Paul E. Fallon's Blog, page 84

Extreme Sports

Last weekend I bicycled 200 miles as part of the Courage Classic, a fund raising event for the Colorado Children’s Hospital. It was my fourth year participating in the three-day ride that traverses four major passes, crosses the Continental Divide, and includes over two miles of vertical climb. Riding the Courage Classic makes me feel fit. But as feats of strength and endurance go these days, 200 miles through the Rocky Mountains on paved trails with aid stations every 12 miles is, well, for charity cases.

At one aid station I met a volunteer who was insanely jacked. His arms were as big as my legs; his legs were thunderous. “Why do you volunteer instead of riding?” This guy could ace the course. “Volunteering is a good way for me to help at this gig.” His answer was over-polite.

The next day I ran into him again. He mentioned doing a 100-mile off-road mountain bike ride after his shift. The subtext of his story was clear – he went too far and too fast to bother with the middle-aged dawdlers who ride the Courage Classic.

There are a few hot dogs in the Courage Classic. They start each day at 6 a. m. and finish just after 9 a.m., when some of us are just shipping out of the first rest stop. They are the ones who wear the Double Triple Bypass jerseys (240 miles in two days with 20,000 elevation climb). They never drop to their lowest gear and descend, brake-free, in excess of fifty miles per hour. I ride with the same steadiness I exercise in life. I average about 10 miles per hour, inclusive of breaks and lunch, which through mountains means 6 mph up and no more than 25 mph down.

But just as the Double Triple guys keep me from swelling my head, bigger guns of extreme fitness eclipse them. Iron Men leave marathoners in the dust. Riding on pavement, running on tracks, and swimming in pools is eclipsed by grueling off-road run/bike/swims where the athletes carry all their gear with them the entire way, (NY Times: It’s Entirely Natural: Off Road Races Grow).

What propels this desire to push ourselves in ever more demanding ways? Articles point out our need to counteract sedentary lives, connect with nature, and exorcise primal drives to run from danger and swim to safety. No doubt that’s all true.

I believe there is another motivator in the ceaseless quest to go further, higher, faster: the desire to set ourselves apart from the rest of humanity. We want to do something that puts us in a group of 700 rather than seven billion, or 7 rather than 700, or ultimately, to do something so unique we are the only one. Being in an extreme race makes us part of an elite group, a natural human aspiration. Winning the extreme race makes us special within that group, fulfilling the ultimate human goal of both belonging and triumphing. Trouble is, what it takes to be set apart keeps getting more and more difficult. The races get more extreme; the winning times get faster. We compete against every other individual on the planet as well as the personal bests of everyone who ever competed. What it takes to be number one grows harder every day.

The Courage Classic has no winners; the ribbon I get for finishing about 3 p.m. is the same one as the guys who finish at 9 a.m. I will never compete in an Iron Man or any off-road madness; simply reading about them exhausts me. I will never be the best at any one thing in life. But I am good enough to be content with my lot, and grateful I have the strength and endurance to cycle over the Rocky Mountains at my own pokey pace.

After all, what’s the rush? The landscape is breathtaking.

Stop by a brook.

Smell the flowers.

Enjoy the vista.

My Handyman

My handyman is coming over tomorrow to check out some rickety windows.  I won’t tell you his name because if you knew it, you would call him to be your handyman.  He hates getting phone calls, and I want to keep first dibs on him.

My handyman does (many of) those little things that are too small for a real contractor.  He reinstalled my deck lights when their wooden bases rotted out.  He fixed a minor dormer leak that persisted after $3000 in roof repairs.  He replaced the crank on a persnickety awning window in my tenant’s bathroom. Replacing the crank required at least three visits plus a special order for an out-of-manufacture part.  The total job took three weeks to complete. His bill was $140.

My handyman is a middle-aged guy who fiddles for fun.  He’s lived in Cambridge forever and remembers the days when we actually made stuff like soap and candy in this city and didn’t just sit around thinking all day. He owns couple of houses that he keeps in shape and works on other folks’ places when the mood suits.

My handyman has an unpredictable attitude. He turns away every friend I refer to him and often decides my own need is unworthy.  We have a cup of coffee and he explains that I can rewire the light switch and replace the dimmer in my den myself.  He’s right, of course; I can replace them myself.  I only wanted him to do it to free my time for other things – like thinking.  He suffers no patience with such nonsense.  My handyman is a stern teacher. If I can do something myself, I should.  If I can’t, he might.  If he doesn’t want to, I’m stuck and have to search elsewhere.

