The house is so dang quiet.

However, the single hardest adjustment has been the loss of Lynn’s constant love, which as it turns out, I grew more dependent upon than I realized. As an introvert who digs solitude, I always fancied myself as fairly independent and resilient. LOL. In the immediate aftermath of her dying, I felt like the guy in the opening of MadMen.

Despite MSA’s slow motion devastation, I was unprepared for what, at the very end, felt like the pulling of a trap door. Which compelled me, two months ago, to go on a couple of dates which really upset my daughters whose well-being is as important to me as my own. And so now, as a result, I am disconnected from them. So disconnectedness upon disconnectedness.

Within that larger context, there have been what we in the Pacific Northwest call “sunbreaks”. Moments in the week, when the clouds separate just enough for warm, healing light to briefly shine through. When Steve calls during one of his Camino training walks to see how I’m doing. When Kevin calls. When MARN calls. When Lou, from high school, reaches out. When Mark invites me to walk. When Kris reaches out and comes over and listens to me ramble like the wonderful counselor she is. When Lil’ Chris sends a heartfelt card and note and invitation to a community event. When the college roommates write to see how we’re doing. When Marybeth sends this card.

Damn, that’s what everyone said, “I’m so happy I met Lynn.” I miss the KChrises, the roommates, Marybeth. Lynn’s people.

More sunshine than a sunbreak, I am not dating anymore because I’ve met someone special. Someone incredibly sensitive to my grieving and the family’s. Someone who watched Lynn’s memorial service on YouTube and said, “I wish I had known her.” Someone who gives me confidence that I will be alright. Especially when my daughters can accept my free falling self and we reconnect.

Sunday, Mother’s Day will be especially hard for A and J. Here’s what I want them to know. I turned on Lynn’s phone recently and there were 99 text messages. One dated 12/16/25, the day after she died, was piercing. Lisa, her boxing coach texted, “I love you Lynn. No more pain. Rest in peace.” Followed by a purple heart and strong arm emoji.

I want them to find solace in their mom’s legacy. So many people loved her. So deeply. We were very fortunate to be among them for as long as we were.

Sentences To Ponder

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From John Gruber:

“The Pentagon pegs the cost of the Iran War so far at $25 billion. Larry Ellison currently has a net worth of $220 billion. That’s just short of 9 Iran Wars. But since the start of the war on February 28, his net worth has grown $46 billion. That’s about 2 Iran Wars during the time of the actual Iran War thus far.”

Postscript. Today, apparently, Ellison’s networth is up $6b.

How Not To Win Friends And Influence People

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I couldn’t take the relentless mix of fear and negativity on “Nextdoor” so I unsubscribed. But it’s one of those subscriptions that makes it especially difficult to unplug so I keep getting occasional summary “digests”. From which the above missive comes.

C.W. is on a mission. And maybe my right wing nutter friends are right about me and I’m just a snowflake since C.W. has 83 “hearts” and counting.

But it seems to me, if the goal is to effect change, the tone is all wrong. What evidence is there that chastising improves behavior?

HAD C.W. employed me as their* editor, the first thing I would’ve suggested is change the Frump-like all caps because what evidence is there that yelling improves behavior?

C.W. seems to think the future of hummingbirds depends upon their righteous indignation. The whole damn bird/insect/nature ecosystem, if not life itself as we know it, seemingly hangs in the balance.

Other edits. Because less is more, delete the first two and last two sentences at minimum. Make it less personal and accustory and insert a “please” or two. In other words, more sugar water and less fire hose.

The “free of charge” final draft.

Recently, I saw a hummingbird with it’s tongue out which made me think that some people may not know how important it is to clean their feeders with soap and water every few days. And please, if you see white filmy crap, use white vinegar and water to get rid of bacteria. Mother Nature, the hummingbirds, and I thank you.

p.s. Great 60 Minutes segment last night on how birding has revived parts of Colombia’s forested areas and economy that until recently were riddled with political violence. One of Colombia’s, and the world’s most well known birders said that hummingbirds “are complete warriors always fighting for territory”. Who knew they were so agro?

*Why do I assume C.W. is female?

Paragraphs To Ponder

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Very sad news from The Seattle Times.

“Even the wealthiest residents are having a rough time in the Seattle area’s real estate market.

