Like a Monkey at an Event Horizon

PBS offers this great series of short talks on space & science called Space Time. One of these talks involves black holes and whether or not events inside of them actually happen and gives a phenomenal demonstration involving a monkey and My Little Pony, in which the monkey is perpetually trapped at the event horizon (edge) of the black hole with My Little Pony observing.

For several weeks, now, we have been that monkey, seemingly trapped at the event horizon, where the black hole is the vast, apparent nothingness that is healthcare—health insurance, in particular.

Until now, United Healthcare (UHC) has provided stellar health insurance for our family with minimal impact and cost to us. But, now, when we really need it (for approval of a Tier IV [re: stupid expensive] medication to put Nicholle's MS back in check), UHC is failing us. Badly. To the point where the physical, mental, emotional, and (potentially) financial health of this family is in peril.

When the previous medications were determined to no longer be effective for Nicholle, her doctor prescribed Lemtrada, a near-miracle disease-modifying therapy (DMT) that—while not outright curing patients of MS—has fast-tracked many to living as close to "normal" of a life as they can with minimal symptoms.The infusion center that is part of her doctor's office filed what should have been the necessary paperwork for insurance approval and what-have-you. There was a lot of what-have-you.

Not including Nicholle, there were four (4) parties involved:

1. Doctor's office/infusion center
2. Insurance company (UHC)
3. Specialty pharmacy (assigned by UHC; BriovaRX, in this case)
4. A liaison between the drug maker (Genzyme) and Nicholle (MS One to One)

Somehow, somewhere, the ball got dropped in that pharmacy approval for the medication through UHC was denied due to benefit exclusion (her employer did not include this particular drug for coverage through UHC) and a medical approval option has put the doctor's office in its own orbit around the same black hole.

Because the stress was having a tremendously stressful impact on Nicholle (and stress isn't good for MS—to say nothing of the fact that Nicholle has work to do), I got involved in an effort to learn where the ball got dropped.

A call with UHC member services pointed back to the doctor's office; a seemingly simple phone call for the medical appeal was all that was purported to be needed to get the medical approval greenlighted. UHC even tried calling the office while I was on hold to get said greenlight to no avail. So, I called the doctor's office. (I also called MS One to One and spoke to our rep. Both she—and the MS One to One program appear to be wholly useless existing as a superficial security blanket that "someone is on our side" to advocate for us and keep us covered. The only thing I feel covered in after the conversation with them is excrement.)

After several minutes of sometimes heated, sometimes emotional discussion with the infusion center nurse who handles insurance stuff (for lack of a better term; these events have left me drained on every level, save rage), it was asked what it would take to make me happy at the moment, to which I responded: A conference call.

For whatever reason, the phone systems at the doctor's office cannot handle conference calls, so it was the handy iPhone 5s to the rescue that got me and the nurse connected to the doctor's backdoor channels to UHC.

Oh. My. God.

After several minutes navigating the infinite loop of UHC's automated system, we finally reached a rep who who was about as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane—even less-so than our MS One to One rep. The new UHC rep pulled up an authorization request that was denied at midnight.. Fifteen hours before the current call to UHC was placed and eight or so hours before the authorization request was even submitted to UHC. Now that's efficiency.

The nurse at the infusion center was told she could submit a peer-to-peer review appeal for the denied request (which she had attempted previously; denied requests cannot be appealed), and the call reference number provided by the rep was not inline with bona fide reference numbers provided to this nurse multiple times a day for other calls for other patients. Patients who have had no difficulty in getting approved for their medication. From UHC.

What would it take to make all of this better? Well, a genuine cure for MS would be phenomenal, though not at all likely right now. Getting Nicholle greenlighted for insurance or other financial coverage (and the drug in her system to do its thing ASAP) would be the next best thing, for we are fast-running out of time for not only alleviating her symptoms but also ensuring I can be by her side should she need me. (Because teachers have summers off, you know.)

This was long. And rambling. But so has been the black hole-like experience in which we've been trapped since sometime in early June. And we're tired of monkeying around with this whole process.

Thanks for reading.

Katie2Rio

So it's been a week since the Yokahama race where, within hours of the race's conclusion, the men's field was named. In the highly more successful women's field, however, Katie Zaferas has yet to be named to the Olympic team. This, in spite of her stellar perfomances last and this season (including finishing in the top eight selection criteria in the Rio test event AND being currently ranked #4) then begs the question of whether or not USAT is playing by the rules it established prior to the Rio test event or if they are being rewritten as USAT so wishes for reasons I'd care not to fabricate, let alone entertain. 

