Naples or Bust

Why in the world would I pack up my bike and other riding necessities then travel to southern Italy to ride? It's pretty simple, actually. Last year was a bit of a downer in terms of riding distance and I needed to get the numbers back up, at least a little. So, riding in Europe seemed to be the quickest way to that end. The theory behind this is a bit technical, but I have not seen it explained any better than in this dialog between Frazz and Caulfield:

Let me tell you, it worked like a charm for me. In the 12 days of riding, I got in right at 1,000 (kilometers). That's a much bigger number than the 621 (miles) that would have passed under my wheels had I made this same ride at home. And I confess, I tried to have my GPS record in furlongs, but never figured out how. A real bummer since I would have recorded 8,000 for my efforts. Now THAT would have been a good start to the season!

It was a long trip from La Crosse to Naples, the starting point for the tour, although not for the riding. As luck would have it, with all of the hours in planes and airports, we still had to negotiate a tight connection at Milan's Linate airport, the smaller of two serving this large city in northern Italy. Short by plan, it was further shortened by the delay in our arrival from London. We could have been stuck there save for the personal attention we received. Upon emerging from passport control, we were immediately greeted by a young lady who said she was there to guide us to our departure gate. Smaller though it may be, it would not have been easy for us to have found our way from the lower arrivals area to the gate on the main floor in time to make our connection. In addition, our guide arranged for us to move to the front of and quickly through the security check, getting us to the gate just as the last of the other passengers were boarding. We had made it and were on the ground in Naples about an hour later.

It could have been the effect of the fatigue and sleep deprivation of the long journey that led us to agree to take the taxi offered us by the driver in the terminal building. Or, it could have been stupidity. For talking purposes, we'll go with the first one. This driver had a van parked across the lot from the rest of the taxis. A sure sign... but, no, we went ahead and had him take us to the hotel anyway. Let's just say we paid for the privilege of riding with this gentleman. Of course, if we had had our bikes and luggage, we would have needed the van. Did I mention that our belongings did not, apparently, get the special treatment at Linate that we received? Oh well.

In the off chance that you know about Laurenz, our tour leader, you will not need to be told this, but our hotel was located on the highest hill around. I was thinking it was good we were in a motorized vehicle. It was (still is, I guess) a nice hotel overlooking the Gulf of Naples.

When we walked into the lobby, we met Bob and Pat. After getting settled in our rooms, not a big production when all you have to stow is your backpack, we set off for dinner at a nearby restaurant. It was a nice walk down the hill and a good meal, although Pat was not feeling at all well. Then, there was the walk back UP the hill. A motorized vehicle would have been more than welcome, but I just accepted it as part of the pre-ride training, something we would get a good dose of it in the few days we had in Naples before setting off on the cycling part of the tour.

No bikes, no luggage. But we were in Italy and ready for the tour. All-in-all, it was a "so far, so good" kind of a day. Or two. It was hard to tell.

Far Away Places #5

Perhaps this is cheating, but just a little. London is the far away place I have visited most often; I am not sure how many times, but it's likely more than the number of fingers and toes I have to count with. A few years ago, I wrote an account of one of those visits. The one on September 11, 2001. It fits the theme of the Far Away Places series so I thought I would just offer it again, exactly as it appeared for the first time.

Dreadful
"We've just heard news from the States; apparently something dreadful has happened." And indeed it had.

We walked across the little park with the gazebo, an oasis in front of the engineering building at City University London. It was, and still is, all the campus there is at this university that is more scattered than sprawling, buildings hither and yon in this area on the east side of London. I was here to participate in the biannual International Conference on Compressors and Their Systems; Shirley, as she had been at previous conferences, was with me. As we mounted the stairs in front of the classroom building to greet the conference chairman and his wife, we were met with the pronouncement of dreadful goings on back home.

A tour and dinner were on the agenda for this evening, starting with a boat trip on the Thames and a visit to the London Eye before gathering at the headquarters building of the Institution of Mechanical Engineers (IMechE) at One Birdcage Walk. The architect for the London Eye project was to give an informal accounting of his experiences during its design and construction before we gathered for a light meal.

We did in fact take the boat tour; a few of our British hosts were making calls on their cell phones, but details of what had happened across the Atlantic were hard to come by. The London Eye had closed out of security concerns. The skies over downtown London, normally busy with planes approaching Heathrow from the east, were quiet. Our guest speaker sent his regrets, but informed us he had friends in New York City and was trying desperately to reach them.

It was only when we retired to the reception area of the IMechE offices that we saw in the horrific detail made possible by modern video technology the terror that was visited upon the people of New York and Washington; the tragic story of heroism aboard United Airlines flight 93 would unfold later.

Later, Shirley and I got in touch with our daughters to discover that they had thought we were planning to be flying home on this day. We were mutually relieved to be able to confirm that all were well.

I called American Airlines about our September 13th flight. Not surprisingly, there was little information to be had. The next day I was told it would probably be Tuesday, Sept. 18, before we would be able to return home. The agents I talked to were noticeably and understandably upset. The agent I spoke to on Thursday broke down in tears. I talked to her a bit, told her I honestly could not fully appreciate the pressure under which she was working, and thanked her for just being there for those of us trying to get back home. It was this call that convinced me to accept the Tuesday departure. I did not call again. It just seemed unfair to the agents who were struggling so mightily with the task of getting everyone back while trying to deal with their loss as well. Also, I knew from the news that many of the stranded were far worse off than we were, having as we did a hotel to sleep in and no shortage of places to eat.

The people of London treated us kindly. Our hotel offered us the reduced rate arranged for conference guests for the duration of our stay. The Turkish family who ran the tiny café across the street where we had most of our breakfasts provided coffee at no extra charge. A more upscale fish restaurant offered free appetizers. One young man stopped us on the street and said, “Hey Yank. We’re behind you all the way. Hope you get the b------s that did it!”

We discovered a small restaurant in Embankment Park, a short walk from the tube stop through a flower-bedecked green space. Sitting outside under a glorious tree that sheltered the entire patio area, one could escape, briefly, the unthinkable awfulness of Tuesday, September 11, 2001. And, at the same time, reflect on the fact that you know you would never forget it.

Wouldn't it be nice if no one ever had to the hear the words, "Something dreadful has happened in..." again?

Far Away Places #4

Osaka, Japan

As it so happened, it was on a business trip to Japan that I was able to demonstrate Bushu-suru. Let me explain…

In the way of many businesses, leaders where I worked and at a company in Japan decided it would make sense to enter into some sort of cooperative agreement. My role was to work with Hiroyuki, an engineer working in Osaka. Our task was to evaluate each other's compressors and render opinions as to the possibility of each company manufacturing and/or using the other's in their products.

