A Home Run Postcard for Our Hard Times

It’s hard to imagine a more perfect Summer ’11 postcard than the one we received this week from our dear, close, ancient friend, Jeff. As I have written before, I love and collect postcards. Jeff has been a steady contributor to the collection since we met in Santa Barbara in 1974. Through more than 100 cards he’s sent over the years, we’ve followed him and his family from job to job in state to state and on their modest vacations here and there.

His most recent card is iconic in so many ways. First, as he has superbly done in the past, Jeff has uncovered, with some difficulty apparently (“Took AwhileTo Find This Postcard,” he scrawled), a rare picture postcard; this one  of Target Field in Minneapolis, the newest ballpark in the major leagues. It’s an excellent addition to my overall postcard collection, but also to my slowly growing subset of baseball field cards.

Better still, Jeff captured more than just another ballpark, but a slice of our times and lives as well. You see, Jeff, like me, is a victim of our current wretched economy. And the only reason he’s in Minneapolis and visiting Target Field is because of it.

In 2011, the job he had held for more than 13 years evaporated. Like so many employees, he was let go with no severance, no back pay for unused vacation days, no extended health benefits. Nothing.

So, he and his wife decamped from Milwaukee, where he’d sent us postcards of the Brewers’ home, Miller Park, and made their way to Minnesota because they had some temporary part-time jobs lined up. Hence, the “Celebrate” stamp he’d affixed to the Target Field card struck an optimistic note about the fact that he and Barb were salting away some money.

Further, he jokes in his brief note that he won’t be attending any more than the one game he went to, when this year’s hapless Twins actually won, because, he says, “I May Lose My Perfect Record.” Of course, as a diehard baseball fan, Jeff, like me, would go to any game, if possible. However, his family budget, like mine, doesn’t permit such extravagance. One game a year will have to suffice.

It turns out that the same day his card arrived, NPR’s Talk of the Nation radio program presented a discussion about how our actions as individual consumers and business people were helping or hurting the economy. The segments I heard included callers describing how, in their small ways, they were giving the economy a boost. For example, a gift shop owner in Wisconsin hired two people and a veterinarian was constructing a new office. These were taken as signals of hope.

But behind some of the stories there was more bad news. A gentleman from Salt Lake City said that his wife was going to open a hair salon in their home and she would charge less than a full-scale salon “because people aren’t willing to spend $90 in the salon.” Whether she succeeds or not is not as telling as the fact that people no longer can afford to pay what they once did, even in Utah with one of the lowest unemployment rates in the nation. Another caller noted he was reluctantly going to apply for early Social Security because no one would hire him. And there was also the small manufacturer who was buying cheap automatic saws and NC punch machines from defunct businesses so he did not have to hire people.

Despite some of the happy-talk spin Neal Conan and his guest applied to the vignettes presented by the show’s callers, the underlying facts of the economic anecdotes were grim. This economy remains stuck in neutral, and, for many, still going in reverse.

Had Jeff or I called into the program and relayed that we were earning just enough money through part-time jobs or free-lance assignments to get by, I’m sure the host and his guest could have spun tales about how entrepreneurial we were or how new careers might emerge in our lives. While possibly true, the real truth is that both Jeff and I would prefer to have kept our old jobs, been able to plan for the future, and maybe be able to afford to attend more than one baseball game in a season.

© Mark Everett Hall 2011

Memory Lane: Bikes You’ve Owned

If you could choose the greatest bike you’ve ever owned, which would it be? Has one delivered better memories than your other bikes?

My Torelli Gran Sasso is delivering terrific riding memories today. It’s the best bike I’ve ever owned. Granted, I don’t have the wealth to indulge in the best bikes available. In fact, as I racked my brain recently to recall all the bikes I’ve owned since my youth, none of them can be considered top of the line machines. But the memories of them are all top tier.

If you are of a certain age who grew up in the United States during the 1950s, you may have been lucky enough to ride a Mercury or Murray Western Flyer. Like many kids, I got mine second or even third hand from a cousin who had outgrown it. It was heavy, caked with rust, and clunky, but oh-so liberating.

