What Am I Doing Here?

It’s Sunday, New Year’s Day in Haiti. I have the day off.  People have wondered what am I doing here, so perhaps this is a good time to lay out a day in the life of Mister Paul, l’architect, which is how I am known locally.

5:30 am – Gama knocks on my door at Mission of Hope guest compound.  Gama is the clerk of the works for the Be Like Brit orphanage, a 20,000 square foot building that will house an orphanage for 66 children as well as a clinic, clean water, and other services for the surrounding neighbors.  Be Like Brit is being built by Len Gengel, a home builder from central Massachusetts whose daughter, Brit, died in the 2010 earthquake while on a college trip to Haiti.  The full story is at http://www.belikebrit.org.  For our purposes suffice to say we are not just building an orphanage, we are building a remarkable family’s tribute to their beloved daughter.

5:45 am – Gama and I leave the mission house in his truck before others are up and drive along the river bed (it is dry season) as the sun rises over the mountains.  The mountains in Haiti are not tall, 2,000 feet at most, but they rise right out of the sea, very steep.  They are more picturesque than many a 10,000 footer.  Gama is a Haitian-American, fluent in Creole and English, who was living in Central Massachusetts when Len enticed him to return to Haiti to run the project.  Gama has no previous construction experience, but he is a great translator, a patient listener, a hard worker and a congenial soul.  He is a pleasure from morning to night, which I know for fact because we spend that much time together.

6:00 am – We arrive at the site, halfway up a mountain west of town. The view of Bay of Gonave is breathtaking.  The workers are already there, all seventy of them.  If anyone shows up after 6:00 am they are fired, and jobs are hard to come by in Haiti; especially ones that pay four dollars a day and teach valuable skills. The workers are gaunt, pitch black men, we exchange bonjours, I am beginning to learn a few names.

6:15 am – Gama organizes the work crews, I go into the construction shack, turn on the computers and check the email.  Email is our lifeline with Len and the engineers in the States.

6:30 am – Once work is in full swing I walk the site.  Gama calls me eagle eye because I can see where the reinforcing bars were not installed at the proper spacing or the electricians forgot to grout the outlet box.  When I return to the office Gama and I review the lists.

7:00 am – We have three lists.  The white board displays the 12 goals that Len wants us to complete before he returns in two weeks.  Our current priority is to have all the first floor walls in place before I leave so we can install formwork to support the second floor concrete the week of January 9.  We won’t make it, but we’ll push to get close.  The second list is my To Do’s, coordinate the expanded clinic with the doctor in the US, design the front steps and patio around the mango tree, determine how to terminate the second floor slab at the open courtyards.  The third list is Gama’s To Do’s; demolish a wall due to clinic changes, add a switch where we need a three-way light, weld door anchors that were missed.  Len creates the first list, I create the other two.  This week, since I am just starting and we are playing catch-up on quality control; Gama’s list is long.

8:00 am – I am hungry and snatch some bread and peanut butter.  The Gengel’s don’t eat much Haitian cuisine so the construction shack is chocked with snack food.   I try not to indulge too much, but since Gama gets me up so early I miss breakfast at the mission house.

8:15 am – I work on my list. When we fantasize about building in a third world country we envision ourselves in shorts and bandannas laying concrete block or shingling a roof.  The quake shattered that illusion.  Be Like Brit is a highly engineered, sophisticated building.  We are committed to ‘raise the bar’ of construction in Haiti, to build to the highest earthquake standards and teach local tradespeople better construction techniques.  It sounds noble, but it winds up being as tedious as any other form of work.  My role is to monitor, to observe, to anticipate what needs attention and make right what was built wrong.  I make a lot of sketches and create a lot of spreadsheets – how many block do we need to finish the first floor (1,800); how much reinforcing do we need for the second floor slab (1,325 bars, 40 feet long, of various diameter); how many separate concrete pours will it take to complete the second floor (10 pours at 20 to 35 cubic yards per pour, hand hoisted in 5 gallon buckets).

10:00 am – I walk the site again.  Gama’s list grows.

10:30 am – A pair of straggling boys, barefoot in torn T-shirts, knock on the shack door.  We have a hockey bag full of shoes and they want a pair. I try to give only one pair per child, but they know how to confuse me, so I am sure many have gotten two pairs.  We have mostly girl’s shoes left, but girls’ never stop by. Haitian girls stay home near their mothers. The boys roam free.

11:30 am – There are three women who have set up cottage take-out stands at the BLB site.  They cook breakfast and lunch over small charcoal grills protected from the sun by a scrap of tarp.  They sell food to the workers.  Gama says a man can eat very well in Haiti in $1.50 a day.  Gama usually buys something around this time and offers some to me.  At first I declined, not wanting to take his food, but then I realized he was offering as host, so now I accept.  He tells me MOHI food is ‘Americanized’ and I can tell the difference, though I like it all.  One day he had cornmeal pellets with beans and a small fried fish; another day rice and peas with shredded beef. So far my iron stomach appreciates everything I’ve been dished

Noon – I walk down the hill, soaking in the view and chatting with the children along the road.  Everyone knows my name and I am making progress at reciprocating.  Route 2, one of Haiti’s four paved highways, is at the bottom of the hill.  A few hundred yards towards town is the Mission of Hope School.

12:30 pm – Renee Edme runs Mission of Hope (MOHI) (www.mohintl.org) with her husband Lex.  They are evangelical Christians, she’s American, he is Haitian.  They are people of generous spirit and make me feel welcome despite my different beliefs.  It is the work that matters.  Renee has a small plywood framed office where Marieve, MOHI’s cook, delivers a pot of lunch.  Rice and beans and a brothy sauce with onions with maybe a bit of chicken or goat left over from last night, a basket of bread and juice so sweet I drink it last, for dessert.

1:00 pm – More than half of MOHI’s property is a construction site where we are building a new school to replace the one damaged by the earthquake. Progress is slow since they do not have Len Gengel’s resources or construction expertise.  They have cobbled together contractors from different parts of the US who come down for a week or two to spearhead the local tradespeople.  Their concrete superstar, John Armour, will be down on January 15 for two weeks.  In advance of his arrival I will determine all the reinforcing they need to finish the foundation and work with a local crew to fabricate 419 U-bars and 30 reinforced concrete cages.  More emails and conference calls, more spreadsheets, inventorying what rebar is on site and determining what we need to order. Starting Monday, we are ready to cut and bend bar,

2:00 pm – I walk back to BLB.  Len is building a beautiful stone retaining / drainage wall along the uphill side of the road.  It is easy to see he develops tony subdivisions in the States; the wall is as opulent as anything in Sudbury, MA. The masons take a break to chat with me.  When Len first introduced me to the group of laborers I made a pigeon Creole speech that I would help them build the orphanage if they would help me learn Creole.  It went over well; they are always offering up new words and phrases for me test.