Hiroyuki came to La Crosse and we spent time together in the office and the laboratory, discussing features of the compressors we were comparing and making plans for operational tests and other engineering evaluations. During his stay, he came down with a bad cold and we explored the local Walgreen's. This was a foreshadowing of things to come during my subsequent visit to Osaka, as it would turn out.

So, some months after Hiroyuki left La Crosse, I made the long trip to Osaka, my first and only visit to Asia. The plan was for me to visit the offices and factory, getting an introduction to the company; a few others who had visited the facilities before, would come a couple of days later.

Getting to the hotel from the airport was a breeze as all of the signs in the airport and on the train I took were in English as well as Japanese. Same at the hotel. For example, I encountered this warning in the bathroom in my room: "Avoid contact with water. Danger of electric shock." This advice was, mind you, on the combination toilet/bidet seat. Nonetheless, I appreciated the fact that the warning was provided in my native language so I could… OK, that's another story altogether.

The next morning, Hiroyuki met me at the hotel and led me to the nearest subway stop for the ride out to his office. As we went down into the station it became obvious that the coddling of non-Japanese speaking tourists was over. As far as I could tell, all signs were in Japanese only. Like this one:

Now what essential advice do you suppose we are being provided here? Right, I don't know either. I'm sure some of the signs said "Exit," "To the Trains" and "Tickets." Or perhaps there were things here that I should not allow to get wet lest I suffer some dire consequences which were described on the warning. I'll never know. What I did was grab ahold of Hiroyuki's coat. Tightly. For the duration of the ride.

The factory tour was interesting, but I was feeling progressively less well as the morning wore on. When we returned to the office, my stomach was in full protest to the effects of the long flight and 13 hour time difference. Coffee, water and light refreshments were offered in the conference room set aside for the meetings, but there was no way. Rather, I suddenly became very ill, right there in the meeting room. A few things were demonstrated by this. One was that it is not possible for embarrassment to be fatal. I am sure of that, since I am, after all, writing this account many years after the fact.

But more to the point, I got to see first hand just how kind and considerate my hosts were. Several people came to my aid, expressing great concern over my well-being and insisting that I not concern myself with cleaning up as they were already on the task. In fact, they escorted me to the director's office where I was able to use his private washroom then lie down on the sofa in one part of the large room.

It was only a short time later when I began to feel a little better and volunteered to continue with the meetings. They had other plans, however. Hiroyuki escorted me to the office of the on site company doctor who prescribed some medications which I picked up at the on site company pharmacy adjacent to his office. I was then escorted to the reception area where a company car was waiting to take me back to the hotel.

Every hour that passed found me feeling better and that evening I was even able to confront an appetizer of octopus and other seafood delights at the hotel restaurant. I didn’t order it, of course, but just being able to consider it represented significant improvement.

So, I hung in and the rest of the trip went well. There was, in the end, no agreement for the kind of cooperation envisioned early on and I have not seen Hiroyuki since those few days in Osaka.

As you might remember, much the same thing happened to President George H. W. Bush in 1992 at a banquet at the home of the Japanese Prime Minister. Accounts of this event include references to the fun that late night comedians had with it. It was even a joke in an episode of The Simpsons. Years later, there were references to what became known as Bushu-suru, meaning "to do the Bush thing."

It's too bad that humor (and ridicule) are what seem to have been the primary reactions to that unfortunate event. Because my experience showed me the kindness and concern of the people I was with that day.

Epilogue
During his stay in La Crosse, Hiroyuki told me about "Yamato Damashii," which he said meant "Never Give Up Spirits!" It was the idea that you should not give up in the face of adversity. He had a headband with the words written on it and he wrote out the characters on a paper napkin. You know, in case I wanted to get a tattoo someday.

Seriously, it has not been an easy time for the people of Japan. I can only guess, but perhaps the concept of Yamato Damashii is an encouragement as they struggle to rebuild and I would also guess Hiroyuki would offer it as such. So, here it is, in his hand:

Far Away Places #3(b)

St. Petersburg, Russia

As I am sure you can imagine, bickering between the US and USSR provided ample opportunity for those so inclined to practice espionage, subterfuge and other forms of mischief. And while my visit to this beautiful city on the Neva River took place about 6 years after what is generally considered to be the end of the Cold War, I engaged in a bit of sneaking around myself. It wasn't quite up to the standards of James Bond or George Smiley, but I did manage to go undetected until I decided to just give myself up. Here's the story:

Cancelation of a planned visit to a local compressor manufacturing facility provided a day off to explore a bit of St. Petersburg and its environs. It was Olga's turn to babysit accompany us on our explorations and she met us at our hotel in the morning. We were going to take a hydrofoil out to Emperor Peter the Great's summer palace, the trip on the high speed water craft being one of the attractions of the visit. Light rain was falling and we suggested taking a cab to the pier, but Olga said it was not so far and we could just walk. It was about two miles.

When we got to the dock, we were informed that the boat was not running because, well, because it wasn't. It might be making trips again tomorrow. But maybe not. That's the way Olga explained it. She said a lot of services in the city were like that – hit or miss. You just have to show up and take (or not) what you find. We set off on another short walk, only a mile this time, to a central bus staging area. Olga suggested we give her some money which she would use to purchase our tickets. When it was time to leave, she took us aside and said that we should not talk while we were on the bus. "Why is that?" I asked. She said, "I bought resident tickets. If they hear you speaking English, then they will know you are tourists and charge you the higher price for tourist tickets."

I was thinking it wouldn't have been any more obvious that we were Americans if we'd have had Old Glory tattooed on our foreheads. But, we did as we were told and kept our mouths shut. As the bus pulled out of the station, a lady got up at the front, took out a microphone and started talking to us. It soon became evident that we were not on a regular transit bus, but were now members of a tour group.

Without a clue as to what we were being told, we rode in silence. Once at the palace, we disembarked and our guide starting waving everyone into a group. She then motioned to Olga and took her aside for a private conversation. Olga came back and told us, "The guide knows you are tourists." Well that was a shock. So, we were busted. But not so fast…

It turns out that the guide also told Olga that she had a plan. It seems beating the system is a popular pastime in Russia and our guide rose to the challenge of getting us into the palace without having to pay the "tourist price." She called our tour group, about a dozen in addition to us, and had them gather together in a cluster, with us in the center. What we had to do was to get past the babushkas – meaning grandmothers or old ladies; that's what she called them. They collected the tickets and would turn us in if they saw we were trying to get in at resident prices. The group shuffled through the gate, looking like a giant, single-celled organism with the Americans and their Russian co-conspirator forming the nucleus. And you know what? It worked. We had been successfully smuggled into the palace grounds and were now free to wander around the spectacular gardens. Our guide conducted the tour and Olga translated, but only when she was sure no one outside our group would overhear her. Because if they did, they would certainly tell the authorities and we would have to pay the "tourist" price.

