The heat index is around 120 F in South Texas, and the humidity is just under 5000%. The air is so thick, you have to chew it to get it down.
I was recently reminded that September is next week, and praise the Lord for that.
Thankful for new seasons coming in and the exit of old ones.
Folks feel differently about a lot of things, and certainly there are various perspectives about change. It is certain and consistent that things do and will continue to change, and I say embrace it.
Welcome home fall.
I look forward to the snow of winter and the bitter cold of a Northern gale blowing in…
As I mentioned in last week’s Rides Around, I’m not really a car person.
But it turns out I am a little bit of a truck person.
When I was growing up my dad had a pick up truck. Dodge. Blue. He drove it to work, mostly, but sometimes he’d work an overnight shift at the steel mill, and he’d let me drive it to school. It was a treat to have my own wheels, even if it was an old truck, and even if it sometimes wouldn’t start right away, or stalled out on occasion. I do remember turning the key in the school parking lot, and willing it to start… hoping it wouldn’t stall just at the point somebody super cool was walking out of the building.
Once I hit senior year of college I got my own car, thanks to a great deal given to me by my grandmother. I don’t remember how much I put down, or even what the total was, but I remember that I paid her $100 a month until I could pay it off.
I leased a car, then tried a Honda del Sol (fun!) and then ran the wheels off a Civic and needed something else.
A Mini Cooper caught my eye. Not many people had them in Texas, and it was a convertible (like the del Sol) and a great deal, so I snatched it up. I found I enjoyed being a Mini “person”. It got great gas mileage and when I made moves from Texas to California and back again, it held me, three suitcases, a guitar, a backpack and a dog just fine.
To be fair, the dog doesn’t take up much space.It could even hold blinds for 19 windows. Barely.
But this new neighborhood and its sea of potholes have been rough on the Mini. In just a few months I quickly had to replace tires, and this week new issues began to surface that felt more like Big Trouble. It was time to face facts. I had to bid adieu to the Mini, and get something a little more…max.
I whined; I researched; I consulted my personal panel of experts, and I test drove a couple small SUVs.
But, as I learned when I was sixteen… there’s something about a truck. I saw one online I liked. Blue. No frills. Just a truck with a few years and a few miles on it. Grey and blue seats and two little jump seats in the back, for some very small passengers, just in case I run into any. When I turned the key it started right up (thankfully) and I scanned the radio for a country station. I had a big smile on my face the whole ride home. It doesn’t fit in the garage as easily as the Mini, but I think it suits me just fine.
The Rig: a 2005 Ford Ranger
The Location: just north of Houston
The Rider: a city girl with a mild case of nostalgia
The Special Circumstance: getting a new deal on an old truck
I recently had an interesting opportunity to surf an iconic surf spot, and when you hear that knock…well, wax up and paddle out.
I got a call early on a Wednesday. “Can you go to Africa to…” I interrupted w/ a resounding “Yes.” We worked out the details, well mostly. There was some uncertainty about Americans being able to procure a VISA on arrival in Ghana, but nothing that some good old-fashioned straight-faced tenacity couldn’t overcome.
Sunday I was roaming around Ghana, Africa in awe and wonder. Monday brought an onslaught of intense meetings w/ government, clients, shipping lines, etc etc. I managed to find the time for some google searching, and was reminded that in the Endless Summer film the first African beach surfed was in Ghana. Target acquired folks.
I started my education on geography, ground transport, swell report, and local safety. After spending three to five solid minutes researching it, my scheme was in place.
I was flying in country for site walks etc and saw a gap between close-out meetings in Takoradi and flights back to Accra. Wednesday night I lined out a driver for the next morning, and after I completed my responsible stuff, we were off. After two hours of some interesting car traveling, we had arrived. This place was fantastic. It had several local surf shops to rent boards on its dirt streets. The wave was great. Good solid swell made for a consistent beach break. The locals were fun. One of them provoked me into a three-way surfing competition, that just meant we watched each other and openly admired or laughed at the others’ performances. With only about 12 people in the line up, there were lots of waves to go around.
After 2.5 hours I was surprisingly chilled and had to catch a flight.
I returned the board, dried off, did a wardrobe change, grabbed my driver, and we headed to the airport. After some more interesting driving, I was at the airport and thinking about all of the unsurfed surf in the world. After that trip, I know it’s out there.
When I think of riding around, it doesn’t bring to mind anything with a motor.
Little Joe was one of three “new horses” purchased by the barn where I worked in north Georgia. He came along partway through my ten years there, and quickly earned a place in my heart. He was on the small side (hence the name) and very timid.
The first morning we met, I arrived at the barn with some advance warning — there were new horses; they were just settling in, and there were instructions on how much and what type of grain and hay they should receive for breakfast. The first hour of the barn days were always heaven, but when there were new horses I would practically skip to the office.
The routine was simple, peaceful and relaxing. I’d check to make sure all stalls had hay and clean water, and then fill up food buckets one by one. Once all the stalls were ready, I’d walk up to the pasture and let the horses down for the day. Most of the time, they’d go to their own stall and quickly get to munching on breakfast. But some of the smarter and faster horses knew they could get a couple extra mouthfuls by zipping into a neighbor’s stall. They’d snatch gulps of food before one of the staff could shoo them out and into their own stall, where a full bucket would still be waiting.
So there was a bit of a pecking order, and poor Little Joe was new, and … little. He came down last, and was trembling. He didn’t want to go in his stall. He was intimidated by the bigger, more dominant horses. The poor thing was just scared.
I got him into his stall by coaxing him with food from my hand. He ate some, but was still shaking, so I got my breakfast, a bowl of instant oatmeal with apple chunks, and brought it to him. He slowly relaxed while enjoying my breakfast, gently taking scoops from my hand.