2:30 pm – Back on site for another walk through, more emails, keeping things humming.

4:00 pm – The workers knock off for the day but Gama doesn’t quit.  He writes his daily report; I add my part.  We photograph progress to post to the website.  He is devoted to this project.

4:30 pm – I am tired and make my way back to MOHI.  One day Renee left before I arrived so I walked home through town.  I am still getting comfortable with navigating the streets; I say ‘bon soir’ to everyone and get smiles and nods in return.  I have a car at my disposal but I have only driven it once.  As Renee told me, if anything happens it’s automatically my fault, since I’m the blanc.  Not words that motivate me to want to hop behind the wheel.

5:30 pm – Whether I walk or drive or hitch a ride, I get to MOHI’s ‘office’ a concrete house in the middle of town with a rear courtyard that has a giant tree and a collection of outbuildings where all the food for all the MOHI enterprises is made.  Marieve and her staff cook for 50-150 people, every meal, every day.  I load whatever pots and baskets and jugs of juice have to go to the mission house.  Riding along the river bed with the sun sinking over the bay with the aroma of succulent food is a satisfying moment.

6:00 pm – I live like a prince at the mission house.  There are four ‘private’ rooms with baths on the second floor and BLB rents one full time for their staff.  The room sleeps five and when Len is here he often has an entourage, but I am here on the off-weeks and pretty much by myself.  When I return my bed is made, the bathroom is clean; I shower in the cold water drizzle and wash the microfiber pants and T-shirts I wear to the site. I change into shorts and a fresh shirt, and hang my work clothes to dry.  I have two sets and alternate them daily.

6:30 pm – We may be five of fifty for dinner, depending on the number of missionaries visiting.  Right now there is group of four from Pittsburgh who are great fun and a new group of thirty from Ohio who are just settling in. We eat under a huge thatched hut called the choucoun, with a view of the bay and the sound of the ocean. More rice, more beans or peas.  The chicken is good, the goat is excellent.  Occasionally there is a pepper tossed among the onions in the sauce to keep things lively.

7:30 pm – I read or blog or do Suduko on the porch outside the room.  I have become expert at the ‘Tough’ level and even completed some ‘Diabolical’ puzzles.

8:00 pm – Gama gets back to the mission house just before I head for bed.  His room is next to mine.  He turns his TV on loud and falls asleep to the sounds of American popular culture.  I try to read for a few minutes, but the darkness feels like midnight, so I fall deep asleep.

Mister Paul, l’architect, at the BLB site

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2011 – The Year of Living Consicously

If Socrates’ maxim “an unexamined life is not worth living” rings true, I lived 2011 with a vengeance.

January Abby and I visit Haiti for a week to lay out the foundations of the Be Like Brit orphanage.  We stop in Miami for R&R on our return where Abby comes down with Dengue fever.  She recovers after eight days in the natural course of things, despite $75K plus of erratic American healthcare.

February I fly thousands of miles designing hospitals. I begin to question the point of the work; it used to be about helping others, now it’s more about feeding the healthcare behemoth.

March I complete the design and proposal to build a new school for Mission of Hope International in Grand Goave,Haiti.  We receive a $350,000 construction grant from a German agency.

April brings spring and an escapist fantasy – could I take a long bike ride this summer to shake off my malaise?

May Abby graduates from UMass Amherst with Honors and celebration.  I ride my bike ninety miles out and back to test the feel of a long ride.  Four hours of heavy rain fails to dampen my enthusiasm.  I spend a week in Haiti laying out the foundation for the new school.  When I return I negotiate a seven week vacation from TRO JB.

June is a month of intense work and travel; I race to finish my client work.

July 19 I fly toDenver, pick up my new touring bike, and cycle the Children’s Hospital Courage Classic over the Rockies with my family. On July 26 I head east on the bike to visit family in Oklahoma.

August is a month of solitary bliss; pedaling during the day, writing my blog at night.  I ride the blue highways, stay in vintage motels, eat local food, visit roadside attractions, and fall in love with the countryside and the people I meet along the way.

September 4 – 3,050 miles in seven weeks!  I finish the book I wrote along my journey, Pedaling Principles, while adjusting to regular life once more.

October I complete my 600th Bikram yoga class since I began in 2009.  My practice provides deep benefits of health and introspection.

November brings a coup to TRO JB!  Rumors fly, heads roll, hard times compel good people act in desperate ways.  I take the chaos as a sign to reassess.

December 27.  I am back in Haiti. I will supervise construction of the orphanage and school for two weeks every month through 2012.  I am retaining a consultant relationship at TRO JB.  Andy says I’m retired; I tell him I am exploring work opportunities where money is not a factor.

I am grateful for this year of change and growth, for the wonder of our country at a very slow pace, for the grand old four family house in Cambridge that gives me financial independence and my stupendous housemate Paul who keeps things humming while I follow my heart, for Abby and Andy’s maturity and fellowship, and for TRO JB’s understanding.

I am excited about the prospects that 2012 offers.  I hope that each of you find similar energy in your own passions.

 

 

 

Christmas with

Abby and Andy

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Jenison 3

The first person I saw in Grand Goave, of course, was Jenison, standing outside the gate at Mission of Hope as casually as if he had just happened by, as purposefully as if he had not moved a muscle since I last left him in May.  Jenison is ‘my Haitian’, he adopted me back in the summer of 2010 when he appointed himself my nail holder one day while I was building temporary shelters.  He has been a glue stick to my side ever since.  I have blogged about him twice before, calling him Jameson, but recently I learned his name is actually Jenison. Mispronunciation never compromised our affection.

Jenison is taller, his eyes just cleared the window as I opened the door and scooped down to pull him into me. He was endearing when he was eight, pixyish and smart, with a scary facility to mimic English. At ten the sores and blisters of a life lived out of doors mark his body and he has picked up the rudiments of begging.  He moans that he is hungry, which he probably is, and asks for dollars.  Unfortunately for him, my heart is more practical than soft and I make sure he gets a good plate of rice and beans rather than giving him a lollipop (peewilly in Creole), and I prefer to sit under a tree and look at the words and pictures in a magazine with him than give him money.