Every child who learns to ride a bike also learns to explore realms far beyond home on their own. Certainly, “far beyond” is a relative term, but to a child it only needs to be around the corner, across the street, and out of the neighborhood. Beyond the basic skill of riding, inspiring riders to venture further into the big, bad world is the greatest lesson cycling imparts on the young.

My Raleigh and Schwin Continental, which were also hand-me-downs, taught me the genius of the pulley system with their gears. I discovered that hills, once daunting, could be mastered with a little technology, liberating me even more.

After I got my driver’s license, cycling became less important than sitting behind the wheel of a car. Still, I did have a Chiorda 10-speed, which I used as backup for when my teenage clunkers broke down and I had to get to school. It was my first bike that got stolen.

In college I went through a series of bikes, including an Azuki (which was stolen) and a Motobecane Nomad (ditto). While in graduate school at the University of Kentucky I seldom owned a car and depended on my bikes. The best of the bunch was a long-term loan of a Motobecane Super Mirage from my  sister-in-law. I racked up thousands of miles on it and managed to keep it out of thieves hands.

My next great commuter bike was a Peugeot mountain bike. I used it two or three days a week to pedal to and from my editing job at Sun Microsystems.

As my publishing career in the Bay Area took off, however, I seldom commuted to my jobs on a bicycle. As a low-level executive, I discovered that arriving sweaty to morning meetings did not further one’s crawl up the corporate ladder. Still, I did own a Giant Farrago hybrid that I used to burn off the frustration and anxiety that those jobs created inside me.

Now that I’m a freelance writer, working from home, I can keep my career frustrations to a minimum. I also get to ride frequently. So in addition to my Torelli, I ride a Bianchi Denali mountain bike. Each one cranking out memories for me one ride at a time.

Which raises the question: Am I less frustrated in my work because my job has changed? Or am I less frustrated because I get to ride so often?

© Mark Everett Hall 2011

The Cat v. the Wife as Muse

While my wife is away tending to her mother, Mrs. Shasta Waddlepuss is looking after me. She makes certain I wake early and get to the keyboard, so long as I attend to my duties at her cat bowls and litter box first. She keeps me at my desk by plopping her not insubstantial self on my lap to hold me in place, and puts up a noisy fuss should I attempt any kind of getaway. She is a taskmaster.

Shasta fancies herself my muse in the long tradition of cats inspiring writers. She cocks her head slightly as if listening intently when I describe my latest writing dilemma. She purrs her approval when I announce the completion of a first draft of a story. And she’ll give me an I-told-you-so stare when I get an e-mail with a new freelance assignment.

However, compared to Cathie, Shasta is a lousy muse. Certainly my wife has been known to plop on my lap, though her intention is seldom to keep me writing, And, truth be told, I don’t think I’ve heard Cathie ever purr her approval about anything I’ve written in first draft form. Still, she is my undisputed perfect muse.

For nearly 40 years Cathie has patiently reviewed literally hundreds of essays, articles, short stories, and even drafts of novels. She’s given me feedback on the logic or lack thereof in my arguments and storytelling. She questions my dubious organization. She corrects my grammar. And, oh boy, does the Comma Queen nitpick my punctuation.

The best muse not only inspires work, she critiques it. She suggests better words. She knows when a sentence should go or if a new one is needed. She improves upon the execution of an idea rendered in prose.

In this regard, Cathie is perfect. But more importantly, she does so without sarcasm or spite. Each piece she reviews is taken on its own merits. If I take a stab at science fiction, she doesn’t roll her eyes and state the obvious that I don’t know enough to attempt it. If I decide to take on the political establishment in an essay, she doesn’t point out that my ramblings will not be heard let alone embraced. She accepts my sincerity and delivers a sincere analysis.

It’s her openness that has helped make me a success as a writer. Never once has she warned me that I was out of my league or I’d be better off not taking chances. Her only goal was to make whatever I set before her eyes into better work.

I’m the luckiest writer in the world to have such a muse. And I’m pretty lucky as a husband as well.

 

© Mark Everett Hall 2011

My Pain-in-the-Ass Riding Partner

Mike, my riding partner, is a nag. He’s pushy. He goads and mocks me. He calls me names. He pokes fun at my age and makes derisive comments about the size of my butt blocking his view when we ride single file.

