Thanksgiving and Biking to Work
Including random photos as I didn’t take many since the last newsletter
Pine green vastness folds into the ochre and flame of fall. The rhythm of the rails, unyielding and ancient, rocks me to sleep. Train seats, broad and generous, unfold with a leisure that feels almost decadent - reclining nearly flat, footrests lifting to meet them, creating a makeshift bed even in coach. This concept seems so foreign, almost otherworldly, in an era where airlines shave off millimeter after millimeter year after year - a sort of economic friction that leaves us satisfied at 2AM when we impulse buy our next adventure or trip home and then embalmed by our neighbors on the actual flight.
Slower than driving. Much slower - the cars pass us, but we move steadily. Most of the morning it's watching little red hondas or big trucks pull by, only to see them bunched up down the road. There's a certain joy in the unhurried progress, a silent commentary on the illusion of speed - the train doesn't rush, but it’s always going. Let us embody the spirit and zen of the tortoise.
Our little family has splayed out in the observation car, Gaël attached at my elbow is trying to unlock a new Dragon Ball Z character, Shelby and Tommy have curled up in a reclining seat and are snoozing (we tag team naps) and me? A million raindrops running across the wrap around windows and a whole world behind them. I'm catching myself indulging in one of the great rare pleasures of life which is just staring at nothing and everything out a train window for hours.
I'm happy to be heading home. Whatever the space is between trips, it's too long. I'm lucky if I get down there twice a year now. The family grows and with it its needs and my responsibilities. Breaking away from Seattle has thus far been trips back east or out for work. So these trips have a strange compressed urgency to them. My family moved to Oregon in June 2004 when I was 15. I moved to France in September 2009 at 20. That's a little less than 2000 days, going through the intensity of my teen years into independence - the continuity of the whole experience leaves a mark unlike any other. Now it's 5-7 days stretches that pass by in a wink of an eye. Old places having new faces, I never shake off the feeling of being a "visitor".
But not at home. Excited to cook in the kitchen again with Mom and Dad. To wrestle Keith on sight. To hear Nate talk about politics. To hear about Ben's new gig. To meet my niece and watch her play with my son. To give hug after hug after hug. There will be too much food and not enough time. Never enough time. Our tradition is to go around the room and all say what we were "Thankful" for this last year. The last few years for me, it's been fitness, Gaël, Shelby and friends, but this year it's the easy option. Family. Happy Thanksgiving.
---
Other updates:
Biking to work in the winter in Seattle: there is something about stepping out into the darkness of the morning, with it being an utter downpour and putting this on https://youtu.be/h1BsKIP4uYM?t=626. You rage through every inch of the 11 miles of hills and water. Heart beats, lungs expand, legs churn like hammers on an anvil, ears pound with drums and chanting. Body and bike a single machine, pouring myself into the pedals with every ounce of thought, emotion and feeling as if they can bear the weight of it all. My uniform is the same every day: Carhartt rain defender sweatshirt, running gloves, running shorts and strap on sandals. It's either about keeping water out or drying quickly. Cold is never a consideration - if you are cold, pedal harder. The mantra that gets repeated over and over. If you are cold, pedal harder. Cold air always cut by hot blood.
Ultimately this becomes an exercise of awareness. Two unbroken hours with no phone, no conversations, no distractions between me and the elements. The wind whips unimpeded across the surface of the lake driving rain against my face, clouds so vast that they dominate my vision, their sheer scale a reminder of my own size, great chutes vertically rising into the sky that collide with puffy giants, young gods engaged in a wrestling match. Your eyes dart between the drama and their base to get a reading how much rain is on the horizon.
There is a moment of convergence - the clouds, the rain, the wind, the thought of the glacier cleaving the rocks that created this space, my own body - that creates a sense of totality. There is no separation, no boundary between me and the world that surrounds me. Each turn of the pedal feels less like progress and more like communion, a silent acknowledgement that I am not apart from all of this, but entirely within it.
Cowabunga dude,
DJ
PS: Thank you all for the updates on your lives after the last newsletter! Made my day - if you didn’t drop a line maybe think of doing it this time?