Still, it seemed as the situation was a little less restrictive and we enjoyed the walk immensely. Then, it was time to start the tour of the palace. And wouldn't you know, our guide was not allowed to conduct the tour as there were special guides provided for that. So once again Olga tells us that she cannot translate and we cannot talk to each other while inside, lest we are found out and end up having to pay the "tourist" price.

We decide that maybe there is another way. We ask Olga if we could just buy tourist tickets and then not have to skulk around in silence for the rest of the day. She said that we could to that and, except for the extra money we would have to come up with, it wouldn't be a problem. "How much are we talking about?" I asked her. "Two hundred roubles." That was about $5. "So, if we pay $5 and get tourist tickets, then you can translate during the tour and we can talk to each other and not have to worry about being carted off to some Gulag for the rest of our lives?" I didn't really say that last bit. But I'd been thinking that it was a possibility, given our nefarious behavior. "Sure," she replied. We bought the tickets, thus ending our little gambit and certainly avoiding a nasty international incident.

It was a spectacular place and we had an interesting and informative tour. It was about 2 p.m. when we finally left the palace for a last brief stroll around the gardens. We had not had anything to eat since our early breakfast and we inquired as to the possibility of lunch or at least a snack. Olga responded by digging around in her purse and pulling out an orange. She peeled it, broke it into thirds and gave the two of us our share. Lunch.

A few hours later, the bus was approaching the stop in the city and we asked Olga if she would join us for dinner. "No thank you," she said. "Why not?" "I don’t have any money," she replied. And it all fell into place. Walking to the dock and bus stop, tourist tickets, sneaking into the palace, a single orange for three. She was taking care of us, and doing it with what she had.

We ate at the Chaika, a restaurant whose name translates as Seagull. Olga told us that she lived at home with her parents, a brother and an uncle. Her father, uncle and brother were engineers, but only her uncle was employed. She was studying engineering, but it was not at all certain that she would find a job when she graduated. They had very little, although the "non-tourist" prices were quite a bit below what we saw as Americans. In addition to having little money, there were shortages of consumer goods of all sorts. Kirill had told us earlier that many people carried around lists of clothing sizes for all of their family members on the chance that they would stumble upon a shop that actually had something on its shelves.

When the bread came before we were served our meals, Olga took her share, wrapped it in a napkin and put it in her purse. She also had a large portion of her meal boxed up to take home for her family. It seemed it was something she did, taking care of others. Maybe she had to do it for her family, but not for us.

I know where Kirill is as I see him every other year at the International Compressor Engineering Conference at Purdue. But it has been years since I have heard from Olga. I hope it worked out well for her.

Here are some of my pictures from St. Petersburg. While it might have been a little rough around the edges in 1996, it was a beautiful city. I guess it still is, actually.

The Compressor Conference in St. Petersburg
With Professor Yuri Glaerkin, our host

Here we are with Kirill and Olga

He Made His Own Pressure Transducers

Banquet - The Scene of the Too-Short Speech

Around the City
Our Hotel







At the Summer Palace




Next: The land of the rising sun.

Far Away Places #3(a)

St. Petersburg, Russia

Raise your hand if you are well-read enough to know what these students are doing:

OK, you can put your hands down now. If you said "duck and cover," then you know your 1950's history. The students are practicing getting to safety in the event of a nuclear attack from then arch-enemy, the USSR. Seriously, did we think that this would really work?

Now, if you are old enough to have actually participated in one of these drills, then you can sit back and take a nap as you are, like me, getting too old for all of this excitement.

That was the way it was during the cold war. Lots of posturing and sabre rattling. Times were tense, brinksmanship was defined in the Cuban Missile Crisis. The iron curtain went up. We knew who the enemy was. Eastern Europe was off limits.

Then, in 1989, the Berlin Wall came down, this followed by the dissolution of the USSR in 1991. In 1996, I had a chance to make a business trip to Russia. I had met Professor Yuri G. at a conference in Hannover, Germany and he invited me to visit the St. Petersburg State Technical University for a compressor conference. Two of us from Trane made the trip to see just what we might learn. From our former enemies. I really had that thought, what with having lived for more than 45 years in the environment of duck and cover, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the Berlin Wall.

We stayed not too far from the University and had planned to take the subway to the conference. However, we were met at the hotel and taken by car. It seems the subway tunnel on the line had collapsed and there was a difficult-to-negotiate switching from subway-to-bus-to-subawy to get around the impediment. Turns out someone in city government decided to save money by shutting down a big refrigeration unit that ran all of the time. What they apparently missed was that the machinery was keeping the marshy ground around a section of the subway tunnel frozen. Once the ground thawed, it wasn't long before the cave in. In any event, we missed all of that and arrived at the university in style. Here's the name badge I was given. The bold letters in the center spell out my name phonetically in the Cyrillic alphabet. The CWA at the bottom is "USA" and the words just above that say "Trane Company."

The conference was conducted in Russian and while the two students assigned to assist us during our stay – Kirill and Olga – whispered highlights during the sessions, we missed most of what was said. But, we had come to talk about work at the University and that went quite well. We met a number of people there, including an older professor (I'm that old now) who told us, among other things, how he would spend months making instruments that we could simply buy in large quantities for our work. Things were not easy for anyone we met during our visit.

When the conference was over, there was a banquet. This is apparently required of those hosting meetings in Russia. You WILL have a banquet for everyone to get together and celebrate the completion of the program. There were long tables with food and drink, lots of drink. As the meal was winding down, the president of the University got up and began to speak. Kirill told me that he didn't know much about compressors, but was hoping that we had found the conference valuable and thanked us for coming. He said more than that. A lot more. He talked long enough for most everyone at the tables to stop paying attention. But, when he was finally finished, he lifted his glass to offer a toast. Everyone in the room IMMEDIATELY stopped talking, took up their glasses drank the toast with him.

After this, Professor G. spoke. Kirill informed me that he was talking about highlights of the conference and saying how pleased he was at the quality of the papers and the interest showed by all of the attendees. And, as with the University president, he said a lot more. But he too eventually got to a stopping point and so raised his glass, a gesture that everyone had apparently been waiting for as they once again followed suit without hesitation.