Stories abound about Jenison. Word is his mother died and that he was adopted by Brenda, the only woman I ever met here who works construction rather than cook and sweep.  If you ask Jenison if his mother died, he draws a somber face and whispers yes, and then just as quickly brightens to another antic.  There no way of knowing if she actually died or if he has just mastered another heart tug. The women’s very existence is lost in translation.

There is a hockey bag full of shoes under the counter at the job shack at Be Like Brit, ready to give any child who shows up at the site needing footwear.  Somehow Jenison knows about it; the kid seems to know about everything.  Sure enough the day after Len left and I am on my own at the job site Jenison shows up and asks for shoes. He is barefoot, but that is normal for him.  We rustle through the bag and find a nice pair of sneakers that fit with room to grow.  I give him a peewilly while we’re at it.  He thanks me with great appreciation and wears his sneakers outside.

I turn back to my work.  In a few minutes I look up and see Jenison, barefoot, new shoes in hand, racing down the hill. Maybe he’ll sell them.  Maybe he’ll keep them as a prize.  Maybe he just wanted them because he could get them.  The only thing I know for sure is that the next time I see Jenison; he won’t be wearing those shoes.  Shoes are not his style.

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The Only Way out is Through

The weather forecast for Port Au Prince was optimal; high of 90, low of 75, sunny for days.  Late December is the coolest time of year in Haiti; it is not uncommon to see natives wearing sweaters.  So when I landed in PAP I was looking forward to that saturating warmth that enfolds Northerners escaping winter’s chill. My last visit to Haiti was in May, when oppressive heat is the norm, and previous trips had been in July and August, when the heat slams against you like a force field in a sci-fi flick.  I anticipated 90 and sunny with pleasure.

Somehow I forgot that ninety degrees in Port au Prince is not the same as ninety in Aruba or Acapulco or other tropical venues that lack PAP’s peculiar charms of rotting garbage, street corner fires, and dust clouds that obscure the millions wandering the streets.  On Port Au Prince’s pavement ninety is still hot, still rank, and still oppressive.

I am a pretty adventurous traveler but I have never stepped foot on a city street in Port au Prince.  I am in no rush to do so.  There are supposedly nice sections, but I have never seen them.  I am an anomaly in this city, a white guy, a blanc, a good target for a robbery or maybe even a kidnapping. Nothing bad has ever happened to me in PAP, and I intend to keep it that way.  I am met at the airport by a driver who takes me to my destination, and delivers me back before I leave.  If the timing requires an overnight in PAP, the lodging is a walled and gated mission house.  There is no Airport Marriott in this country.

Still, I have driven through much of the city.  I passed the President’s mansion before the earthquake felled its dome.  I bussed through the central market where open hands poked through the windows grasping for alms while piles of merchandise and piles of refuse lay beyond, indistinguishable to the American eye.  I have driven past the container port post earthquake where boatloads of trucks and bulldozers, gifts from many countries, sat shiny new on the docks but turned chalky grey the minute they hit the rubbled streets. I have rattled along that horrific boulevard whose median was lined with tents, where children who inadvertently stepped beyond their flap got clobbered by a vehicle.

That tent city is gone, but many remain.  In some places new subdivisions have emerged.  Subdivisions in PAP don’t have idyllic names like Eden’s Grove or Prescott Woods as we do in the States.  These are rows upon rows of tarped or wooden cabins stenciled Oxfam or UN or USAID.  My favorite is a sea of wooden cottages near the airport, twelve feet wide by sixteen feet long by eight feet high, painted a rainbow of colors to differentiate one from another.  They have been occupied for almost a year now and are already looking Haitian as people add sheds off the back and connect them side by side with tarps and blankets.  I give them two years, three tops, before the original structures are thoroughly buried beneath the aggregating additions.

On every trip to PAP I pass the main covered market, gift of the citizens of Venezuela.  This Wal-Mart of Haiti is a vast terrain of goods extending as far as the eye can see. Rows of women sell bananas followed by rows of women selling breadfruit followed by rows of women selling discarded T-shirts followed by… you get the idea.

The weather report for PAP was accurate, but it lacked full disclosure.  The sun was up there, a bleary yellow dot, but the haze was thick below. The temperature was ninety but the sweat of the throngs and the cracking flames of burning garbage made it feel hotter.  It was stifling and humid.  As my trusty driver Howard rocketed me through the city streets, horn blazing, I could not help but note how this is a fascinating experience for me; an observer passing through, absorbing all I can, simultaneously fascinated and ashamed by my fascination.  But what of the thousands of people traipsing the streets all around me?  For them this is not a passing experience.  This is their reality.

We got out of Port Au Prince in record time. There was relatively little traffic.  On every successive trip more earthquake debris is removed, more roads are repaved.  Things are improving. Still, things are appalling.

Once Port Au Prince is behind, Haiti opens up as if the entire island were but one magnificent outstretched hand. It is hand in need, asking, begging, for help.  But it is also a wise and weathered hand, a hand chiseled with pride and suffering into a surface of infinite character and depth.  Route 2 is the life line along Haiti’s palm, stretching out of Port Au Prince extending to the far tip of the island, just as our own life lines emerge from the dubious folds between our fingers to spread out across the breadth of our own hand.

You cannot begin to fathom Haiti until you have witnessed Port Au Prince.  But you have not seen Haiti at all until you pass through its capital and venture to the land beyond.

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Pedaling Principles Chapter Four – Colorado

Colorado – Our Defining Character

Colorado induces clarity of spirit.  I believe it is due to the air, or, to be more accurate, the lack of air. I travel to Colorado about once a year to visit family and it takes a few days to get used to the diminished oxygen a mile high.  Breathing takes effort and I drink water constantly to ward off altitude headaches.  This consciousness of basic elements, air and water, attunes my mind to basic concepts.  To me, Colorado evokes the fundamental character of Americans; independent, ingenious and industrious.  As a long time Massachusetts resident, one might think that the birthplace of our revolution conjures those feelings, but Boston is wrapped in history and tradition.  It was the spark plug that ignited our nation, but its roots are too European to reflect our uniqueness. Boston had already been settled for 146 years before the revolution. Colorado hasn’t even been a state that long.

The history of Colorad is one of men exploring, exploiting, and moving on.  No mountain was too tall or plain too dry that we could not dominate it. Conquering the mountains and enduring the hardships required to extract their hidden resources was a feat of economic gambling, engineering savvy and brute strength.  Men came lured by the promise of gold, and though some was found, they mostly found silver, iron, copper and molybdenum.  They figured how to extract the metals from inhospitable places.  They dug mines, built towns, laid railroads, and when the veins ran dry in one place, they moved everything to new locations.  The main highway through Climax, CO, which goes overFreemontPass, was relocated five times as engineers mapped the shift in molybdenum deposits.   The entire town of Dillon, CO moved four times, first to accommodate railroads, and later, for water.