The fact remains that Katie Zaferas is "medal material" and deserves to be named to the women's Olympic team for Rio by not only meeting the pre-established criteria but also by the merits of her hard work and successful execution on race day. Yes, Gwen Jorgensen is a stellar athlete and will likely take gold, BUT if she drops her chain or flats or suffers some other detrimental bike mechanical—like what happened in London in 2012—no domestique, regardless of talent, is going to be able to get her to the podium. Therefore, having a proven talent in the form of Katie Zaferas is not just critical, it's what USAT said it would do.

Jorgensen, True, and Zaferas are all gold medal material. Show us, USAT, that your word is, too, by naming Katie Zaferas to the women's team. 

Go, USA. Go, Katie.  

Masked

Nonfiction used to be my least favorite literary genre. Then I began teaching Capote’s In Cold Blood and saw the genre from a different point of view and truly appreciated what it had to offer. Now, it seems like all I read is nonfiction--Rothfuss & Cline notwithstanding. However, one can take only so much nonfiction in literature or in life before some means of escape is desired and deemed necessary to save one’s sanity. 

Such was the case for me whilst poring through The Witches: Salem, 1692 and related searches on documents related to the infamous Salem Witch Trials. While a fascinating read, I found myself too engrossed and unsettled by the parallels of then and now. As a nation, we’ve obviously not learned from the past and are erroneously repeating it with consequences likely to stretch to the seventh generation.

To turn my back on realities past and present, I flocked to comics. The print kind; the celluloid incarnations to which I’d been taking in unhealthy amounts via multiplex and Netflix alike just weren’t cutting it. At the top of my list was the latest incarnation of Black Panther by acclaimed writer Ta-Nehisi Coates. I had the impression going into it that the writing would be among the greatest possible in any universe, and I was not incorrect. But I was incorrect in thinking it would take me away from the world that was and the world that is.

Ingrained in the dialogue and narration of Black Panther #1 are obvious parallels to the world we know and live--obvious to me, anyway, as no one in my circles has taken me up on offers to peruse the comic, let alone engage in thoughtful discussion of its contents. I’ll not entertain any speculation or conjecture as to why because of the very reason that it would be speculation or conjecture. Still, given the popularity of Marvel’s screen presence, I have to say: I expected more from many of my peers. And better. But I (sort of) digress.

So I carry on in the notion that Coates is using his present station to illustrate parallels in the struggles of both the imaginary Wakandans and the very real residents of the region where Wakanda sits on the African continent, as well as those on the other side of the Atlantic. (Semi-intended pun.)

But I’m left wondering if Coates’s subtext may be easily missed, somewhat masked beneath the beautiful illustrations by Brian Stelfreeze and colorings by Laura Martin. As Samuel L. Jackson’s comic book-obsessed (spoiler alert!) villainous character Elijah laments in 2000’s Unbreakable: 

I believe that comics, just at their core now... have a truth. They are depicting what someone, somewhere felt or experienced. Then of course that core got chewed up in the commercial machine and gets jazzed up, made titillating -- cartooned for the sale rack.

The intended message may get lost in translation--or worst, in the editing process. Granted, such garbling of a message may enable a comic to appeal to a broader audience, bringing in bigger bank, but at what cost? 

Jackson’s character raised some very valid points a decade and a half ago in advocating for the need to take comics seriously--which made casting Jackson and his distinguished vocal talents so choice. A thing should not be judged as “childish”and unworthy of attention just because it is rendered in pictorial form.

Similarly, comics and the motion-based media comics inspire are not necessarily ideal for children. While visually appealing, the message (written and illustrated alike) can be easily lost on any lacking the mental maturity to appropriately absorb and process what is seen, what is read. Coates’s Black Panther, indeed, is visually appealing but offers so much more beneath the outer mask of marvelous illustrations. While Black Panther #1 did provide me the means of temporary escape from the realities of nonfiction, the themes and issues addressed in the comic’s roughly two dozen pages connect to a reality experienced by so many, connected to us all. May we have the wisdom to recognize it and the maturity to deal with it responsibly.