A few more people, including some conference attendees, repeated this process and we were making quite a dent in the liquid refreshment that had been set out on the tables. At some point, I decided that I should get up and say a few words on behalf of the foreigners in attendance. I discussed this with Kirill who agreed it would be a fine idea. My plan was to say a few words and have Kirill translate. Then, I would bring out the full measure of my Russian vocabulary, and tell everyone in their language, "It has been very nice. Thank you very much. Cheers!" I thought it went quite well.

When I was done and I had sat back down in my seat, the professor whom I told you about earlier, the one who made the instruments, leaned over and whispered to me, "That was very good. But, it was SHORT!" Oh well, now I know. And I've been trying to make up for that too-short speech ever since.

That was a memorable moment, but it was the other things I learned about this clever man that made the greatest impression. He had, as it turns out, survived the siege of Leningrad, which lasted for 872 days. It was an event that cost 1,500,000 people their lives and those who survived did so in spite of dreadful conditions. He said that near the end of the siege, families received a daily ration of a single hunk of black bread about the size of your fist. He had a card in his wallet, certifying that he was a siege survivor.

I learned a little about how he made his special pressure transducers. He talked about how St. Petersburg (nee Leningrad) had blossomed as an educational and cultural city and we chatted about engineering stuff. He was pleasant and interesting to talk to, this "former enemy." Makes you wonder how we come to view other people that way. And how we can even get moved to lay siege to cities where people like him live and work.

As happens to me all too often, I have forgotten his name. But I remember his story, his lesson in resilience. And, how he led me to making after dinner speeches of proper length. Please, do not hold that against him.

Next, another story from my visit to St. Petersburg.

Far Away Places #2

Munich, Germany

After slicing across England, the big DC-8 bearing the name Snorri Jørgenson descended slowly, crossing into continental Europe somewhere over Belgium. Looking down on the forests below gave me a feeling I imagined must be like that which astronauts Anders, Borman and Lovell experienced when they became the first men to fly over the surface of the moon. It wasn't that the trees looked any different than if we had been flying over, say, northern Wisconsin. But I KNEW… we were flying over, and would soon be touching down in, Europe!

It was the early 70's; we were armed with little more than Icelandic Airlines tickets, Eurail Passes, copies of Cook's Continental Timetable and Europe on $10 A Day and what might have been a bit more optimism than was warranted. But, we were young and about to set off on the great adventure that would be recorded in the annals of travel history as the First Grand Tour of Europe. Or maybe it's just the second entry in the Far Away Places series. Whatever…

What a trip it was. Luxembourg, Germany, Austria, Italy, Switzerland and France. So many things we saw in those little more than two weeks. For example, late in the trip, at the train station in Brig, Switzerland, I encountered my first squat toilet. After dropping some coins into the slot on a stall door, I looked in and saw only a ceramic fixture in the floor. Thinking it must be a shower, I moved on and used my remaining coins to open another door. I saw the same fixture. Paying more attention this time, I realized I was looking at a toilet! Travel is, to be sure, an educational experience.

So many sights and stories accumulated during that trip. You might think it would be hard to pick a single, defining experience. Yet there is one that stands out, even today. We had found a room in a family-run hotel near the Munich Hauptbahnhof. It was small; the lone toilet was in a little room down the hall. Next to that was a larger room with a bathtub. It was (and still is) the biggest bathtub I have ever seen. Getting in could have been an obstacle on a Marine Corps basic training course. And there was this gas fired hot water heater, mounted on the wall next to the tub, hanging there at about eye level. It would come on suddenly with a loud "whoosh," giving you reason to want to get out of the tub in a hurry. Except you couldn't.

It was a good place for a couple of days, being near the train station and, like all of our rooms during the trip, inexpensive. We ate breakfast in a room off the kitchen, sharing the small space with a few other guests. Family members manned the desk, prepared the breakfast and cleaned up around the hotel. It was all so, well, European.

We and the staff/family had rudimentary command of each other's languages and were generally able to manage essential communication. On the evening before we left, I talked with the lady at the desk, telling her we would be leaving early to catch a 6:30 AM train to Salzburg. I knew that the daughter would go out in the morning to shop for provisions and wanted them to know that we would not be around at 7:00, the start of the breakfast hour.

We left our room the next morning at about 5:30 and moved quietly across the lobby. But, before we got to the door, the daughter came out from the kitchen and greeted us. She had paper bags and gave each of us one. Inside: bread, cheese and salami. Our breakfasts.

Of all the memories of the trip, this remains one of the most vivid. It was quite unexpected. And very much appreciated. It wasn't anything she had to do and we certainly hadn't asked. She just did it. Because, I guess, she cared enough to get up early, prepare the breakfasts and get them to us even though there wasn't much chance of us becoming repeat customers. I do not know her name nor remember what she looked like. But she provided a lesson in simple kindness. Yes, travel is an educational experience.

Coming next - behind the iron curtain.

Far Away Places #1

Bradford Island

California and Oregon can lay claim to having Bradford Islands within their boundaries. The one in Oregon has, perhaps, a more interesting history, as, according to one account, "On April 9, 1806, Lewis and Clark camped near Tanner Creek, on the Oregon shore opposite Bradford Island." It is a fascinating place. I suppose; you know, since Lewis and Clark stayed there. But I couldn’t say for sure, since I've not been there myself. Yet, Bradford Island is where I learned more than a few lessons and from which I took many memories.

It all started in April, 1945 with the Kaiser Company at Swan Island Shipyard in Portland, Oregon. The yard was one of four built to support the war effort by constructing T2 tankers. T2's, by the way, are 500 foot long ships that could carry almost 6 million gallons in their 9 cargo tanks. The 135th T2 tanker built by Kaiser at Swan Island was named Bradford Island. And, in the summer of 1968, I spent three months on her, hauling oil from ports in Texas and Louisiana to New Orleans, Tampa, Fort Lauderdale and Wilmington, North Carolina. It was quite the summer job for this, at the time, college sophomore.

My travels up until this time had been limited to family vacations, with a single solo trip, that a flight from Atlanta to Jacksonville, Florida to visit a friend from the few I years when I lived there. Now, I found myself alone in Houston, a card carrying member of the Seafarers Union, checking the job postings in the small office near the YMCA where I was staying. On the second day, I picked up the card for a spot on the Bradford Island, washing dishes in the galley. After that, it was a quick trip to Lake Charles, Louisiana, where I boarded what would be my floating home for the rest of the summer. The next day, we left for Tampa. On the way, I overheard the Steward say he was going to need to post for a waiter in the officer's mess. Being a quick-witted college student as I was, I volunteered to take on the waiter's duties if he would post for a dishwasher instead. We agreed to that plan and my hands were soon out of the water.