Colorado’s early economy, based on pulling precious stuff from the ground, produced cycles of boom and bust that reflected prevailing economic patterns in the United States throughout the 1800’s, when the role of government was more limited and our systems of banking and trade were still being formulated.  Booms were periods of high living, but there was no cushion for the busts, no social security, no safety net.  People sustained a bust with whatever got tucked away during the boom, along with the inherent understanding that bad times were only temporary. Everyone understood that in this land of bounty, another opportunity would reveal itself, around the mountain as it were, and another boom would explode.  Americans had good cause to be optimistic; the frontier was inexhaustible.

The three terms I use to define our character all begin with ‘I’ for good reason; we are a society of individuals, a less generous term would call us self-centered.  Independent is our premier characteristic.  We are nation of people who chose to leave the constraints of an earlier life.  Perhaps it was our parents or their parents or their grandparents who severed their roots and came here; most of us don’t have to count too far back.  The brothers and sisters who stayed behind to care for kin among familiar surroundings, well, they were the kind of people who stay behind.  We are the ones who left hearth and home and the known world to come toAmerica.  Being independent is practically a precondition for being American.

We are ingenious because we came to a place and saw its untapped value.  The Indians who roamed this great land before we arrived had a very different relationship with their environment. They were integrated into a web of live, linked to the grass and the bison and the rivers and the fish without hierarchy.  Our hierarchy was simple, we were the top dogs, and top dogs don’t look at their world to see how they fit in, they look at their world to see what’s in it for them. Americans are masterful top dogs; we always find an ingenious way to plunder and extract whatever we want.

Finally, we are industrious, because it took an incredible amount of work to transform our ingenuity into products and profits.  It requires a good effort to ride a bicycle over Tennessee Pass and Vail Pass and Fremont Pass, but the work pales in comparison to the effort demanded to create those passes, to build the trails and the railroads and the highways to the mines, to pull the metals out of the mountains and to transport them East. Whenever I came upon an historical marker along the road, I read the snippet of local history and tried to envision the bleak, unformed land that greeted the first explorers who came to Coloradoin search of possibilities.

These days, those historical markers are just another tourist attraction.  In the past twenty years Colorado has experienced a boom that eclipses all others – the tourist boom.  Ski resorts and second homes is the economy of theRockies now.  The mountains are brimming with picturesque wooden villas available for a weekly rental, Interstate 70 whisks vacationers up fromDenver in a few hours, while the locals make a better livelihood catering to the whims of well-heeled visitors then they ever did mining ore.

If our American character is shaped by the rugged explorers who first tapped this land, how is that character impacted by the transition from a working landscape to a landscape of leisure, from a population at work to a population at play, from a land of inhospitable elements to one of generous creature comforts?  By turning Colorado into a resort, we have dominated it more completely than any miner or trapper could imagine.  The tracks they laid through treacherous passes are now bicycle paths, unscalable slopes are now Black Diamond ski trails, the most dangerous rivers are full of thrill seeking rafters.  We can have great fun in Colorado, but we have lost the opportunity to hone our independence, ingenuity, and industry in this land.  The traditional frontier is gone, and the frontiers on our horizon; sustainability, information technology, biomedicine, virtual reality, robotics, even quarks, are fundamentally different from the physical frontier of the past.  These are knowledge-based frontiers that will be championed through collaborative teams and incremental improvement rather than bold individual initiative, exploration, and brute strength.

The American Character, which was so successful in building our country and spreading our culture throughout the world, is increasingly irrelevant in a world of shrinking physical challenges and expanding intellectual ones. We created the transportation, communication, and business systems that enabled globalization to occur, yet, ironically, the signature attributes of our character that made these leaps possible are not the most successful traits required for navigating a tightly knit world.  Getting Neil Armstrong to walk on the moon was the ultimate expression of our independence, ingenuity and industry; finding a meaningful way for all of our citizens to work and participate in society is a murkier problem; and understanding our role in a global economy that requires playing well with others is worse still.  We are so used to being the Big Man on Campus; we scorn collaboration and cooperation as signs of weakness.  Yet, those are the very skills that will lead to the most well balanced societies in the years ahead.

When people speak of the ‘national malaise’ in this country, I believe it is a longing for that time when our core attributes, independence, ingenuity and industry, were the signature traits required for success in the world.  We cannot address this malaise by changing our attributes; they are powerful, innate characteristics that define us at our best.  Rather, we need to learn how to leverage these traits in a more interrelated world, and develop corollary characteristics to create a broader vision of our character.  We must build on and expand our strengths rather than bemoaning that they are no longer entirely sufficient.

It is important to understand that independence means something different in a country with 310 million people and fixed boundaries than it did when we were a foundling nation of just over a million citizens with limitless westward expansion. Like it or not, we bump into each other more these days. At root, independence means I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want.  I reality, we have to add the caveat, except when it impinges on others. Once that caveat is affixed, we create opportunity for negotiation.  I can play my stereo indoors with the windows shut as loud as I want.  If I take it out to my deck in the afternoon, I can probably still play it pretty loud without complaints from the neighbors. But if it gets to be midnight, I have to turn it down, or off altogether.  If I get along with my neighbors, we can negotiate the volume among ourselves.  If I don’t get along with them, or don’t even know them, we have laws that establish acceptable parameters.  Our hierarchy is that independent behavior is allowed so long as it does not impinge, when it affects others it is negotiated, and when negotiation fails, laws intervene.  With 300 times as many people in our country, there is whole lot of impinging going on these days.

Historically, the ingenuity that our forefathers brought to this land has been reinforced through the United States premier educational system and our carefully constructed patent and copyright protections; two excellent tools for promoting ingenuity. Together they created an environment where the knowledge base required for innovation was spread among the entire population; innovation was acknowledged and duly rewarded.  Unfortunately, each of these ingenuity enhancers is under siege.  Our decentralized educational system provides unequal basic skills among our children, while at the national level our educational system has slipped in relation to other developed countries.  We have a smaller pool of people capable of innovating, and more innovation originates abroad, undermining our role as the world’s ingenuity leader.  Meanwhile our copyright / patent protections are often not respected beyond our boundaries as the easy flow of information makes piracy more prevalent.  The key issues for us in maintaining a leadership role in ingenuity are both internal, to make our educational system more innovation friendly, and external, to spread the protections we have developed to promote ingenuity throughout the rest of the world.

