So it begins.

Me, 40, wow.

The Usual Suspect

Got rounded up today.  Happened to walk past an unnamed police department with a long-lensed camera in hand.  Hopped in my car and got pulled over three blocks later.  Lights, big guns, and all. No big deal, they were just worried I might be a terrorist on stakeout.  Only to my cat, but that's another story.  I'm mostly harmless.  No, really.

What happened is that I bought a new computer AND discovered the joy of RAW images.  The two combined have resulted in a second attempt at Project 365 and codependency with my Canon Rebel XS.  One photo a day. For a year.  Some are going to suck, but a great exercise in discipline and forced creativity.  Or so they say.  I'm expecting a few days of desperation with close ups of my belly button at midnight.   Should you wish to follow, my flickr feed is here. 

Self Portrait

Friday Redux

Thanks to a truncated work week I can now join the ranks of the seemingly idle. For years I've wondered who are these people who hang out in coffee shops on random weekdays, seemingly educated and employable but far from any office or workstation. As it turns out, they are me. 

Death With Dignity

The good old days, when people could die with some originality.

The Lost Tribe

We're an odd lot, Iowans beyond state boundaries.  I've heard enough migration stories to classify people into one (or more) of three categories: pursuit of fortune, pursuit of love, or mere adventure.  We yearn to know each other, to speak of our shared connection like survivors of some Atlantian catastrophe, regardless of the social circumstances or prior acquaintance.  I left for good reason (along with over half my high school and college classes), though part of me belongs to the great prairie in my heart.  Others must feel the same.

I've lived in many places: east coast, west coast, south, midwest, and abroad.  Some are insular, some are welcoming, some could care less.  Regardless of locale, Iowans reach out to one of their own.  This is never more evident then when I wear my RAGBRAI jersey.  Yes, it's an epic bike ride.  But it also identifies you as part of a tribe.  Never have I gone out without one random person walking/cycling alongside and asking which year i rode, where I'm from, and/or telling me what part of Iowa they're from.   The first time was pleasant.  The second felt like dumb luck.  The 45th was almost annoying in their yearning for connection.  It must stem from a sense of forced separation from a place of love and belonging.  Portland seems full of Iowans, it makes me feel at home. I like to think the best of us moved here.

I'll admit that I enjoy meeting others from my adopted home state, having technically been born in Texas.  There's a shared sense of experience, culture, and friendliness that I just don't get from Californians or Pennsylvanians (no offense). But why do Iowans reach out so much, almost pathologically, in a way that others do not?  I'm truly at a loss.  Are we trying to save the family farm of our heart, even if we grew up in a factory town?  Or are we listening to James Earl Jones, hoping people will come to the places we left behind, longing for the past.  It's a quirk, but I don't mind, for it reminds me that I'm not alone in my nostalgia...

Observations from the Saddle

About a year ago I started biking 'round town.   Mostly on long distance training rides for ridiculously absurd rides across Iowa or to the beach.  Thing is, when you spend four hours on a bike you tend to look around to keep the brain interested.  Here's what i've learned about Portland:

Distinct dog zones define the geography of the city.  West of the river you find accessory dogs like chihuahuas, whippets, and newfoundlands.  Inner Southeast (west of 82nd) is the home of family dogs: shepherds and collies.  Beyond 82nd one finds a master race of pit bull owners with bad attitudes and long leashes.

Log cabins and sheep farms exist within city limits.  I still get nostalgic at the smell of manure.

It's possible to experience clouds, rain, hail, snow, and sun all in one ride.  Each of them can and will hurt you, just in different ways.  Love the pain and embrace rules 5 and 9.

Homeless people also like to bike, with or without alcohol.

Ghetto convenience stores carry power bars and gatorade, if you don't mind being on surveillance video, and Ikea meatballs taste pretty good after a 30 mile ride, though people will stare at your lycra clad form.

Don't forget to lube up.  Seriously.  Not as kinky as it sounds, or nearly as much fun, but necessary if you do want to frolic later that evening.

Mount Tabor is seriously steep, but the tranquility of the summit is worth it.  If only I didn't feel so guilty at disrupting the early morning Tai Chi practitioners with my labored breathing.

Train schedules matter.  Not because I want to ride them, but to avoid getting stuck at a crossing for 30+ minutes.

Sauvie Island rocks for what it does have (stunning scenery, naked beaches, berry farms), but sucks for what it doesn't have (water fountains or an ATM).  Ride prepared.

The portland body is not hard to acquire:  rock hard legs from riding, and a soft middle from all the beer...