Working on a tanker is not exactly the best way to see the highlights of the U.S. Gulf Coast. We were at sea a lot, and the ship could load and unload fairly quickly so there wasn't too much time ashore. Add to that the fact that the docks were situated far from the big city sights, this due in large part to the disaster at Texas City, Texas in 1945. A fire on a ship in the harbor detonated 2,300 tons of ammonium nitrate, leveling the city and killing 581 people. Hence, docks servicing tankers have tended to be a bit farther from population centers.

So, it wasn't the sights that made that summer memorable. Sailing as a merchant mariner was exotic, for sure. Well, if you are a sophomore at Georgia Tech. It was a summer of a boatload of new experiences and interactions with quite the variety of people.

One of those people was the ship's master, Captain Salinas. A trim man with olive skin and dark hair, looking every bit the Greek officer. He showed me the bridge, let me take the helm one day and gave me lessons in using the LORANCE unit for navigation. All-in-all, it did not appear to me that he had much real work to do.

But one night, as I was relaxing on deck while we were docked again at Lake Charles, one of the ship's engineering crew came stumbling up the gangplank, bleeding from a wound on his arm. When he got on board, he looked around and headed off, apparently hoping to make it to the refuge of his bunk. He had taken hardly a step when Captain Salinas called out to him, "You're drunk and you've been in a knife fight!" Before the man could respond, the captain continued, "I WILL NOT tolerate that from anyone in my crew. I will post your job at the union office in Tampa where you will get off of my ship." There was an attempt at a reply from the man, but he was obviously intimidated by the captain and when he was told to get to his cabin, he scuttled off without a second's hesitation.

I recalled this incident often and came to understand over the years that Captain Salinas did not have a soft, cushy job, standing on the bridge and ordering other people around. Rather he had the toughest job of all. He was responsible; for the functioning of the ship in pursuit of the company’s business; for the safety of the communities where the ship loaded and unloaded and for the crew of 35 men (34 men and a college-aged temp, at the time, actually).

I think he did not see a drunken, injured seaman. Rather it was the risk to all that the captain was responsible for that this man and his inability to follow the rules of the ship represented. And, as Captain, it was not his job to rehabilitate the man; it was to act positively and quickly for the benefit of the others who were relying on him.

It was a "watch the feet, not the lips" lesson. Captain Salinas could have just said he was responsible; he could have demanded at least the appearance of respect due simply to his position. Or, he could act quickly and decisively when such was called for, demonstrating responsibility and earning real respect. It was the latter I saw that night in Lake Charles.

I wish I would have put all of that together while I was on the ship, but it took me a while to absorb all of that summer's lessons. So it is quite likely too late, but, "Thank you, Captain Salinas."

Bradford Island
Polaroids from my scrapbook; mine was the top bunk, by the way.





In research for this post, I discovered that the Bradford Island was "jumboized" in 1970 with modifications to the cargo and forward sections, increasing her length from the original 500 feet to a whopping 619 feet. She was scrapped in 2000. I have to admit, it made me a little sad when I read this.

Next up, the first grand tour of Europe.

Far Away Places With Strange Sounding Names

Someone said recently that “every bucket list has a travel destination.” Who doesn’t harbor thoughts of a special place they yearn to visit? When I was at the airport in Osaka, Japan I saw a Mongolian Airlines plane named Genghis Khan. It was going to Ulan Bator. Ulan Bator made it onto my list.

This “I wonder what’s over there” thing has been with me for a long time. And far away places with strange sounding names have had a special appeal. My father worked for TACA Airlines when I was growing up in New Orleans; they flew to Central America, to places with names like Tegucigalpa. “What would a place with a name like Tegucigalpa be like?,” I’d wonder.

As it turned out, I would find opportunities to visit some far away places. A few with strange sounding names, others that everyone has heard of. Travel for work provided many opportunities, taking me to Berlin, Germany; St. Petersburg, Russia; Vienna, Austria; Stockholm, Sweden; and Pescara, Italy just to name a few. I’ve been to London more times than I can count. As far as personal trips, there have been visits to Alaska and Hawaii; Helsinki, Finland; Toronto, Canada; San Antonio and Virginia Beach. Yes, I’ve been lucky, very lucky.

As a result, I’m often asked what has been my favorite place to visit. At first, I tried to name one. But I was always aware that each city or town or village was special in its own way. And each had a special place in my memory. And that made me think; think about why I had fond memories of this place or that. What they had in common and what was unique. So I thought I’d share with you some of the reasons I came up with.

The plan is to have a series of “Far Away Places” posts, each with a story or two. Each pointing towards what is, in my opinion, at the heart of what made the places I visited special. This is a series that needs to be written. Because I want to share it with you. And because I don’t think there’s much more I can drag out of my bicycling exploits.

I’ve already gotten ideas for nine stories to share. No doubt, I'll think of a few more along the way. So, pack your bags because we'll depart in a few days. Up first will be the tale of Bradford Island, a place perhaps you have not heard of before.

Grand Slam!

I've talked about various projects we have been part of in Africa over the last several years, as you know. One of the elements of our work with primary schools has been to make sure that the teachers at the schools we partner with have bicycles. It is a good program I think. But, wait until you see this!

Grand Slam for Zambia

Kudos to the organizers and contributors...what an amazing feat they pulled off. I am blown away. And, given some ideas. Stay tuned!

Climbing in Italy

I have the new trainer; there's still some time. Now, if I can just use them both. It certainly is not like getting the bike out on the open road, but the Tour de France trainer does provide a challenging workout with some interesting features to keep my mind occupied. Speaking of the bike, such as we were, it is all dressed up and ready for the party in southern Italy. Here it is, fresh from the shop at River Trail Cycles where Dan worked his magic, getting it tuned, cleaned and dressed up in new tires and handlebar tape:

Being personally neither tuned nor dressed up, I'm not showing a picture of myself. Just in case you were wondering.

As for the training, I took on Stelvio Pass, a seven mile climb through 48 switchbacks as my first ride of the evening. The connection to Google maps is up and running, so I can share some of the ride with you. Here's one of the switchbacks on the early part of the climb, this view taken looking back down the road from where I had come.

A little later, I encounter this, not something you really want to see when you are riding up the side of a mountain.

Amazingly enough, I rode on without incident. A bit further on and I've gained some significant altitude, although the ride has not yet gotten me above the tree line.

Later, now well above the tree line, I approach another cyclist.

As is so often the case when I am climbing, I quickly overtake him and leave him behind.