Perhaps the most challenging of the attributes that define our character to analyze is our industriousness.  The United States is still the most productive country in the world, on a work output per hour basis.  However, the scope of our economy has become narrower as more basic production and services are outsourced to areas of the world where people are willing to work for longer hours and less money.  It does not matter if we can work effectively at $20 per hour; as long as someone offshore is willing to work for a quarter that cost.  Even if they work half as efficiently, they are the more attractive economic option.  We are well past the point when trinket manufacturing went overseas.  Today, customer service, medical technology, architectural rendering, web site design, and other knowledge-based work are all outsourced.  When we couple this with slipping leadership in ingenuity, our industriousness becomes questionable.

The United Statesis a mature economy and we have accumulated the trappings of people who have lived well for a long time.  We expect good wages, good benefits, good working conditions, and reasonable work schedules.  We have regulations to ensure minimum wages, overtime pay, and safe workplaces.  All of this is appropriate and humane, but it also drives up the cost of doing business in the United States and places us at a disadvantage in relationship to countries where standards are slack and workers are hungry.  Back in the twentieth century, when most of the worker rights and benefits we enjoy came into being, the American worker competed against others like himself.  The GM assemblyman completed against the Chrysler and Ford assemblyman, not some worker in China or India.  Wage and benefit packages grew as domestic industries competed for a contained pool of trained workers.  In the era of globalization, we are competing with a much larger pool of workers willing to work for less money under less favorable conditions, and as a consequence, the American worker appears to be less industrious.  Globalization is here to stay, and on the whole, it is a good thing.  It will allow each of us to work to our maximum potential.  But it does upset how we measure our industriousness.

We are accustomed to thinking that things will always improve; America has a long track record in that direction.  We take the wage and benefit packages that our father’s won as the starting point from which to expand.  We consider their baseline to be our entitlement.  But through globalization, corporations can find a parallel stream of providing manufacturing and services that eliminates that baseline altogether.  When a company moves their operations toIndia, American industry standards become irrelevant.  The challenge for our industriousness as an element of character is to accept that our twentieth century definition of industry no longer applies.  Our measure of industry has to include all the elements of productivity, technology, mechanization, communication, transportation, and human effort.  If we want to continue to have greater salaries and benefits than our overseas counterparts, we have to be that much more efficient in other components of our total productivity. We cannot assume the baseline for human industry will remain static, we must understand how humans fit into the entire process of production and service.  This requires openness to change and a willingness to constantly improve.  If we get stuck in the mindset that we are ‘entitled’ to certain standards without understanding that achieving those standards requires working differently than our fathers did, we will be left behind in the world marketplace, and ultimately poorer than our fathers.  Our industrious character is still a critical component to achieving success.  It just has to be better integrated into complex business processes and a more collaborative approach to work.

After I finished three days of riding through the mountains, I meandered out of Denver on a bright Tuesday morning and pedaled towards home.  OutsideElizabeth, the outer limit of the Denver exurbs, the landscape exposed the ancient seabed that formed this area, the land rolled as waves, the cottonwoods in creek beds were anemone at the bottom of the giant ancient sea, the clouds wild as whitecaps above.  I traversed twenty, maybe thirty swales, pedaling to the top, cresting, and surfing the pavement on straightaway descents.  Each swale got a little broader, a little flatter, a little more barren, until finally, by the time I reached Limon, the earth was flat.  The Rockies had met the shore.

As I rolled towards Limon that first night traveling alone, I considered whether I had left the American Character, the quintessential expression of ‘Life,Libertyand the Pursuit of Happiness’ behind me, whistling like a lost wind through the Rockies.  Can the traits that so well served rugged pioneers and explorers translate into a nation of 300 plus million people enmeshed in a globalized economy with six billion potential competitors and collaborators?  At the termination of Colorado 83, on a rise looking east over the plains, the view is limitless, but I was hardly alone.  I was on an overpass, the continuous rumble of I-70 beneath me.  What was once an isolated parcel of plains is now connected to everything else.  There are too many of us on too small a planet to allow every individual to do as he likes unfettered.  We need to search the soul of our character to discover how it can translate to a world that has extinguished its physical frontiers.  I am too confident of our inherent strengths to believe that we will ever abandon what is best about us.  Our challenge is how to apply our independence, ingenuity and industrious to this new, compact world.

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JFK Connection to Haiti

 There are two ways to fly from Boston to Haiti, American through Miami or Fort Lauderdale, or Delta through New York. Most flights leave early in the day so the planes can deposit folks in Port Au Prince and then hightail back to the States.  Planes do not lay overnight in Haiti.  On the surface, the Florida connections are preferable; the legs are balanced, the airports bright, the on-time stats positive.  But flying through JFK is often less expensive and/or has more availability.  This morning, in the wake of the Christmas travel rush, it was my only option.  Truth be told, I prefer the weathered grit of JFK to its smooth and sanitized Florida counterparts.  My challenge in flying from Point A to Point B is that the plane moves faster than my psyche’s ability to process change, and the cultural shift from stoic Boston to chaotic Port Au Prince needs time.  Routing through New York puts me in a Haiti state of mind.

At the big New Year, back in 2000 Donald Trump announced his resolution to help the Big Apple get a truly worthy airport.  Paris, Hong Kong, Osaka, even Detroit have created terrific airports in the past decade, while JFK muddles along with an upgrade here and a new terminal there but no sense that the whole is anything more than a cacophony of disparate parts.  JFK is a disorganized mash-up were the world’s travelers wear blinders to their surroundings as they motor from gate to gate.

The gate for PAP throbs in disorder.  People huddle around the check-in counter more than an hour before take-off, they have a wheelie, a bulging shoulder bag and two gigantic shopping bags that appear to be stuffed with king size down comforters, but when a clerk suggests they check one, they look away in bland detachment.  The people flying to PAP are not average Haitians; average Haitians cannot afford to fly.  We know the tacit rules of flying, but we chose to ignore them.  The airport is the place where we shed American norms and beta test the behavior that will engulf us once we land in Port Au Prince.