Hitting the market at $85 million in 2022, Bruce McCaw’s Hunts Point mansion was once the most expensive home for sale in Western Washington. The telecom magnate and his wife, Seattle-area philanthropist Jolene McCaw, sold the home last week for $38 million — $47 million under its original asking price and $16 million under its assessed value. 

. . . The home stands out among Hunts Point’s collection of luxury waterfront homes. The 12,600-square-foot mansion contains five bedrooms and 10 baths, while the property holds a beach house, a staff house, a cabana, a tennis court, a pool and plenty of space for a seaplane and a yacht.”

Related. I’m always frustrated when I buy a house only to learn afterwards that there’s not room for the seaplane and yacht.

I’ve Seen The Future And Eek

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The Feed, whose motto is “Food for Athletes”, is a newish, trendy, growing biz where more and more endurance sports kids are getting their fuel.

And if there’s any chance I might be a wee bit cool by association, I’m going to conform. So today, I received a text message from The Feed saying my most recent order of carbohydrate drink mix, energy gels, and engery chews had arrived.

Lo and behold, when I opened the front door, the big ass box looked like it had been chewed completely open by a colony of beavers. Even worser, the smaller box of 30 gels was also opened. And somehow three of the large gels had opened and were all over everything in the box. Resulting in one very large, very gooey mess.

Somewhere, there’s a colony of beavers absolutely ready to rip some trees apart and drag them into a stream. Right now, everything I ordered is in the kitchen sink waiting to be rinsed and dried.

No, this is not remotely equivalent to the challenges you’re dealing with today. I’m not seeking sympathy for what is ultimately an inconvenience. This is a story about the future having arrived too soon. Or more specifically, about how shit early AI customer service is.

I emailed The Feed. Told them what happened. Shared the pics for emphasis. Asked for a new box of gels. Seemed reasonable.

A minute later, “Matt-bot” replied:

The P.S. says Matt-Bot is better than a real live human being 87% of the time. LOL. The response I received falls squarely in the 13%. When they write that Matt-Bot is “designed for quick, complete resolutions” what they mean is we can employ far fewer people, lower our overhead, and increase profit margins for our shareholders’ benefit. At least in theory.

My fave part of the reply is the braindead closing, “Keep pushing”. Brah, all I was looking for was a run of the mill, “Very sorry for the inconvenience.” Well, and maybe a, “We’re committed to making it right. . .”

I switched from emailing an AI bot that strangely uses personal pronouns to emailing a human being. I wrote, “Really disappointing impersonal reply to my email and pictures about the gels arriving opened and getting over all the contents of the torn/opened big box.”

I have not heard back yet. Which is okay because I’d much rather have a slow, but thoughtful human reply than one from an uber-fast, weirdly impersonal AI customer service bot. I’m afraid, that in relatively short order, more deliberate, thoughtful, and humane responses may be a thing of the past.

What To Worry About

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Among the selfless things I do for my beloved readers, paying some attention to Trump’s True Believers has to be near the top of the list.

Think of MAGA like a glacial iceburg. That’s calving. The number of defectors is on the rise, but like in a cult, there’s still a lot of True Believers who literally cannot find it in themselves to criticize the foreign policy of the best President since maybe Lincoln.

After listening to Lindsey Graham and others of them express absolute appreciation for Trump’s Middle East war, I’ve come to this conclusion. Their anxiety is different than yours and mine.

They are not worried about . . .

  • healthcare access and affordability
  • rising prices for things like food, insurance, and gas
  • increasing incidents of gun-related violence
  • the impact of environmental degradation on their daily lives
  • polarization in politics and the future of democracy
  • the rise of Artificial Intelligence and it’s inevitable impact on job security
  • housing costs, or about the future of Social Security, or about whether they’ll ever be able to retire
  • their families and their mental health and well-being
  • the quality and accessibility of education. . .

Nearly as much as they are about the Iran’s nuclear capabilities. When they wake up, they seemingly ask themselves, “Is today the day?”

All of us are anxious. But the roots of the True Believer’s anxiety and most of ours are radically different.