With less than a mile to go, you can look up at this inviting scene:

I don't know about you, but that looks like a seriously bad stretch of climbing. But, I push on and am finally rewarded with this welcome at the top:

And there you have it, an early evening ride in the Italian Alps. No problems with traffic, weather or hoses across the road. It was, all-in-all, a fun ride.

Now, in case you have forgotten, this is a ride taken on the trainer in my basement. The pictures are screen shots from my iPad, showing parts of the Google Maps Street View images displayed as I rode. Not real. And there just MAY be one or two other elements in the post that you might want to take with a grain of salt. You know, because I might have exaggerated my riding prowess. A little. OK, a lot. But it was an imaginary ride so to speak, so I suppose I can bestow upon myself some imaginary climbing skills.

Faux Miles a Day

That's my training program. Faux miles. Just like last winter and the winter before that, riding a trainer in the basement. But ride I must, if I hope to be able to make it through the Southern Italy tour (a REAL ride) that is now just a bit more than a month away.

As revealed in my last post, the faux miles I am riding now are more of a challenge and I get to see so much more than the selection of NCAA basketball games and Law and Order reruns that I have used as distractions to the dullness of stationary riding, oxymoron that it is.

The trainer is in touch with the the iFit Live web site and that, my friends, has opened up a new world of basement-bound bicycling. Today I was able to start of with one of my old standby rides, a trip up Bliss Road followed by a drop down County FO so that I could climb County OA and return home. I plotted the route using Google Maps and saved it as a training ride in my account. When I started pedaling, my iPad, which is sitting on the trainer, lit up, showing me the Google Street View as I rode through the neighborhoods between here and the start of the Bliss climb. Just up the climb, I found that there was no street view option, so I watched myself from the bird's eye view provided. When I reached Highway 33, the street view tok over again. Here is what the setup looked like at that point:

"Riding" along highway 33 east of La Crosse.

As I follow the route, the trainer increases and decreases the resistance automatically to simulate the climbs and descents and further adjusts when I change gears. It's about as much of a real ride simulation as I might expect for a bike that goes nowhere.

There is the added benefit of being totally unrealistic in allowing ride routes. After I finished the Bliss, OA ride, I popped over to Switzerland and climbed Grimsel Pass from Gletsch to the top. Alas, there was no street view, but it was a good climb. Here is the view from the saddle:

Going up Grimsel Pass.

Here's what the pass really looks like:

I have done this ride in real life. I think it was harder and the view was a lot better when I was really there on my Trek. Still, it was a good top-off to the day's workout. Tomorrow I plan to ride a couple of segments (not full stages) from the Tour de France, these being provided in a workout planned by Jillian Michaels, so I am informed by the iFit website. I am not aware of her having any any Tour de France experience, but the segments do follow routes where Street View is available and that's good enough for me. Then, to finish off the ride, I plan to swing over to Italy to climb Stelvio pass; I've already checked the route I mapped and I should be able to see the road and surroundings on my iPad as I climb.

Riding that provides a workout is what I am after, of course. But, with all of this continent hopping, I can also feel the faux flyer miles building up. Win, win, so it seems.

Reveal

Bedbugs???? But sure enough, one of you figured it out. So, I might as well finish the reveal.

As noted in this picture, new acquisition was just a bit bigger than a breadbox:
Opening the box, I found the contents to be VERY well packed. The instructions actually showed said contents rising out of the top of the container. The reality is that this thing weighs in at over 100 pounds and it did not take me long to see that there was going to have to be a plan B. Such as, rip open the side of the box to gain access to the contents.Assembly was really pretty easy and even though I am an engineer, it all came together without a hitch. Here is the final product:

Of course, I have been pedaling indoors on a trainer set up to support my own bicycle. But now, I've graduated to this Pro-Form Tour de France simulator. It uses variable magnetic resistance controlled by a computer system that is connected to the world (well, a piece of it, in an e-sense anyway) via my in-home wireless network. And, it is "iPod Compatible." What else could you ask for?

There are Tour de France segments loaded that you can ride while the "bike" tilts up on climbs and down on descents with pedaling resistance changing as appropriate. I can follow progress on a map or a route profile on the small screen. With the promise of, for the price of an additional attachment, even being able to view the route in real time via Google Earth 3D. And, once I get everything set up on the internet, I'll be able to chart my own rides using Google maps.

Snow? Cold? Dark? Not a problem. I just hope I remember I'm in the basement when it comes time for a "rest" stop.

Getting It...

My first thought when I got up this morning was that it doesn't seem a lot like Christmas here on the island of Kauai. But, reflecting a bit, I realized what I was reacting to wasn't really Christmas, was it? So, Mele Kalikima, Froehliche Weihnachten, Joyeux Noel, Feliz Navidad, Kuwa na Krismasi njema - wherever you are, have a very Merry and Blessed Christmas!

Producing Results

"Productivity" gets a lot of attention these days. Simply stated, productivity is how much we make with what we have. A business might look at total sales per employee, for example. The higher the result, the more productive the business.

As with most things deemed important to business, there has been a lot of research into this in recent years. However, the seminal work on this subject was carried out some time ago by two young graduate students, Phineas Taylor Barnum and James Anthony Bailey, at the Ralph Flugelschnauzer Institue of Industrial Engineering and Entomology. While Barnum and Bailey went on to éclat in a related field, they are certainly best known for their insights into maximizing worker productivity.

Working in the Institute's Department of Flea Physiology and Psychology, they hit upon the idea of measuring how much each of a flea's legs contributes to the altitude achieved when it jumps. Previous work with a group of ten fleas showed that 2 inches was the normal jump height; additionally, it was observed that each of the ten fleas would, when they decided to jump, reach almost exactly this same level. So, Barnum and Bailey selected one of the fleas at random for their experiment, noting that the standard productivity of the fleas' legs, or their "leaping assets" as they called them, was 0.33 inches per leg, this being simply the result of dividing the assets' output - a 2 inch leap - by 6, the number of legs on the standard issue flea.

The experiment started with training the flea to jump on command. This took several days, as they took their candidate aside and repeatedly said, "JUMP!" while giving it a gentle nudge. When the flea was able to respond to the command every time, they began their work. They had the flea jump and measured the result. Not surprisingly, the flea jumped 2 inches, verifying the previously observed productivity rate of 0.33.

Since productivity is a ratio, it can be improved if the numerator is increased or the denominator is decreased. The researchers felt that it would be too much trouble to improve on the fleas's basic leaping abilities, so they decided to work on the latter by removing one of the flea's legs. They then issued the command, "JUMP!" Not surprisingly, with 5 legs the jump was a bit less, 1.9 inches to be exact. But this works out to a productivity ratio of 0.38, a significant improvement!