Armada

In 1989, The Cure released the best album ever, Disintegration. I, along with many of my friends became immediate converts to what some would describe as “whiny British music.” Fast forward to 1992 and the release of Wish, the non-remixed follow-up to Disintegration which, well, didn’t quite live up to what I was expecting. Wish wasn’t more of the same but more of a different side of The Cure and what they had to offer not pop music but music. Similarly, the recently-released follow-up to the 2011 smash hit Ready Player One has left many reviewers feeling disappointed that Armada didn’t deliver the freshly original futuristic environment that RPO did and that the plot line was lifted directly from The Last Starfighter. Personally, I found it more akin to Iron Eagle—to which Cline also referred throughout Armada, but that’s not the point of this. Rather, I’m just curious if reviewers are actually reading the books they’re expected—and paid—to review.

Added among the things I would really rather not do is go up against Ernest Cline in a pop culture trivia challenge. Reading through both RPO and Armada brought back many memories of films, shows, and music enjoyed throughout my childhood, though there were a few references in Armada that I didn’t know (I’m one of a very few my age who have never seen neither The Goonies nor Say Anything); it’s clear Cline really knows his stuff. But the pop culture kitsch serves merely as garnish to stories unintended to replicate one another.

OK, sure, Armada was really riddled with almost gratuitous pop culture references (such as the combination to the safe) but just because Armada didn’t reinvent the world with its contemporary setting is no reason to dismiss the novel as unoriginal or disappointing. Even the static nature of most of the characters or the somewhat predictable story arc of Cline’s work (lone, pop culture-obsessed dude goes on an eye-opening adventure, finding love with a woman who happens to be into the same stuff he is, and getting “saved” by someone of significant status at the zero hour in order to clear the level by seeing a movie before it’s released, winning the game/contest, or literally saving the world) fail to serve as sufficient reasons to think less of Cline or (worse) not read what he’s written. Cline is hardly the first to find something that works and serve it up.

At the risk of offending the literati, consider the follow-up (of sorts) from another author whose first novel defined her as a writer and became what any future novels would be compared to. Unlike Armada, though, Harper Lee’s Go Set a Watchman not only used several of the same characters from To Kill a Mockingbird but it was also apparently written beforehand. All the same, some have been purportedly unwilling to accept the novel, unable to get past the implication that their childhood hero is a racist. Well, from a certain point of view. So they pretend the novel doesn’t exist, and their childhood memories remain intact. Easy enough when the author has but two published novels. But when discussing Shakespeare, things get a tad more complicated.

One running joke amongst those in my former circle of high school English teachers (yes, high school English teachers have a sense of humor) is that Shakespeare wrote two plays: Everyone dies in one and the two most antithetical characters get married in the other. In spite of this, Shakespeare wrote some three dozen plays, most of which had predictable settings and story arcs allowing audiences of varying levels of education and/or social status to relate to them in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries through today.

This is not to say that Ernie Cline is today’s Shakespeare. No, that honor would be conferred by me to Joss Whedon in that Whedon is what I consider to be the most talented storyteller in contemporary times—even if so many of his stories have echoes of one another (the series Agents of Shield is actually Firefly which is actually Buffy the Vampire Slayer, although The Dollhouse references in Agents of Shield were great), including making the same film twice in one year. (You did know that the first Avengers film was actually Much Ado About Nothing, only with more elaborate CGI. Right?)

Unlike Whedon’s double dipping from Shakespeare and The Avengers/Much Ado About Nothing (the latter of which I found to be a far more enjoyable film, making one of Shakespeare’s comedies actually tolerable), Ernie Cline did not double-dip or otherwise gyp his readers by writing the same story twice (or thrice, if including Fanboys), nor did he fail readers by not creating another fantastical futuristic world the likes of which had never been seen for Armada. (Honestly, the most striking part of RPO for me was his vision of the future of school in the OASIS. Something along those lines was what I had imagined for the focus of my graduate research project of the classroom of the future; participants in my research study had a serious lack of vision, Cline’s or otherwise.) Instead, Cline took his readers to the world of their very own doorstep and had them question themselves and what they might do if encountering something akin to alien life. 

Sadly, to some critics, Cline’s intent with Armada appears to have across as alien, not unlike the swastika on the surface of Europa. Seeing something so seemingly familiar, conclusions were leapt to and mistakes were made by dismissing Cline’s sophomore effort as simply more of the same pop culture allusions and storyline straight from 80s, unworthy of succeeding his debut. How literally superficial.