It takes about twice as long to board a flight to Haiti as anywhere else I go.  Besides the swaggering guys with embroidered fedoras and too many carry-ons scanning the space is if they are alone on a mountain, there are the frail old ladies barely five feet tall who fumble through their purse checking every scrap for a boarding pass, and the elegant men in their shiny, shiny three piece suits with neon acrylic ties and distinctive grey goatees who approach the gate as if processing to a coronation.  When the first boarding announcement goes out people mob the desk, boarding zones be damned.  That is when I head out of the lounge to the men’s room, which will be quiet just now, and I have a solid fifteen minutes to wash up without any fear of being left at the gate.  Upon return the crowd is still huge, moving in fits and starts, a dense cloud funneling randomly towards the hollow tube that will take us to Hispaniola.

My flight leaves on time, almost. Inside the plane the attendant’s rasps over the mic to please take your seat, let others pass, we cannot leave the gate until everyone sits down.  They repeat it in English, in French, in haste, in anger, in exasperation.  No extra points for customer courtesy here – they are simply trying to get us to move!  Attendants practically rip the ubiquitous wheelies out of the hands of struggling passengers, the end-of-the-line souls with a seat assignment but no space in the overhead bin. Eventually we settle in, more in spite of the attendants than in response to them.

The plane takes off and we are barely above the clouds when people pop out of their seats.  I am in the exit row (hooray!) opposite a beautiful French flight attendant who becomes so exasperated asking people to sit down she finally tells a young woman, “It is dangerous to be up and walking around, but you’ll do whatever you do.”

I watch all of this, enthralled by the petty improprieties, the endless need to thumb order and authority, however trivially displayed.  I love how Haitians pride of their place in the world as the first Black Republic supersedes their acknowledgement of the tragic battering the Republic has endured for the past 196 years.  They are simultaneously victims on the world stage and survivors of the highest magnitude.

This is my sixth trip to Haiti since 2009.  I have agreed to supervise construction of the Be Like Brit orphanage and Mission of Hope International school on a part-time basis through 2012, so more trips will follow. I will be leading a bifurcated life – two weeks in Haiti dealing with hand mixed concrete and steel reinforcing bent on home-made jigs followed by two weeks in the States designing iCT operating rooms with million dollar neurological equipment that weaves a fiber through a human brain.  I look forward to appreciating each dichotomy as a way to participate in, and contribute to, the full range of human experience, and I am grateful for the hubbub of JFK to modulate my transitions.

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Grateful

Christmas is a day of spiritual thanksgiving; a day to be grateful for all we have not just in terms of our bounty, but in terms of our soul.  Grateful is a straightforward adjective, an expression of thanks for gifts received, whether physical, emotional, or genetic. Grateful does not afford irony.  Yet the depths to which gratefulness can be applied are endless.  I can be grateful to my parents for passing on the gene of rhythm because I so love to dance.  I can be grateful to nature for the glory of New England autumn, I can be grateful to god for simply giving me breath every morning.  But I can also be grateful for those little events that comprise the day; the exact change in my pocket that equals the bus fare and the mid-morning refreshment of my diet Coke.

Gratefulness is that unique commodity that gains value the more it is transmitted.  Thirty years ago, months could pass and I would never utter the word.  Then Oprah got in the gratefulness business.  She had a habit of asking her guests what they were grateful for in her confidential manner that implied, just between you and me, that truly worthy people have lots to be grateful for and are not too sophisticated to express it. I was in my forties then and damn tired of being depressed and divorced, by the endless therapy cycle and the gap between my contrived expectations and life’s reality. I wanted to will myself into happiness.  But happiness cannot be willed.  Gratefulness, however, can be acknowledged.  And whenever something good is acknowledged, we claim a few moments of grace from the clouds that darken our soul.

I was talking with my sister Pat last week, a cathartic exchange about the ills of our nation and how the international situation is desperate as usual, when she said, “I just wish our leaders would dwell on all we have to be grateful.”  She struck a true chord.  We Americans deserve to be slapped upside the face, to be shocked into the reality that everyone else in the world already knows – that we are a privileged citizenry who takes too much for granted and we are not near enough grateful.

It is odd quirk of human nature that the strength of people’s hope is inversely proportional to their affluence.  The more we have, the more we spend time protecting it, the less potential we envision for the future.  Affluence impoverishes the spirit.  The fatter our bank accounts, the leaner our dreams.

I am grateful to all the people who take time from your day to click on The Awkward Pose and follow my musings.  I hope you all find much to be grateful for on this Christmas day.  I hope that you build on that acknowledgement tomorrow, and the next day and the next, until we all realize that our days on this miraculous planet are more than just a series of tasks to suffer, they are a cascade of opportunities to explore.  May we all be grateful for the wonder of our own journey and strive to our highest potential to be fully human and fully committed to one another

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Plain, Honest Men

As our country sputters, sometimes aimlessly, sometimes recklessly, I find myself reading more of our history, as if morsels from a noble past can nourish me through our present morass.  I recently finished Plain, Honest Men – The Making of the American Constitution, by Richard Beeman, a terrific book about the Philadelphia summer of 1787 and the delegates from the 13 states (or almost that many, Rhode Island never got their act together to actually show up) who composed the Constitution. Since the precepts of that document figure prominently in Pedaling Principles, I was interested to learn the details of how it came to life.

My conceptions of the Constitution’s birth proved more or less accurate. All agreed that the existing Articles of Confederation were inadequate, though beyond that there was great disagreement as to how to improve them. James Madison and the Virginia cohort’s efforts to jumpstart the process by introducing a well developed scheme early was a strategically wise move; they framed the debate towards the concept of creating new government rather than simply restructuring the Articles.  However, they probably moved too far too fast, as a backlash ensued that dragged the convention on for months before they reached the compromise document.

I found two very compelling aspects of this narrative.  The first aligns well with my ideas of how to identify guiding principles and move forward based on identified mutual best interest.  Time and again the founders hit an impasse, but they always iterated back to step one – that the Articles had to be scrapped – and refused yield that point.  The conflicts between the large states and small states, the slave states andfree states, the emerging industrial states and the established agricultural states were huge, yet they kept hammering and compromising to find scraps of common ground.  Two hundred plus years later, we tend to enshrine the Constitution as a perfect description of how to govern when in reality it was a compromise all around.

The second compelling aspect of this narrative helped me understand that the roots of our money-driven society trace all the way back to the Constitution and even before. The men who created the Constitution were the moneyed class ofAmerica.  Though they proclaimed a government in the name of the people, they did not establish a government that directly reflected the people’s will.  Many of them were contemptuous of the ability of the ‘mob’ to direct elect a responsible government; hence the indirect selection of Senators, the Electoral College and other quirks in our supposed democracy.  However, they all believed that money talks and spun many debates about how to measure wealth as the determinant for influence.  Only after they agreed that there was a direct correlation between a state’s population and their respective wealth, did the delegates agree to allow ‘people’ and not ‘property’ determine the level of representation that each state would have in Congress.