I love him.

Needless to say, I verbally throw it right back at him. It’s how we inspire each other to venture out in lousy weather, to take the hillier ride, to increase our performance, and to do the things necessary to cycle regularly.

Without Mike I would not ride nearly as often as I do. Maybe I’m feeling lazy or think I’ve ridden enough for a week. Then he’ll call or e-mail to say he’s had a tough day and needs to burn off some steam on the bike. And I’m there with him.

Likewise, I’ll ring him up and say, “Let’s ride.” And he’ll saddle up with me.

A riding partner is more than an inspiration; he’s also a life saver. Yesterday, I stupidly forgot a water bottle. Mike brought two. Oddly enough, he never brings two. But for some reason, he did. And I drained it. I can’t count the times he’s used my tire pump when fixing a flat. Mike is a magnet for all things metallic and sharp on the road.

He and I have been riding together for nearly eleven years now. In that time I’ve seen my performance increase at all levels–total miles, average speed, RPM. You name it. I’d be lying if I said I did not owe my improvements to him.

This notion hit home hard in the past year. Mike’s life was turned upside down because of a life-threatening illness in his family. He devoted all his spare time to caring for his loved ones. Among his many friends, I lent a hand. But as anyone knows who’s experienced similar crises in their lives, all the outside help in the world can’t handle everything, and little of it can assuage the emotions that boil inside.

Thankfully, after a long, scary, and difficult series of medical procedures, the dangers have passed. Mike’s family health crisis has shifted into a remarkable recovery. So, he’s able to ride more frequently again.

While he was fully engaged in the crisis, I rode less because I did not have him to prod me to go out as often. My performance suffered, too. I did not have him to taunt me into picking up the pace or choosing the steep side of Skyline Road. Now that he’s back, I expect to improve quickly.

Still, I have been able to ride much more than him during the crisis. He’s a little out of shape compared to me. That’s only natural. But it won’t take long for him to return to his old form. Until then, I’ll have some trouble seeing around his big butt when I ride behind him.

© Mark Everett Hall 2011

Zero Year Riding and Mortality

There’s a good argument to be made that if Aryabhata, the great Indian astronomer of the 6th century, had not invented the zero, I would not be typing on this computer, you would not be using the Internet, and we’d all be living in medieval conditions. Without the zero, higher mathematics, computer languages, modern technology, and so much more would be inconceivable. The zero is the most important number in existence.

Beyond the societal implications of the zero, it’s generally one of the more important numbers in our personal lives. We celebrate our zeros. Any event numbered with a zero is special: 10th anniversaries, 40th birthdays, 50th reunions, and the like. It’s hard to get anyone excited about a 24th birthday or a 16th annual class reunion. But slap a zero on a celebration and you can fill the house with fanfare and frivolity.

I am now in my 60th year, but expect no special parties and certainly no big gifts. I had my big birthday blowout when I turned 40 and have been around long enough to have collected enough material comforts.

I plan to celebrate by attempting some cycling goals. I’d like to take a half dozen 100 kilometer (60 mile) rides. And I am hoping to take a 200 km (120 mile) ride later this summer. If my body can do these things, it will be celebration enough for me.

Turning 60, more than with any zero year birthday I’ve had, my thoughts turn to my own mortality. I will die. And soon, relative to my birth year. When you turn 50 you can trick yourself into thinking you’ll live to see 100. But at 60, there’s no fooling yourself that you’ll make it to 120.

Fact is, while I’ve always been a bike rider, it wasn’t until I turned 50 that I became a dedicated cyclist. I bought a serious road bike and got a mountain bike as well so I could ride in almost all conditions. Like many people I increased my devotion to cycling to improve my health and, let’s be honest, to keep the Grim Reaper at bay.

Shedding a few pounds, adding some muscle, and improving my lung capacity was my strategy to live longer. There was nothing original in my thinking, but it offered a glimmer of hope that, barring some unforeseen accident, I would “not go gentle into that good night.” Foolish pride, I know.