It’s been 23 years since the release of The Cure’s Wish, the studio follow-up to Disintegration. I somehow doubt there will be a multi-disc re-release of Wish in the same manner there was of Disintegration, complete with unreleased tracks and other B sides from the quartet of successful singles the album spawned. That said, in the time since first hearing the opening distorted chords of the aptly titled “Open” and wondering if I’d just wasted twenty dollars, an appreciation of Wish has grown—by listening to the whole album. A lot. Even though I’ve listened to Disintegration more. There’s no harm in preferring an original to a follow-up, but there is harm in providing an opinion on something when the opinion is formulated with inadequate information in order to rush to judgement. And press.

Intersection

This past December, the City of Schertz began construction of sidewalks lining both sides of the roughly 3.1 miles of Roy Richard Drive, known to me as FM 3009. The presence of sidewalks will hopefully encourage more folk to take to foot and traipse about all or a part of those sidewalks as a means of visiting friends, neighbors, and shops dotting the main corridor cutting through Schertz. Additionally, sidewalks will open up an additional avenue for family fitness, especially for running. But adding in pedestrians where there have traditionally been none may pose problems for those afoot and those in-car alike. As a lifetime Schertz resident and longtime runner and cyclist, I felt bringing up some helpful reminders to ensure safe use and sharing of Three Dub by us all would be a good idea now, before the sidewalks are free for use.

Throughout, I’ll be referring to the Texas Transportation Code, which is available to read in its entirety at www.statues.legis.state.tx.us/?link=TN. It’s a ridiculously huge document, though, so we’ll just be focusing on sections 541 (definitions), 544 (vehicles), and 552 (pedestrians).

Because of sheer volume, size, and speed, I’m going to start with motor vehicles. Here, I’ll generically refer to motor vehicles as cars, but a vehicle includes cars, trucks, vans, motorcycles, buses, and any other form of motorized transportation traversing 3009 covered in Section 541.201; bicycles will be addressed in greater detail some other time–-but just be aware that bicycles are classified as vehicles in the state (Sec. 541.201.2) and enjoy the same rules and protections as any other vehicle, which includes riding on the road itself and not on sidewalks. But enough about bikes. Let’s get back to cars. 

Gary Numan once waxed about how, in his car, he felt “safest of all,” which is not a far cry from how most of us feel when we’re behind the wheel of our multi-ton modes of transport. Because we tend to be seated comfortable with so many variables at our control: Speed, climate, audio, and even who is sharing the experience with us. However, our feeling of safety and comfort tends to remove us from the world beyond power windows and bucket seats. It’s too easy to forget about everyone else having their own experience in concert with our own. It’s too easy to forget to share the road.

If turning onto a side street or business of 3009 from the main roadway, it will likely be pretty easy to spot a pedestrian or two or six. This is made easier if scanning the sidewalks before and after the side street and not just the street itself. Coming out from the side streets or businesses and onto the main roadway of 3009, though, is where things can get tricky. 

Each intersection of roadway and sidewalk should have a marked, designated crosswalk. These are the large, white rectangles painted on the road surface where many may stop before making their turn, oftentimes with the whole front end of the car occupying the whole of the crosswalk.This is not only not cool but also not legal as it blocks the right of way given to pedestrians outlined in Section 552.003. Vehicles are to “stop before entering the crosswalk on the near side of the intersection” (Sec. 544.007.d & 544.010.c). If the car’s seat is adjusted properly, it is perfectly possible to be able to make the requisite left, right, left again visual sweep of the roadway—and sidewalks—before executing a turn. Sure, we may have to lean forward a bit, but a moment’s discomfort far outweighs the risk of running into or over someone, regardless of who’s “right.” 

A pedestrian is defined by the TTC  as “a person on foot” (Sec 541.001.4)—regardless of how fast they are moving, running or walking or anything in between. The TTC generally grants pedestrians the right of way when it comes to sidewalks, regardless of if a crossing signal is present. That said, this “right of way” does not give us as pedestrians a free pass to act without regard to the safety of ourselves or other users of the sidewalk or roadway, including motorists. It is critical—literally a possible matter of life or death—to be aware of everyone and everything around us at all times. Consequently, the use of headphones (or earbuds, or anything else that might fit in or over your ears that blocks or overrides external sound) should not be practiced in high-traffic areas like 3009. Being able to hear approaching vehicles by the pitch and volume of a vehicle’s tire rotation can clue you in as to how close that vehicle is, as well as how fast it’s moving—or if it’s slowing down in order to make a turn.