The most infamous example of this mode of thinking was the 3/5 rule; that slaves counted as 3/5 of a person in terms of establishing representation.  The fraction came out of an unscientific measure of the relative economic vale of a slave over a free worker.  It is perhaps the most bizarre compromise in the entire document.  It reflects the national confliction about slavery and bows to the reality that the Constitutional Congress was not prepared to address it.  The Southern states insisted on counting slaves as full people, while simultaneously insisting they were property.  The Northern states did not want slaves counted for voting purposes at all; there may be few slaves in the North but that didn’t mean they actually wanted black people to vote. Still Northerners were uncomfortable calling them property.  Rufus King of Massachusetts actually argued that if slaves were property yet worthy of some fractional vote, why not give a vote to the horses and oxen that provided the backbone of running New England farms? The 3/5 rule demonstrates a compromise where no compromise can exist.  Either a person is a person or they are not.  The framers sought expediency, they all held their noses and agreed on 3/5, and seventy-five years later, 600,000 Americans died settling the question.

Two hundred twenty-three years after signing the Constitution, the Supreme Court overturned corporate limits on campaign contributions in the Citizens United case.  Our current Supreme Court has a strong ‘Constitution as literal gospel’ bent, so it is easy to see why they would maintain that corporations should be unfettered in how they throw around their wealth.  If Eighteenth century slaves could be considered subhuman, to the tune of 3/5, because of their economic inferiority, then the astronomical wealth of 21st century corporations make them a sort of superhuman species.  Citizens United, though draped in the mantle of first amendment free speech, actually reinforces the idea that money, rather than individuals, forms the core of political power. In that regard it is a pathetic but accurate reflection of our founding fathers vision. 

When we hold the Constitution as ultimate and complete, we deny having our own vision.  Only when we understand the Constitution as a template designed to be customized as our ideals of representative government enlarge, can it enhance, rather than hinder, our vision.

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Pedaling Principles – Chapter 3 – Guiding Prinicples for Our Nation

As I cycled east and the guiding principles of my journey fell into place, I became more and more aware of the landscape that flowed beyond me and my Surly. Are there comparable principles to describe this immense plain and the people who inhabit it at a fundamental level?  Definitely.  The United States, more than any other nation on earth is the triumph of ideals over geography.  Our quest for individual rights and mutually agreed government define us; while the extents of our borders have proved fluid over time.  At the scale of a nation, we are ripe with potential principles.  So, how should I decide what they are?  Ideally, our guiding principles would be created by a collective consensus of all of our citizens.  But since I was a lone cyclist and not the convener of a Continental Congress, I recollected our history to find statements that could meet the criteria; classic texts that define us in a clear and comprehensive way, yet illustrate our uniqueness.

I selected three.  They each proved worthy evaluators of what I observed cycling across America, as well as insightful guides to how we are going astray in Washington,DC.

The first guiding principle I selected is from the Declaration of Independence, “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.”  This is our national slogan; it describes us and simultaneously differentiates us from all others. Like all good slogans it is brief and clear, yet conveys the fundamentals.  We Americans place a strong emphasis on the individual, and his ability to lead life as he sees fit.  We want as much personal freedom as possible without undue intervention. These concepts are so ingrained we often cannot comprehend that others don’t seek the same, yet if we compare our slogan with that ofFrance, say, who coined ‘Liberty, Equalite, Fraternite” during their own revolution, we find it is quite a different animal.  True, we both use the term liberty, but the French emphasize equality and brotherhood, more communal attributes than our own individual emphasis on life and the pursuit of happiness.  Two hundred plus years later, any analysis of the differences between our two societies would have to admit that by and large we both got what we wanted.

I also chose the opening of the Constitution, “We the people of the United States, in order to from a more perfect Union…”  This is an important guiding principle because it reinforces the notion that what defines us is not geography but ideals.  The Constitution is the document that describes how we, as individuals, come together to be a nation.  Its checks and balances reflect our disdain for centralized authority, yet it acknowledges that we are better off together than on our own, and establishes the parameters by which we collectively govern. 

Finally, I selected the guiding principle ‘government of the people, by the people, for the people,’ fromLincoln’sGettysburg address.  This phrase crystallizes the notion that we get the government we deserve because ultimately, it is our government.  Every citizen of this country has influence; it is not only a right, it is a responsibility.  The capacity to affect change brings with it the charge to act responsibly. Our individual freedoms and collective government do not come without effort, we must be involved with our government, or it will no longer be ours.

 

 

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Pedaling Principles – Chapter 2 – Getting Started

Getting Started – Guiding Principles of a Bicycle Trip

Let’s use the simple story of my bike trip to illustrate how guiding principles can direct our actions.  A year before I even thought about cycling 3,000 miles I promised my brother to ride in the Courage Classic, a three day fund raising ride through the Rocky Mountains for Children’s Hospital Colorado. I planned to fly to Denverand ride a loaner bike, but winter and spring of 2011 turned into a blur of work demands.  I logged hundreds of hours and thousands of frequent flier miles and in order to maintain perspective on my harried work life, an escapist fantasy emerged.  What if I extended my cycling trip by riding back to Boston after visiting Denver?  My client load was light in August, my boss gave the green light and suddenly I had seven weeks of approved leave, my longest vacation ever.  True, I had a mountain of work to do before I left, and no cycling experience beyond commuting around town.  But these were mere details compared with the majesty of the idea.

Most endeavors evolve like my bicycle trip, a confluence of forces gather steam until they exert pressure and take their own shape.  No sooner did this luxurious amount of time lie before me than the journey took on distinct definition.

I had time constraints.  I was leaving Boston on July 19, which gave me a few days to acclimate to Denver’s altitude before the Courage Classic ride on July 23, 24, 25.  I had to return to work in Bostono n September 6, the day after Labor Day.  If I did not finish the ride before then, I would have to catch a bus home.  I told myself there would be no shame in that situation, but I knew that if I were compelled to bus the last leg, however short, it would be, if not a failure, certainly not a success.

I had social objectives.  I wanted to visit family and friends in Denver and Oklahoma City whom I had not seen in some time, but I also had the antithetical social objective of spending enforced time alone.  I have spent very little time fully alone in my life and wanted to expand my experience with solitude.