Their excitement could hardly be contained as they went on to the next step in the experiment: removing another of the flea's legs. "JUMP!" they commanded and the flea responded by achieving an altitude of 1.7 inches. Hardly paying attention to this decline in output, they hurriedly ran the numbers through their spreadsheet and found that the flea, now 4 legged, had become even more productive with the ratio soaring to a level of 0.43!

So it went. With 3 legs, the flea's output dropped to 1.4 inches with productivity rising to 0.47; at two legs, the jump was 1 inch, leading to a productivity ratio of 0.50.

This was just about too much for the excited researchers to bear. They were on the verge of discovering a plan that would revolutionize business in the years to come. With baited breath they commanded the now 1 legged flea to "JUMP!" The resulting leap of 0.55 inches brought the productivity to the unprecedented level of 0.55 inches per leg. So surprised were they at this result that they commanded the flea to jump again, this time measuring a leap of 0.54 inches. Once more and the flea leapt 0.53 inches and again for 0.51 inches. Clearly they had some noise in their measurements, but they were so close to achieving the ultimate in productivity that they decided they needed to press on and so removed the last of the flea's legs.

"JUMP!" they commanded. But the flea just lay there. "JUMP!" Nothing. They tried again, "JUMP!!!!" But there was no movement at all. Still, they entered their measurements, such as they were: 0 inches with 0 legs. The answer that came back was #DIV/0!

Not being able to process data from the last phase of their experimental program, they eliminated the results from the study and went on to write their final treatise on productivity, How Cutting the Legs out from Under Your Organization Can Improve Tomorrow's Numbers.

It should be noted that, in accordance with the interdisciplinary nature of the Flugelschnauzer Institute, the researchers also included a contribution to the field of flea physiology. Their conclusion? "When a flea loses all of it's legs, it becomes deaf."

But there is more to the story, although it has not heretofore been revealed. As Barnum and Bailey were running their experiments, the janitor building maintenance engineer would come through the lab and observe the goings on. He noticed that every time the scientists said "JUMP!" the nine other fleas not part of the experiment would also leap into the air. As the experiment wore on, they got plenty of excercise and began to jump higher and higher. When the final report was written and released, things got quiet in the lab and the maintenance engineer decided to try his own experiment. He got out the standard scale that was used to measure the flea's jumps in the primary experiment and shouted out, "JUMP!" Nine fleas accommodated him, each leaping into the air a distance of 3.4 inches. Not only was the output more than had ever before been observed, the average productivity of the fleas with their full compliment of legs was a staggering 0.57 inches per leg. Go figure.

Productivity is also important where I work and, of course, I am eager to contribute. Recently I've been busy upgrading one of my computer programs for use in new projects. This requires adding different features at the same time as the program is being used for the work at hand. Several times in the last few weeks, I've started the day dealing with programming conundrums, struggling through arcane code and various other obstacles. But, as it happens, I've had breakthroughs of sorts in the afternoons and have been able to leave work feeling pretty good about the progress.

As I look at the data associated with these events, I notice that the problems all seem to crop up in the morning and persist through to the early afternoon. Then, in fairly short order, things turn around and the issues get resolved.

How does this play into my own personal productivity? Well, as I've noted, the hours from 7:00 a.m. to about 3:00 p.m. are generally problem-laden. On the other hand, things go swimmingly from 3:00 to 5:00. My conclusion? Stay away from the office until 3:00, then put in two good hours and go home. The way I see it, my productivity would increase by at least a factor of 4. The logic MAY be flawed, but I am willing to run the experiment. Just in case.

Disclaimers
Any similarity between the reports in this post and actual institutions, current or defunct, is not exactly unintended. But it is all in good fun.

And, I can personally verify that no actual fleas were harmed in the creation of this post.

Numbering My Days

An engineer thinks that his equations are an approximation of reality.
A physicist thinks reality is an approximation of his equations.
A mathematician doesn't care.

Meaning, of course, that physicists are arrogant while we engineers are a humble, hard working lot. And the mathematicians? They just like playing with numbers.

I can identify with that, as I use a lot of math in my day-to-day work. And while I find it a challenge to represent the mysteries of the little bit of our world that I work on in the language of math, I'm not into mystical side of numbers - numerology. I have no lucky numbers and don’t attribute goings on around me to alignment of digits in a particular sequence.

Of course, as with any good rule, there is an exception. So I guess it is time to lay it all out and explain some things I know you are all waiting to have explained. You may have noticed that my online identity (in some instances) contains the digits "63." That, I must admit, was not a random assignment by AOL, but rather, a conscious decision on my part. You see, 63 does, if nothing else, bring back a cartload of memories for me.

It started in high school. While a sophomore, I went out for the football team and was given jersey number 63, one I wore for three years. Here is proof that this was actually the case:

OK. Any more snickering and you'll have to leave. Anyway, you might imagine that a guy in high school would get attached to his football number. And you'd be right, up to a point. But it was more than that. During my years as a Ramblin' Wreck at Georgia Tech, the military draft was cranked up and everyone was assigned a draft lottery number based on their birthday. And mine, September 20, was selected 63rd.

Sure, that was interesting. But it did not stop there. I graduated in 1970 and the Blueprint, Tech's yearbook, came out as Volume 63. See…

So this was enough to firmly plant the number 63 into my identity. And while I used it mostly in numbers I wanted to be easy to remember (no, it is not in my passwords, so you can stop trying), others saw maybe a bit more significance. Here is a gift I got one year from my mother…

In spite of my nonchalance over the coincidences, she was able to find "63" somewhere whenever we were together.

There you have it, I've come clean on numbers. And as you might imagine I see this year as nothing special. I don’t even know which was the 63rd day of the year. I did turn 63 in September, though and I still remember that!

But I'm thinking, if the Powerball jackpot hits $63 million before the end of the year, I might just have to go out and buy myself some tickets.

Margheritaville

No, it isn't a spelling error, as I am sure the epicureans amongst you already know. And, while I have a story or two about the better margaritas I've enjoyed over the years, this is all about the pizza. Oddly enough, my first margherita pizza experience was in London. Especially odd in that food in the UK is generally considered to be somewhat below the high standards of continental cuisine. It is a bit unfair, in my opinion, as it is hard to beat a good fish and chips with mushy peas, accompanied by a cold Magners cider.

But I digress, which I know you find unusual. So, getting back to pizzas...