It’s been said that the eyes are the gateway to the soul, so use these gateways to safeguard soul and survival. At every intersection, look in every direction, every time—and not just a cursory glance, either. Visually sweep as broad of a field as possible. Make and lock eye contact with vehicle operators (see Sec 541.001.1) and even use hand gestures to ensure they know that not only you are there but also what your intentions are: Are you letting them go first? Are you making a break for it? Are you turning one way or another? Make yourself predictable and make your intentions known. And also make yourself visible by coordinating clothing and accessories to light levels. (Hint: Bright, flashing LEDs are your friends.)

It may be that, when the sidewalks open later this year, there will be absolutely no incidents involving vehicle operator and pedestrian. However, based on the numerous near run-ins I’ve experienced with vehicles just on Schertz Parkway (which boasts a lower speed limit and lower volume of traffic), the statistics just do not look favorable for anyone. The odds are further compounded if, as a vehicle operator, you’re opting to ignore the cell phone ordinance passed and put into effect back in October. (Oh, and pedestrians: Safe use of your cell phone is also incumbent upon you; don’t plan to walk & text/tweet/what-have-you with your face glued to the screen without consequence.) As pedestrian or vehicle operator, we all need to be aware and considerate of one another, sharing the resources that allow us to freely move up and down 3009.

Snooze

“Five more minutes,” she would always say.

Even from the time she was a child, Nicholle enjoyed sleep. She once told me (and her mother corroborated this) that, when she was three and her mother was very pregnant with who would become her little sister, Nicholle’s mother would have to call the neighbor’s kids over to get her up from naptime. Nicholle knew that her pregnant mother was unable to make the climb upstairs to wake her up, and so she slept on.

Five more minutes.

Much of our courtship revolved around running and triathlon. We did, after all, meet on a run around Boerne Lake and got married in the midst of the Las Vegas Half-Marathon. So early mornings were nothing out of the ordinary, be it for track work at UT San Antonio (before they closed off the track to the public—boo!) before work or being up at stupid o’clock in order to be at the transition area of some race or other in order to get prime parking for our bikes and sundry other junk. But, on rest days…

Five more minutes

When Nicholle was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, we immediately made contact with the local chapter of the National MS Society. A good friend I knew from days volunteering with the American Diabetes Association was now the director for the San Antonio edition of Bike MS, formerly known as MS150—the very event that nudged me back into cycling, segueing me into triathlon, and eventually meeting Nicholle—and Cindy got us talking with people here and across the country in order to be proactive and to be as prepared as we could be to meet this head on.

But now, five years later, MS appears to be winning. In the months since the birth of our second child (a girl, Lisbeth*), Nicholle has endured multiple flare-ups, each more aggressive than the one before it. It’s like that episode of Battlestar Galactica, “33,” where the Cylon armada attack the civilian fleet every thirty-three minutes exactly—only MS isn’t nearly as predictable, nor is it as easy to outrun by simply revving up the FTL (faster-than-light) engines. Oftentimes, MS isn’t as merciful, either.

So we find ourselves asking, begging, pleading for a break of some sort from the relentlessness of this demon of a disease. Anything, even just five more minutes to pretend that everything is normal. That a fever or flutter in the seasons won’t spark a relapse, rendering the legs of a woman who ran competitively in high school and college—who ran on her wedding day (in her wedding for that matter), who ran in the Texas Independence Relay, who ran on the day she gave birth to her daughter—limp and unable to respond to her brain’s screaming commands to simply move and carry her across the room. Or even just out of bed.

In our own ways, we’re all masters at procrastination. But, now, in 2016, the time has come to quit hitting “snooze” on the alarm calling for a cure for multiple sclerosis. The people who live with the impacts of MS—both the diagnosed and their friends, families, and loved ones—can no longer wait.

Not even for just five more minutes.

* – Not her real name

Beginning

A coworker & I exchanged a few emails today regarding work-related stuff, eventually devolving into writing about writing; English teachers, right?

Below is one of those exchanges.

Colleague writes

Thanks for sharing! Lots of symbolism there---needs to be commemorated in poetry...