I also had what I considered cultural objectives; aspects of America I most wanted to see.  Obviously, I wanted to go slow, hence the bicycle.  And I wanted the accoutrements of my travel to reflect that leisurely pace.  I would not camp, I like creature comforts at night, but I wanted to avoid chain hotels.  For that matter, I wanted to avoid chain food as well.  Since the journey was more important than any particular destination, I planned my route based on quality of scenery rather than landmarks.  Whenever possible I chose bicycle trails over country roads, country roads over state roads, and state highways over US highways.  I wanted to avoid Interstates completely.

Before pedaling a single mile, I had developed some basic parameters that felt right about my trip. In the lingo of guiding principles, parameters are the ‘givens’ of a project, and we use them to formulate success targets; measurable objectives that mark progress and success.  It was easy to translate the parameters of my cycle trip into success targets.

My first target was to travel 70 miles per day.  After subtracting days for family visits and foul weather, I needed to average that distance if I was going to avoid hopping a bus in Upstate New York over Labor Day weekend. 

My second target was to never spend more than $100 per night on a motel.  This success factor had a cluster of corollary attributes as well.  I did not plan to make any reservations in advance, as that would cramp my spontaneity.  Vintage roadside motels were preferred over traditional hotels with lobbies, corridors, and elevators.  Bathrooms with original pink and green tile got gold stars, as did rooms with actual keys, as opposed to faux credit cards. Bonus points went to any motel with an outdoor chair in front of each room where I could sit in the evening and chat with neighbors if so inclined.  I also had a sort of anti-success target with regards to lodging, which was not to stay in any Bed and Breakfasts.  I find quilted, patterned fabric suffocating. 

My third success target was to always eat at independent restaurants and spend less than $20 per meal.  Bicycle touring seemed incompatible with haute cuisine.  My eating corollary was to always order the most local thing on the menu, especially if I had never eaten it before. 

Numerically, my targets were 70/100/0 – seventy miles per day, less than $100 per night, zero franchise food.

We never know all of a project’s parameters in advance.  In my case, the big unknown was the bike.  I have a good bike; I use it to commute eight miles to work every day.  I could have accessorized it for the adventure.  But I knew touring bikes were reported to be firmer, smoother, and more comfortable.  It took only one test ride for me to decide to splurge on a new bicycle.  After some research I selected a Surly Long Haul Trucker, which I ordered from a shop in Denver to avoid shipping on a plane. I added a pair of the smallest Arkel side carriers, a Brooks leather seat, opted for toe clips over clip-on shoes, and upgraded the tires.  I am not a gear freak, so all this outfitting was work for me.  In the end I made some good choices and some questionable ones.  The Surly was a good call, very sturdy, the Arkel’s were great; plenty of room for my stuff; the leather seat proved iffy, it took way too long to break in because I didn’t treat it with the right oil for a few hundred miles; toe clips proved more comfortable than clip-on shoes, but much less powerful; and the better tires probably helped since I averaged only one flat per thousand miles.

The parameters of what to carry were clear – everything required for safety, as little else as possible.  The list included ten state maps, four liters of water, three spare tubes, three energy bars, first aid kit, space tire, and bike repair tools.  I wore the same bright yellow cycling outfit every day and rinsed it every night.  I brought only one pair of shorts, one pair long pants, one tee shirt and one collared shirt, a poncho, two pairs of nylon underwear, and five pairs of cycling socks (they dry slowly).  I added a netbook, camera, cell phone, and two paperbacks, which I left in motels as I finished them and picked up new ones in second hand book shops along the way.

First thing I did upon landing in Denver was to check out my new bicycle and select the accessories; I had to leave it overnight while they installed the goodies.  The next day I picked it up and had three days of trial riding; I explored Denver’s extensive bicycle paths while acclimating to the bike and the altitude.  Three days later I began the charity ride along with two thousand other cyclists.  Two hundred miles over three days that included three mountain passes,Tennessee, Vail and Fremont.  A week after arriving, I left the mountains and my family behind.  The odometer registered 300 miles; shakedown was over.  I rolled southeast out of Denver carrying nothing but my saddlebags, four liters of water and my idiosyncratic success targets.

It was not until riding east on Colorado Route 83 towards Limon, the mountains long behind me, that the realization finally took hold.  The nebulous idea that I needed to get away from it all had become a very real, monstrous, journey.  I was riding home, thousands of miles away, alone.  I reflected on the decisions I made about where to go and when and what to bring, and I realized that each of my parameters and success targets coalesced my yearning for a major change into a relevant set of guiding principles.  ‘Be Seen, Be Steady, Be Local’.

Be Seen.  When you are smaller than everything around you, there are two choices – escape notice or demand notice.  As a cyclist on roads where bicycles are rare, it is important to be seen.  Route 83 towards Limon has no shoulder, every vehicle coming up behind either has to see me or it will hit me.  My side bags have reflectors, my shirt is bright yellow, I ride just to the left of the side painted line.  I raise my left hand fingers towards every opposing driver, and they acknowledge me in return; a typical gesture on lonely western roads, but one that pays dividends, because I know they will signal to anyone coming up behind me that there is yellow jacket ahead who would very much like to avoid their windshield.  It is a friendly gesture rooted in enhanced safety.

Be Steady.  The Surly was not the fastest bike I test drove, or the lightest, but out on a lone stretch of highway I realized what appealed to me was its sturdiness.  I am not inclined towards thrills; touring is about pace and distance, not speed.  As I claim my place on the road and need to be seen, it helps that the bike is sturdy.  On the long down hills, I can gather 30 or 35 miles per hour.  Lighter bikes can hit 50 on the same stretch, but I like that my bike holds so firm.  Be steady also means to be patient and persevering.  Ten miles an hour is an awfully slow pace when faced with thousands of miles. If I get myself into a rush, I will become frustrated because my speed is limited by my own power.  Steadiness is the key to exercising patience.

Be Local.  This is my favorite guiding principle.  Celebrate every unique aspect of the towns and cities I pass through.  On that first night in Limon it meant riding past the Interstate intersection with the usual chains to discover a 1940’s era motel near downtown with a small pool and a cafe across the road that served juicy chicken fried steak.  I was the only one in the place without a pickup truck (never mind a car) but the dusty downtown gave me a deeper experience of the High Plains than I could have absorbed on the highway.

It is certainly possible to take a bicycle trip without clarifying the guiding principles, but they added a level of richness to my experience.  They provided a framework for my actions and incentivized my purpose.  Even if I were famished when I pedaled into a town, I passed by the franchise lunch place in search of something local, and was usually rewarded for my effort.  Life takes us where we look, and with guiding principles to direct our vision, we are more inclined to find what we truly want.

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