Day by day, Little Joe got more and more comfortable, until he found his stall just fine in the morning, and he no longer trembled when the other members of the herd came near. I chose him for many a trail ride, and he stayed calm and steady. While he eventually settled in, he never settled for just one breakfast. He would smell the oatmeal in the microwave and meet me in the breezeway, ears up and ready for a treat. I’d have a bite and scoop one out for him, back and forth, until it was gone. Oatmeal and apples. Breakfast for two.
The Rig: A little gelding with a sweet personality
The Location: a barn in Georgia
The Driver Rider: a sucker for the underdog
The Special Circumstance: helping a new friend get settled
Minneapolis. Cold country, my family called it. I called it home for four years, and the better part of a fifth.
I went to school in Minnesota, but not at the U of M, where most people assume when I say that. Instead I went to a small private school downtown, a few nondescript buildings that covered a couple of blocks and became my first home away from home. My first Big Move.
I remember not knowing at all what to expect, and being worried about how I would make friends. I was enthralled with the adventure, but nervous about how it would all play out.
As is often the case, I needn’t have worried. I made friends quickly… tight ones, the kind you make when you’re all in the same situation, and in desperate need for community. I landed on a major, found a part time job, and decided the snow wasn’t so bad. I got used to my wet hair freezing into a crunchy mess on the way to class, and learned which bus lines go where you want, and which will strand you in the middle of nowhere at the last stop of the night.
I’m not sure who taught me this moving method, but I remember regretting it right about this point.
After college I got my first TV job in Minneapolis, at the same place where I interned my senior year. The city was different though, after all my friends had moved on, and the place where I had so many great memories seemed brand new again, back to a sea of strangers, with no forced orientation or constant comfort of communal living. I got lonely, and didn’t stay long.
This week a chance work trip will take me back. Back to Elliot Park and Hennepin Avenue. Back to skyways and skylines and Prince’s club downtown. I bet the quarter bus route is up to a couple of bucks, and I would be surprised if Jitters, the downtown coffee shop is still around, packed with students “studying” and enjoying the all night shenanigans. For old time’s sake, I’d love to go to the airport at dark, park under the route the planes pass as they head for the runway, and think about the 18-year-old me, sitting there bundled up in my dad’s flannel with my new friends and my wild dreams, striking out on my first adventure.
Traffic is interesting away from home.
It becomes a cultural phenomenon. Think about a New York cab driver’s behavior on the road…see what I mean.
Accra is a city of five million people in the West African country of Ghana, and that is where we are looking in this week’s rides around.
We found an aboboyaa and a fairly disinterested driver. The aboboyaa is a three-wheeled motorcycle contraption used for the delivery of local commerce. Take note of what’s in the background of the photos…the goats grazing and the locals toting wares on their heads.
Ghana is no different; to a local it is normal.
For me, I enjoy the aboboyaa, its driver, the goats, and the vendors.
I enjoy learning from the locals about the trike, eating the peanuts purchased roadside, and laughing w/ my driver about the girls he will not marry.
The Rig: A well-used aboboyaa
The Location: The streets of Accra, Ghana
The Driver: A seemingly disengaged commuter
The Special Circumstance: Taking in rush hour in Ghana
When people think about yoga, they usually think about flexibility, strength or peace… maybe a calmness and an attention to the breath. And they would be right — yoga is all of that and more. But what people don’t often talk about is the laughter.
Yes, you can laugh during yoga. Some of my favorite teachers make me laugh on a regular basis, and it’s part of the reason I keep coming back. Trying a new pose can be challenging, and laughter is one way to shake off the nerves. If you’ve ever tried an acro yoga class, then you know there are roars of laughter shaking the room, as partners pair up and put feet into backs and flyers wiggle and wobble, and things don’t turn out exactly as you envision at all.
Heart-opening poses might make you tear up, but they also might make you smile, wondering if you’re leaning into it a little too much… and feeling your fingers sliding off their grip.
Directions to look your friend in the eyes, or even meeting a gaze of a fellow yogi in the mirror, might spark snickers…even if you can’t pinpoint the reason for it, and think it would be more zen of you to hold it in.
Keep in mind that a good belly laugh is great for the soul, and the abs. We’re all human and we’re all imperfect and on a unique journey that asks us to be vulnerable and authentic. We’re asking our bodies to move into strange positions, and to breathe into impossible places, and there’s no law that says we always have to take it so, so seriously.
So the next time something awkward or silly happens in class, don’t feel guilty if a chuckle rises up in your throat. Don’t swallow the laughter. Be real. And if you want to feel supported, feel free to look over at me. I’ll be the one giggling in savasanah and losing it in toe stand. (Thankfully, my friend Sarah is of the same mind, and we laughed our faces off during this shoot.)
This week’s Rides Around is more like a “Floats Around” and comes to us from a friend who was inspired by last week’s post and poem.
The owner and builder of this flat-bottomed boat grew up on the Northern Pacific shore, on the outskirts of Juneau, AK. He was a Woodsman, a Hunter, a Boatman, a Builder, and a classic example of The Men Who Don’t Fit In.
He loved all kinds of boats (and trucks, and cars, and army vehicles), and sketched them in his many notebooks. He had the opportunity to own many, and custom re-fit a few.
This 18-foot, 1992 Lowe Jon Boat was a bare hull when purchased. Everything was fabricated from the center drive console to the entire trailer, which was customized with knobby tires and .50 caliber ammo boxes just for storage………perhaps.
It made many trips down the Missouri River in search of Adventure, Bighorn Sheep, and Family Camping in the White Cliffs of the Missouri.
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