Poetry isn't really my strong suit, despite my tendency to write in flowy words and expressions. Too much reading & teaching Capote, I suppose. For certain, though, my fondness for Capote has incapacitated me when it comes to my own writing; I feel the precedent too powerful. So, I have refrained from writing my own thoughts, thinking them invalid or otherwise not worth the time it takes to strike the proper series of keys, let alone making the strokes of a pen---a pen I in turn would need to fall upon for having permitted so much ink bleed unnecessarily upon a page.

Just between us girls, I've toyed with the idea of writing a nonfiction of sorts, chronicling my wife's journey to learning of her diagnosis with multiple sclerosis and how it has impacted her life since. Same with several friends I have known in one capacity or another, unified sadly in not only knowing me but also in having been told their own body is attacking and damaging their central nervous system without current hope of cure; rather, merely a management of varying, unpredictable symptoms with pharmaceuticals originally designed to eradicate cancer. Like a little bit of chemo. For the rest of your life.

Wow. this has gone on too long. Gonna let this go now. Would you mind, terribly, if I borrowed your words from this correspondence to blog about it?  As you know, every writer needs a starting point. This may be mine.

Thanks for reading.

Coyote

Coyote crossed my path tonight as I walked with my infant daughter. Nervous at first but confident at last, I glanced at Coyote, its stare unwavering, its intent unknown. Into the unknown I continued, moving towards the rest of home, leaving Coyote, and the past, behind me. All the while, the babe slumbered, unaware of the harm that may have come but didn't due to the peace within and without the world. 

Adrift

I find myself at sea in a battered boat with a tattered sail. The sea is anything but calm.

Swells several feet to several stories build, threatening to overpower my vessel, as well as me. But the boat stays afloat, rocking in concert with the assailing swells.

I am thrown asunder, with no means to steer or navigate. The sky is blanketed, hardened and dark as a forgotten ink spill. I can see no star—neither the constellations nor our own sun, making it impossible to determine not only my location on earth but also in time; is it daytime or night? All light seems to have been blotted out by darkness.

The talisman to which I had clung for so long all but shattered as the storm built itself up from a scant few clouds on a distant horizon. Inevitably, we found ourselves beneath a threatening sky as the once calm sea turned turbulent, and I seemingly alone, attempting to keep the crumbling craft afloat.

External factors extricated the worst from a worsening situation. Disease did its due to friends, family, and loved ones alike; I am powerless to do anything but watch. And maybe write. But even that proves futile as I am unable to bring to terminus that which plagued my mind, inhibiting my thoughts and actions for the bulk of the day.

Trailer

No doubt, there are countless masses who have either written or are actively writing something similar to what follows. But that doesn’t matter much to me. Instead, I’m just wanting to air my own point of view on the Star Wars: The Force Awakens trailer aired last night during a sporting contest of some sort. But that doesn’t much matter, either, nor does it matter that the mad rush for tickets crashed servers and clogged Internet pipelines for hours. Rather, what matters to me isn’t so much the surface plot sketched out in the new trailer but what new owner Disney and its director appear to be saying through the selected scenes and dialogue revealed in the roughly three hundred seconds the trailer spans.

To say that I’ve been a Star Wars fan my whole life wouldn’t be entirely accurate. My first memories of what would become Episode IV: A New Hope include the visage of Darth Vader turning to look at me through the tiny television screen in my parents’ living room and my subsequent sprint through the house, screaming; later, I would cry and cling to my older sister, begging her not to go into the movie theater because of the “bad, bad man.” In essence, what Lucas had sought to accomplish with Star Wars worked on me from the get-go: He had tapped into my collective unconscious and unleashed a barrage of archetypes that would shape my life and the person I would become.

Now, a new director is at the helm of the film franchise. Monetarily, his credentials at steering at least one other sci-fi film franchise to glory and a new generation of fans is unquestionably successful. But I feel Abrams knows he is treading on sacred ground with Star Wars and is treating it with greater care. So he’s going with what worked for him on the previous franchise by bringing back original cast members to reprise their roles that solidified their respective places in cinematic history, easing the transition from what we’ve known for generations to what he wants us to know for generations to come.

Seeing the original hunting group of companions reunited on film (and in the poster revealed the day before the film) has caught the attention of anyone who knows even a little bit about Star Wars, but, for me, it was, again, the presence of the visage of Darth Vader in the teasers and full trailer that held my sway, and it wasn’t until what I presume to be the voice of Kylo Ren spoke, saying—and I might be paraphrasing here; I've only watched the trailer once—”I will continue what you had begun.”