Realistically, this will be the last zero year birthday that I can celebrate with these kinds of lofty (for me) cycling goals. Time is too ruthless of a companion to cut me much slack. I’ll be happy to lift my leg over a bike frame should I reach my 70th year. Maybe I’ll get a raucous party instead. Nice, I suppose, but not the same.

© Mark Everett Hall 2011

The Bullshit of Branding for Writers

There are no miracles in marketing. That’s especially true for writers. To draw attention to your work, in the parlance of so-called social media mavens, you need to have a brand and flaunt it shamelessly to the masses.

Access to social media, they say, is a great leveler. Writers can reach out across the great Worldwide Web and claim a brand and advertise themselves accordingly.

But there are two major impediments to this one-size-fits-all strategy. First, there’s the incessant noise of every other writer promoting his and her brand.

“Advertisements are now so numerous that they are very negligently perused, and it is therefore become necessary to gain attention by magnificence of promises, and by eloquences sometimes sublime, and sometimes pathetic.”

So said Samuel Johnson in 1758. He could have been talking about Google Ad Words or banner ads online. Just as in the mid-18th century, standing out in the crowd as a writer today is a matter of luck or an investment of riches.

The second problem is with writers themselves. Contrary to popular perception, few of us are hucksters, willing to thump our chests and shout from the rooftops: “Read me! Read me!”

That’s what publishers are for. Writers write. Publishers print and promote the writer. Or they once did.

Yes, many famous writers are good at self-promotion. And one could argue, they are famous because they are relentless at the task. Johnson himself was a tireless self-promoter. But the very nature of writing for most of us is to shun the spotlight, to work in solitude, hoping against hope that the work will stand on its own.

Johnson once said, “No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.” Without becoming a recognizable brand, we’re told, financial success will elude the modern writer.

I respectfully disagree. Writers aren’t brands. If you think of yourself as such and your work is merely to promote the brand, you’re a sad case of a writer. This doesn’t mean you have to be a wallflower. If you’ve written something fine, tell people about it and use all the social tools you have at our fingertips. It would be foolish not to.

But don’t write to fulfill your brand. Don’t constrict yourself. Don’t hold yourself back. Take chances. Wander intellectually and emotionally into ideas and realms where brand has no meaning. Be bold. Ignore the advice of hucksters. Define your own success. Above all: just write.

© Mark Everett Hall 2011

Wind: A Cyclist’s Lament

Earth contains a lot of air, 5,600 million million tons of it. Most of it is in motion. And, if my biking experiences are indicative of its direction, it’s generally blowing right in your face.

Of course, I exaggerate. Wind comes in all directions. And here in the Willamette Valley it never stops coming from one way or another. Although, statistically, 60% of the time the wind blows here from the south or west. It just seems like it is always a headwind.

Frankly, I’d rather encounter a ride crowded with one hill after another than a strong wind. A hill is a known entity. It’s just so steep and so long. But a wind is unpredictable and potentially dangerous.

On a road bike a wind can be tricky, especially when careening downhill around a bend while a gust takes you unawares, affecting your balance. And gusts blow a-plenty here, coming from any direction, swooshing up and down and around the canyons, gullies, and ravines in the Coast Range and Cascade Mountains as well as the ample hills in the narrow Willamette Valley. Then there’s the constant affect of the nearby wind-surfing capital of the world, the Columbia River Gorge, which every day averages 16 kph winds and has daily gusts much, much higher.

It’s interesting to note that, according to Lyall Watson’s fascinating Heaven’s Breath: A Natural History of the Wind, about half of all heart attacks and strokes occur when the wind is blowing between 24 and 40 kilometers per hour (15-24 mph). He also notes that a Swiss touring club reports that during the local wind phenomenon, the föhn, car accidents rise by 50%. And while I lived in Santa Barbara, local lore had it that crime rose during the Southern California Santa Ana winds.

Wind can be a great training tool for some. Olympic rider Christian Vande Velde, who made the USA team in 2008, claims a strong headwind can simulate hill climbing, essential to any racer. The problem I have in training in the wind on the few flat areas of the “valley” here is that the wind shifts. I can’t count on it coming from one direction for a steady length of time.

Without the wind, life on Earth could not exist. But wouldn’t it be nice if it just blew a little less often and a little less hard?

© Mark Everett Hall 2011