I always start with him because when he takes on a job he is does it very well, though he’s amusing even when he refuses. I hope my handyman will take on my window repairs. Their condition seems beyond me. But if he refuses, well have a good chat and he’ll give me enough pointers for me to tackle the job.  Or not.

The True Test of Being Passé – Launching my Middle-initialed Website

No one would call me trendy.  Anti-trendy overstates my level of trend awareness. Trend-ignorant is more like it.  All I know is that for the past fifty plus years, when I begin to favor a restaurant, it’s on its way out; if I like a dance club, its doors are soon to close, and by the time I’ve seen a movie, the rest of the world has already videotaped the sequel. Videotape?  See what I mean.

So with great, irrelevant, fanfare, I am launching a website.  I know, I know, the world has moved on.  There’s Pinterest and Tumblr and Instagram and more obscure, infinitely trendy modes of communication. But I’m branching out with something that complements my grey hair and aging Toyota – an old fashioned website.

Even worse, my site has an archaic name: www.paulefallon.com.  The day before NY Times writer Bruce Feiler officially pronounced the middle initial dead, I bought a domain that inserted the oddball letter ‘e’ into my moniker.

 

I have a rationale for the middle initial; the world has many Paul Fallon’s but I seem to own the Paul E. Fallon market.  A few years ago I started inserting the ‘E’ everywhere, so it makes sense it is now passé. I could have used my entire middle name – Eric. But let’s face it; an Irish guy named Eric is nothing more than the lifelong burden tacked on a baby by an exhausted woman who had too many children too close together. The simple ‘E’ might induce someone to think my middle name is Eamon or Emmet, which are respectively Irish enough.

So, if you want to expose yourself to last century’s cutting edge technology, visit www.paulefallon.com.  It’s simple: a few pull-downs; some links; tidbits about my upcoming book; my yoga teaching; my projects in Haiti.  Nothing flashy. Nothing trendy.  Just me.

Amour and Puppy Love

Here is a maxim to live by: Never watch a depressing French film with a puppy.

My friend Chuck raved about Amour. It won lots of awards. I decided to set aside my distaste for subtitles and watch it.

My son has a black lab puppy, Baxter, three months old.  He was going to a wedding and needed someone to watch the pup. My first opportunity to be a grandparent.

Andy arrived on a hot July afternoon laden down like any new parent. Baxter had a crate, a blanket cover, a tin of food, a packet of treats, a leash and a toy.  Andy set him up in the basement, where its cool. The puppy eyed his master with love and longing as he exited.  Then Baxter gave me a dismissive glance and oozed his furry body over the cool concrete.

Three hours later I took Baxter for a walk.  He was fine with the idea, except I forgot to bring the treats he is supposed to get as a reward every time he goes to the bathroom outside.  He peed, moved to the side, sat obediently and looked to me for his treat.  When none was forthcoming, he gave me a dismissive look and moved only when I tugged his collar.  More disgust when he successfully pooped. He liked the spray fountain in the park, but it hardly compensated for my lack of treats.

After our walk I put Baxter in his crate and went to yoga.  When I returned we took another walk – this time with treats.  His attitude was much improved.  Afterward I gave him dinner and became his BFF.

I turned on Amour but there was no turning off Baxter.  He was no longer content to chill in the basement. He had to be with me.  He raced around the den during Emmanuelle Riva’s initial stroke, struggled to climb on the sofa when she returned from the hospital, succeeded in getting onto the cushions as she mastered her electric wheelchair, chewed on my sandals when she was getting her diaper changed, licked my ears while Isabelle Huppert fought with Jean-Louis Trintignant, and flopped his hot and sweaty belly over my lap when the old man finally smothered his deteriorating wife. Puppies lack gravitas.

Although it is hardly fair to pen a critique of anything more serious than Turner and Hooch with a puppy cavorting during a film, Amour made two impressions on me. First, I loved their apartment. So did the director, whose lingering stills of the quiet rooms and the severe art made the sumptuous, Parisian living space an integral character.  Second, I realized the importance of a movie title. Amour. We know, going in, that they love each other. Imagine if the movie had been called Smothered, which is actually what happens.  No awards for that movie. Nada.

When I put Baxter back in his create he whimpered, sorry to see me go. A few treats and a bowl of dry food were all it took. Baxter loves me for life.  Dogs are so much easier than people.