J.J. Abrams has the weight of countless worlds on his shoulders, and for that, I do not envy him. Like Ren, he is attempting to continue the work began by his forebears. And, as Obi-Wan waxed in Episode VI, what we accept as true will depend on our own point of view. Personally, I’ve not been terribly impressed for what I’ve witnessed of Abrams’s style of storytelling, but that hasn't stopped me from enjoying (for the most part) what he has offered. The same could very well be the case for Episode VII: Abrams could contort what he believes (or has been instructed to believe) to be true and skew the entire (Star Wars) universe to that perspective—just like Kylo Ren appears to be doing with the Force and the Empire. But, like Ren’s rumored (spoiler alert!) grandfather before him, it may take a few films to see (ahem) the big picture and find redemption through telling new and interesting stories. And that (the telling of stories) is what really matters.

2015 Bike MS

Deep Thought, the supercomputer designed to answer the Ultimate Question of life, the universe—everything, took 7.5 million years to come up with its answer: 42. So, while the answer to the Ultimate Question may be 42, I, in my 42 years on this earth (which is a whole other storyline in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy) am more like the Socratic Paradox: The one thing I know is that I know nothing.

October 3 & 4 marked Bike MS weekend, the annual big fund raiser for the local chapter of the National MS Society. I participated in my first Bike MS fifteen years ago in the year 2000 (which used to sound so futuristic but now sounds archaic) and raised a little over $1,000 to fight a disease I knew nothing about, nor did I know anyone involved with the disease. Now, in 2015, I know more than I used to as well as many who are fighting MS: Friends, neighbors, loved ones—including my own wife.

Thanks to the generosity of so many friends and family members, I was able to exceed my fundraising goal of $1,500 this year, which will be matched in the next week or two by Team EOG Resources, the team for which I have ridden since 2013, bringing my own total to over $3,000. Bike MS in San Antonio surpassed the $1 million mark before the ride commenced on Saturday morning. Donations can continue to be made here.

Saturday’s ride was a 100-mile trek from the Wheatley Heights Sports Complex on the east side of San Antonio to the Comal County Fairgrounds in the middle of New Braunfels. The ride was relatively flat and the temperature cool (for south Texas in October) but the wind was ever-present and never at our backs. I rode the full century with my friend, neighbor, and teammate Josh, and, together, we put in a solid effort until about mile 80 when I bonked due to not taking in sufficient nutrition during the first half of the ride. After that, it was damage recovery and survival for both of us until the finish.

In spite of that, day 1 of Bike MS was amazingly fun and enjoyable on every account—save the bonking bit. Day 2, on the other hand, proved more challenging, though not on the bike.

Before departing for the start line, Nicholle & I noticed The Girl had a bit of a rash. This was coming on the heels of a fever she ran prior to the weekend, which followed her getting her 6-month vaccines and flu shot, but documentation from the CDC indicated the rash was unrelated as an allergic reaction. Because The Girl’s spirits were high and temperature was normal, I went ahead and departed for the ride and departed the start with the group.

In relatively little time, I found myself at the front of the whole ride, which was nice, especially when considering how deep in the hole I put myself on Saturday. About 8-½ miles into the ride, though, I received a phone call from Nicholle: The rash had worsened, Nicholle felt to be having a flare-up with her MS, and she was worried; would I come home.

Breaking off from the pack, I hightailed it back to the first aid station and caught a ride with a SAG vehicle to the start; Nicholle would meet me there, and we would get The Girl to the area pediatric urgent care in order to ascertain what was going on.

Unlike the whole of ride weekend, the pickup and trip to the urgent care center went perfectly to plan. I was irritated at having to abandon but not with Nicholle or any other person. Rather, I was irritated at the toll MS has on not just the diagnosed but on families as a whole. So little gets to go to plan, and for a Type A family, that gets to be more than a little aggravating.

Fortunately, the rash turned out to be the downslope of the Roseola Virus, so there was precious little we could do but give her TLC, fluids, and rest; check, check, and check. While Nicholle tended to The Girl, I tended to The Boy, and the day and weekend managed to end on a high note: The Girl is on the mend, Nicholle’s flare-up has all but subsided, and we’re all together as a family.