With Apologies To My Sissy

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Who often reminds me, as only a loving big sissy can, “It’s not all about you, Ron.” But this post might be. 😜

A subset of humble blog readers, who also happen to be personal friends, have reached out to see how I’m doing post bike accident. Which I’ve greatly appreciated. Here’s more than they, and you, prob wanna know. If my sissy has read this far, she’s rolling her eyes.

Five of us were enjoying a truly beautiful spring day, sunny, 50’s, meaning built-in air conditioning. In a pace-line, we were two hours into a two hour and twenty minute ride, baring down on Tumwater High School at 20-22mph thanks to a slight tailwind.

I was fifth of five. The lead rider, who has been relegated to Witness Protection, did not point out a small, but deep divot in the road. Remember sports fans, whenever you’re on the front, your main responsibility is to the be the eyes for the whole train. Rider number four hit the devilish divit head on, and as a result, slowed quite a bit. I was sitting my customary three feet behind him and didn’t have enough time to avoid riding into his back wheel. At the last fraction of a second, I turned my wheel to avoid his, but all that did was create an angle that launched me dead left into and across the center of the road. Picture a rock skimming across a glassy pond.

My skimming across the pavement happened right in front of a kind and caring woman on the way to work. Had she left for work 20-30 seconds earlier she very well could’ve ran over me. She checked on me and called it in while my friends looped back to provide additional/wonderful support. Soon, a bevy of young male firefighters began asking me questions and poking and prodding me. If I was gay, I would’ve immediately started feeling better. They asked me who the President was, and I said, “Oh man, I feel badly enough already.”

My friends studied my helmet and saw that there were no scratches and so everyone knew my compromised cognition was just my normal state of being. While I was sliding across the road, I was sure I’d broken my collar bone or hip or both. When I came to a stop and was able to sit up and eventually get to the side of the road, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that apart from road rash on my right shoulder, elbow, and knee, all the damage was confined to my right rib cage. Which hurt like a motherfecker.

The fire boys recommended I go to the hospital for a more thorough eval, but they have to say that, right? One also stated with a wink what all my cycling friends and I already know from experience, there’s absolutely nothing they can do for broken ribs.

Meanwhile my friends were putting my chain back on and checking out CanRon, the name of my newish whip, which remarkably, was almost entirely unscathed, maybe because it first bounced off me instead of the road.

Then, I somehow rode it home chapperoned by the team until we got to Deschutes Falls Park and then BC rode with me all the way into the garage atop the Fifth Street Bridge. There’s only two explanations for how I made it home under my own power. Stupidity and adrenaline.

The first night was scary. I had help at dinner, but afterwards, when alone, I was unable to move. I could hear my ribs rattling when breathing, which was even painful. My doc cycling friend who fancies himself a comedian, advised, “Just don’t move or breath.” Eventually, I tried to get into bed, but ended up half on the edge of the mattress and half off. Then, I couldn’t get off the edge of the bed. There may have been a lot of moaning and even tears. Masculinity is overrated.

Eventually, I had a good idea, which like the aurora borealis, happens on occasion. The recliner for the win. Somehow, I slept as well in it as in bed. And that continues to be the case.

I read it takes twelve weeks to recover, but my doc cycling comedian friend texted this yesterday, “You can do activities as tolerated. It should start getting better about 2 weeks after the injury. It will be mostly gone by 6 to 8 weeks.”

The good news is I am way, way better already, six days in. Yesterday, I walked 1.25 miles to the gym, cycled for 30 minutes, and walked home. Just don’t ask me what kind of watts I was pushing. It’s amazing to be able to go from sitting to standing without feeling like someone is jamming a huge butcher knife right into my side. Now, it’s more of a butter knife.

So, my goal is to be back running, cycling, and lastly swimming, closer to six weeks than eight. I mean I need to be ready for the start of the Tour de France in early July. And time is wasting.

Unlike me, the white Oakley frames did not survive the crash. And for the unusually observant, energy gel in cheek, not chewing tabacco.

Powell’s Bookstore And Officer Jenkins For The Win

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From the “Keep Portland Weird” Facebook Page.