A group of us attending the Compressors Conference at City University several years ago found ourselves looking for a place to eat after the evening social event arranged by conference organizers and sponsors. We settled on a cafe with tables on the quay along the south bank of the Thames where I decided to take a chance on the margherita pizza as it was something I had not heard of before. It was, I must say, a most pleasant surprise. The pizza is made on a very thin crust with only tomato sauce, olive oil and mozzerella cheese, garnished generously with fresh basil. It is a light, fresh taste, the antithesis of the deep dish Chicago style pizza; I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Snce that chance encounter in London, I have made it a point to sample the margherita pizza when I find one on the menu, and I have rarely been disappointed. The exception was a visit to Germany where I sampled them at two different restaurants and found them to be nothing whatsoever like the pizza with which I had become aquatinted.

Once again I know you think I've wandered away from the cycling stories that are, supposedly, the reason for this blog. But, as has been noted, "Not all who wander are lost" (J.R.R. Tolkien).

My wanderings have brought me to a cycling opportunity that promises to bring me to the heart of margherita pizza country. I have foregone bicycle tours in the last two years in favor of other endeavors. This year included mission trips to the Dominican Republic, Uganda and Kenya in addition to three visits with family in California and a business trip to London. While a return to Africa in 2012 is a possibility, my plans for travels in the "not a bike tour" category are considerably less ambitious. That leaves me with, you guessed it, a chance for a tour.

As luck would have it, Laurenz Gsell, the organizer and host of the marvellous 2008 Swiss tour, has offered a ride through southern Italy. In March. Remember, I live in Wisconsin, sometimes refered to as The Frozen Tundra. Whatever you might think of when you consider March, here it is still winter.The tour is around the Puglia region, the heel of the boot that is southeastern Italy. Here's the route map:

Naples is the official tour terminus. We take a bus to Matera to start the ride which includes two nights there and in the towns of Otranto, Gravina and Peschici, the last stop on the tour. There are also overnights in seven other towns, making for ten days of riding during which we'll cover about 550 miles and climb around 20,000 feet, much of this in the last few days from Gravina to Peschici. After a final day in Peschici, it is a bus to Naples and a flight home.

An article in USA Today paints Puglia as a wonderful destination, in spite of a name that sounds as if you might want to prepare yourself for something less. And it is this article that brings us back around to pizza:

...my last dinner in Puglia...a humble pizza margherita. This must be the only region in Italy where the tomato-and-mozzarella staple of generations of students and workers still only costs about $2.50.

Of course, I will have to do my own research into the quality of the margherita pizzas. There will be a report.

Old Books

There's this remark variously attributed to Harry Truman, David Henderhan and Anonymous. The quote appears in several forms as befitting, I suppose, the number of speakers it is attributed to, but it is more less like this: "If you want a new idea, read an old book." It's a great idea. Except, of course, when it gets in the way of progress. That would be MY progress, of course.

"How might this be?" you ask. Well, it started with the paper I wrote for the engineering conference I attended in London in September. I've done quite a few such papers in my career and, after some struggles early on, have figured out how to write the report and prepare the presentation for the allotted number of pages and time, respectively, in pretty short order. Having conquered this small challenge, I have decided to move on to something a bit more ambitious. My latest attempt was this last paper. You can see the title (this is where the challenge is, but we'll get to that later) on the first slide of my presentation:


So, what's my current mission regarding these reports? Just this: I am trying to see if I can put enough content into the title that I don’t actually have to write a paper to go with it. And you might think I've come pretty close to achieving this with my latest attempt. I'll have to say, I was feeling pretty good about it myself and thought one or two more stabs and I'll set some sort of new standard.

This is where the old book comes in. Wanting to be sure I was really setting the pace in this endeavor, I searched the internet for long titles, although I was pretty confident that my recent efforts would have me well up on my competition (it is fierce, let me tell you). So you can imagine my disappointment when I came across this contribution from Édouard Lagout, written in 1877:

Takimetry: concrete geometry in three lessons, accessible, inaccessible, incalculable. Fundamental takimetry: a resumé of conferences held in the primary schools in connection with the Ministries of Agriculture, Commerce, Public Instruction, Interior, Finance, War, Marine, taught in the industrial schools of Alais, Creusot, Lille and in the celebrated Ecole Trugot, Paris

I might as well hang it up as this one will be hard to top. Oh well, it will give me more time to concentrate on reading old books.

Just a Little Water, Please

It is a distinct privilege to be able to ride along the banks of the Father of Waters on my cycling outings. I see tows that move with the current, carrying coal or grain; but mostly what gets carried from northern Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico is water. A lot of water. Exhaustive research (I Googled "Mississippi River flow rate") reveals that well over 1 million gallons per second flow along this stretch of the Mississippi. Let me repeat. One MILLION. GALLONS. Per SECOND.

Due to road construction on one of my usual routes, I have spent more time going south along the river. And on most rides, I am taken by the beauty of this part of the country. On many days there are blue skies over dark green trees, both then reflected in the blue-green-gray waters of the river. The other day I spied my first flock of dazzlingly white Tundra Swans. "Spectacular," I think as I travel on.

But I haven’t thought much about the sheer magnitude of what the river is actually DOING, carrying all of that water from Lake Itasca to the Gulf of Mexico. Until the other day.

We have had glorious weather these last ten days or so and I have been able to get out on most of them. On Sunday afternoon, I was on my way out of town when my rear tire went flat. As I was in the process of replacing the tube, a lady rode up on one of those sturdy bikes with panniers over the rear wheels and a route sheet in a holder on the handlebars. She asked if she could help, but I was well into the fix and had what I needed to finish up and get back to the ride. I asked about her ride. Turns out it wasn't any big deal. She was only going as far as THE GULF OF MEXICO!

In early September, she and her husband had started out on the long ride from one end of the Mississippi to the other. They stopped in La Crosse, as they were originally from here. The stop ended up being about a week as her husband had had some health issues. Not terribly serious, but enough to knock him out of the ride and into the position of full time support.

As I finished up fixing my flat, she told me that she was carrying a small bottle with her on the trip. She had filled it with water from Lake Itasca, the source of the Mississippi, and planned to pour it out in the Gulf of Mexico. And that is what impressed me. Not the ginormous amount of water that the river pushed south every day, but the little bottle that she would personally deliver to the Gulf.

Time and world events and life in general move along on a grand scale, sort of like draining the watershed west of the Rocky Mountains into the Gulf of Mexico. We can't match that. We can't compete with it. But as Edmund Burke said, "Nobody made a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could only do little." I'm thinking, my bottle may be small and my pace may be slow. But I guess I should fill the thing up and get going.