Loud Thoughts

Sun seduced me to run outside. Temperature seemed friendly, so I laced up and went. As an obsessive planner, I plotted my route first: go north on Olive, it turns into John, turn right on 15th, and turn right on Pine. It should be a leisurely 2.5 miles. Let’s go.

The map did not mention the slope. A young lady chatted on the cell phone while walking past me. These people give no respect to the aging runners. Dogs, pedestrians, restaurants, and apartments all became a blur against the uphill. My thighs were aching and I distracted myself calculated the probability of a cadio arrest. I should have known, they called this place Capitol Hills for good reasons. Finally, I reached 15th and it is flat. I widened my stride and started to enjoy this jog. Then I turned right on Pine.

Yes, what goes up must comes down. Every step became a pounding. Were these a new pair of shoes? What happened to the padding? How thick are my precious cartilages in those knee joints? Fighting gravity this way is way worse than the other way. Actually, fighting gravity anyway is no fun. Wait, this is supposed to be a work-out, I am supposed to be tired. Why did I come out on the streets? Oh yes, the Sun. But Seattle Sun is no good for Vitamin D. Man!

The next day, when the memory was still fresh, I went the other direction: go out on the 8th, left at Denny, left at Broad, left at Western, then left at Steward that becomes Olive. I was enjoying the perspiration when the black-diamond grade slope appeared after 1st St. I simply gave up on Steward, after Pike Place Market, and walked uphill. This street can kill those less fit.

Finished shower, I contemplated life sipping a nice cup of Starbucks (this is Seattle, they don’t do Peet’s). What is worse: the boring yet flat treadmill or the up and down Seattle streets?

The sun looks nice out there.

Arizona stands among these united states like Ugly Betty in a cheerleader squad. They didn’t observe Marin Luther King’s birthday, they don’t change to daylight saving time, and now they passed the laws that are unfriendly to immigrants. Americans did not have much issues with Nevada allowing prostitution, California doing weeds, or Texas being Texan. Those are state’s own businesses. Arizona is the sibling that everyone picks on. Curious.

Seattle recently decided to boycott Arizona — a stern disapproval on its new anti-immigration law. The municipality will not do business with anyone from Arizona. This reminds me the city of Berkeley that boycotted against oh so many things; it will not do business with firms that hurt dolphins, enslaved children, depleted ozone, not green enough, in China, in Arizona, or whatever silly things it has objections to. I don’t remember the whole list, someone please google and leave me a comment.

Which social values you are willing to sponsor with your own money? Do you boycott Chinese goods because they compete unfairly with their currency policy? Would you refuse to buy Japanese cars because they hunt whales? Would you boycott Arizona because their laws? Who else should you boycott, since there are issues no less important than immigration. Does Seattle have a list of values they stand behind and would boycott those who do not abide?

I guess Seattleites felt righteous that they stood up for the immigrants. Ironically, they also beat the hell out of someone for no apparent reasons than the guy is not white. We don’t like those people either, but you are wrong in making that into a law.

Was it a Willie Nelson song? Business trips are the time I read and write at personal level, since I am alone and had time for introspection.

A colleague talked about her family. Her husband is in Utah operating a small business. Her older son is in New Jersey working. Her younger daughter is in Indiana in college. She bought a condo in San Francisco bay area and will soon move. “Do you see each other at all?” I was curious. “Not much,” she replied. “We skyped each other a lot and email and that.” She appeared content and looked forward to her retirement in California, by herself.

I started this trip several days ago at 6am. At 7am, the airline counter clerk told me the flight was canceled. She moved me to one two hours later. So I found a restaurant, ordered breakfast, and started working. At 10am, the gate clerk said there was an “FAA delay” and the departure time was moved to noon time. I sighed and went back to my computer. This is just like a day in the office, with much less comfort. At the end of a long day, around 10pm, I checked into the hotel in a city that I have never been before. After room service dinner, I banged on the keyboard for a couple of hours more and collapsed into the bed. I woke up to a full-day meeting in the same hotel. Then I jumped back to the airport and landed in another city that I have never been to before. This pattern continued until I got home, four days later. It was not the bed, the recliner, the TV, the home cooked food, or the familiar city and streets that I missed. It is the presence of my family. Am I getting old? (Don’t answer that.)

Several empty nested friends have interesting commute pattern. The couple would alternate living separately or together: they would have 4 to 6 weeks of separation followed by about the same amount of time together. My colleague whose family are each in different state seems to be the extreme on this spectrum.

When my family are together, we simply talk a lot randomly. Wife cooks, everyone sit down, talk about things that are not really deep or provoking, and went on to do our TV or Internet. Guess what we just do is soaking up each others’ warmth.

Much better than watching TV by myself.

“Stop, or I am going to fall,” I commanded my legs that had gone independent. They are moving roughly according to my will, but not exactly. I willed them to move in sync to the way my weight was shifting, yet they lagged just a bit and also took on some side-way motions. Just when I was about to gain control over my body parts, with precision timing, the ground jumped just an inch or so. So, naturally, highly un-dignified, I wiped this public concrete floor with my left face cheek.

“Geez! Are you OK?” Shari rushed over. “Did I tripped you?” asked Chris. That was a kind attempt of him to save my face. He was more than 10 feet ahead of me and could not possibly. I stood up and jogged toward the waiting gang, my ego bruised much worse than my face. Several minutes later, Jonathan, the trainer, arrived.

Shari introduced me as the new member. “Battle wound on the first day! Excellent.” Jonathan smiled broadly. “Welcome to the boot camp.” I grimaced back and made a lame joke. Everyone laughed politely.

Nerds have little defense against Shari. She is the girl that bring life to parties with smiling eyes and easy-going personality. When she asked, “Hey, do you want to…,” she gets “yes” most of the time. But Boot Camp?

It was a cold and drizzling day. We arrived Qwest stadium’s side corridor with about 7 or 8 fellow campers. The trainer was late so the senior campers started the session: warm-up followed by a series of passes up and down the corridor in different ways: lateral, skipping, hopping, etc. I was in heavy perspiration in no time.

Jonathan had us do strange, yet effective, moves without any equipment. He is not the “yell-in-your-face” drill sergeant. He demonstrated the move, told us how many repetitions, and just told us to start. He walked around the corrected our motions gently, but was always greeted with groans, “Hey, that makes it harder.” I was taking longer breaks to catch my breath and checking my watch every minute or so.

The five-minute walk back to the office was a difficult. I could hardly climb up the stairs. Of course I was ache and sore the next few days.

“So are you coming next week,” Shari checked on me the next day with a big smile. “Of course I am! I am in.” I smiled back.