MAN ARRESTED AFTER BREAKING INTO A FAMOUS BOOKSTORE ON BURNSIDE AT MIDNIGHT TO FINISH A BOOK HE “WASN’T GOING TO BE ABLE TO SLEEP WITHOUT”

Leonard “Lenny” Whitaker, 67, of Portland, Oregon, was charged Tuesday with breaking and entering after slipping into a closed famous bookstore on Burnside through a propped emergency exit at 12:10 AM—all to finish the final 47 pages of a thriller he had been quietly working through in the armchair section for four straight afternoons.

According to the report, Whitaker discovered the book on day one, read for several hours, carefully re-shelved it spine-out for easy retrieval, and returned daily like it was a part-time job. On day four, he was politely asked to leave at closing with 47 pages left—at what he later described to officers as “an absolutely unacceptable emotional cliffhanger for a man my age.”

Details from the police report:
Located the book in complete darkness using his phone flashlight in under a minute (“muscle memory,” he claimed)
Returned to his exact armchair like a seasoned professional
Came prepared with reading glasses, a granola bar, and what officers described as “focus”
Finished the remaining 47 pages in 1 hour and 14 minutes
Re-shelved the book properly (alphabetically, no less)
Found seated calmly with the book closed in his lap, staring into the middle distance like he’d just unpacked something personal
When officers asked if he was okay, Whitaker replied,
“Yeah… I just thought it was going somewhere else.”
He declined to elaborate.

Officer Jenkins noted in the report, “He didn’t run. Didn’t panic. Just… needed closure. Honestly, we’ve all been there.”

The bookstore has declined to press charges, despite the abandoned granola bar wrapper, which management described as “mildly disappointing but understandable.”
The book has since been purchased by three customers. Whitaker has not returned.

He came for answers. He left with… complicated feelings.

Postscript: Alternative Title, “Powell’s Bookstore, Officer Jenkins, And Whomever Left The Emergency Door Propped Open For Whitaker For The Win”

Little League Legend

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Sometime in the middle of my recent California cycling adventure, I wondered, what are we even doing, turning the pedals, for hours, every day?

The only thing I could come up with was extending our childhoods. We were men and women consciously choosing to be boys and girls of old.

Then, my peabrain shifted to my earliest memories of cycling in Louisville, KY in the late 1960s. When first learning to ride a bike, I remember someone, guessing an older sib, holding the seat and running alongside me until they weren’t. And then I remember swerving bigly, a few times right into metal mailboxes that dotted the edge of the road. Like Louisville’s own Cassius Clay, down goes Ron! Eventually, I swerved less and less.

My earliest, most vivid, fullblown cycling memory, was a year or two later, when I was dominating the kickball field at Zachary Taylor Elementary. It was this exact time of year, April, and Little League baseball tryouts were right around the corner.

Six or seven years old, my pals and I knew we needed a few hours of spring training before tryouts, so we laced our gloves onto some Louisville sluggers and laid them across our handlebars which we balanced precariously with balls bulging from our pockets. And then headed to a very nice, very large park, about a mile or two from our dented mailboxes.

Once we got to the park, we noticed the tennis courts sat under about 10 inches of water that had, until recently, been snow and ice covered. Maybe, we thought, as we took off our shoes and socks, we should splash around the courts a bit before officially starting spring training.

Within a few minutes, I sliced the bottom of my foot by stepping on a metal twist off beer top. The water turned red and I grew faint-headed. Someone hurriedly called my mom who lit into me. Since I’m the youngest of four, she was DONE with emergency rooms. On the way to get ten stiches, she got all up in my grill and said, “IF YOU EVER TAKE YOUR SHOES AND SOCKS OFF AND CUT YOUR FOOT AGAIN, DON’T CALL ME!” Which is pretty damn funny now, given how kind and caring she normally was. Everyone has a breaking point.

I think this was a Thursday and tryouts were all day Saturday. Even though Spring Training was cancelled on account of blood, I rallied, and showed up at tryouts on crutches. Shagging fly balls like a young Ken Griffey and even chucking the crutches and hobbling into the batters box to take some ferocious cuts like a young Andy Pages. A legend in both Louisville Little League history and my own mind.

Needless to say, the coaches were impressed with my pluck. I vaguely remember a bidding war breaking out. I told the coach that finally landed me that I didn’t want a bag, but if he could do something nice for my mom, like maybe comp her snow cones for the season, I’d greatly appreciate it.

The legend, with a scar on the bottom of his foot, fourth from the left.