I cannot pretend to know why things happened as they did, nor does it really matter. What does matter is that my family is together and lovingly strong, I am part of an amazing support network of friends and family who donated (as of 9:00 PM) a collective $1,590, which will soon be matched by Team EOG, and there were 1,500 other riders who each raised $300 or more in donations to the National MS Society, bringing us that much closer to a cure for MS. Hopefully, we’ll find that cure in less time than 7.5 million years or before the earth is destroyed to make way for an interstellar bypass—whichever comes first.

To those who donated towards this weekend’s ride: Thank you so much, and I am sorry to have let you down by not being able to bike all the miles. Maybe next year, providing a cure isn’t found before then.

Thanks for reading.

Excusatio

I'm tired.
I have papers to grade.
Need to fix dinner.
Dishes won't wash/dry themselves.
Writer's block.
I'd rather go for a run/ride/swim.

When it comes to reasons why I don't write much or why I've not written much in recent memory, the above is but a sampling as to the excuses at the ready. Understudies await in the wings, too.

And that's just sad.

As an undergraduate, I served as newsletter editor for the local cycling club, often penning filler for the blocks of whitespace not occupied by ads, graphics, or other content generated by the spartan few members who cared enough to not only ride with the group but to write for it, as well. This was in addition to the reams of literary analysis and other tripe I turned out in order to earn a degree in English.

And then I all but quit writing.

The creation of this blog was to serve as a chronicle of training for triathlon, but those number to the extent that grains of sand say "wow"—to say nothing of the fact that my glory days of triathlon are seemingly long passed. Yet I still urge myself to continue to write. 

And write I will, I suppose. 

There is no set audience. There is no set of shareholders to appease. There is no set agenda. And, so, for tonight I just needed to write. To eliminate the excuses. To push through whatever barriers there were—and there were many. 

This post has been crafted over the course of several hours, across several devices. And, somehow, it made it to you. 

Hopefully, there will be more. Maybe not tomorrow and maybe not the day after that. But certainly in the days to come. The gift of communicating is one we owe to one another, no matter the occasion. 

Thanks for reading.

Moment

In coaxing my advisory students into getting comfortable with writing, I had them take ten minutes to write anything about any one of three objects setting atop a table in the classroom. The overwhelming majority chose the bicycle handlebars I keep in the room and use as a hall pass. I opted to write something about them, too:

Under the crystal blue of the south Texas sky, the stark contrast of black anodized aluminum and white cork wrapping attracted my attention. For a moment, I was withdrawn from the sound of wind racing through my ears and across my eyes, causing the latter to tear, the faint scent of salt penetrating my nostrils. For a moment, I contemplated the light stickiness of the cork tape, finding comfort in the feel it gave my hands as it numbed the vibrations of the cracked and painted miles of asphalt speeding beneath the wheels of my bicycle. For a moment, this was all my world—not the scenery, not the traffic—just the glint of aluminum and cork, gripped like a vise in my hands. While it was only for a moment, it proved to be a moment too long, for, in that moment I was distracted by the handlebars, another driver in a more monstrosity of a vehicle also became distracted. Distracted to the point that his vehicle impacted with mine, disengaging me from both my bicycle and the world in which, for a moment, I lived.

Whether or not I'll do something more with this, I don't know. But I did want to share it.

Thanks for reading.

Daring

Today presented somewhat of an opportunity to do something I'd not done since I was a teenager:

Ride a bicycle and not wear a helmet. 

It wasn't a long excursion, but it was somewhat daring, dashing down Broadway, near downtown, aboard a rented B-Cycle. And, because lunch was something that had to be had—and Green was so close I could practically taste it—the decision was made to risk it and make the roughly one-mile trek there & back again sans skid lid. 

Fortunately, everything worked out fine and there were no near-misses with automobiles, nor were there any boneheaded moves made by moi—with the exception of the aforementioned missing helmet. It's not something I intend to make a habit of—in fact, my 30-mile outing on the Cannondale later in the day was made wearing my trusty Rudy Project Sterling. It's just...there was no space to pack one along, given how cramped the school bus was, to say nothing of the fact that there is no storage space to speak of for even a cup of coffee, let alone a bicycle helmet. 

But I digress. And I also need to get to sleep. 

Rest up, and don't forget your helmet each & every time you venture out on two wheels. And thanks for reading. 

Craving

The aroma hung in the air, as though it had been nailed in place, precariously and ever present though barely perceptible but to those with superior olfactory abilities. Like her.

Her sense of smell was so strong that scented anything was intolerable, exacerbating in her a near uncontrollable urge to either vomit or black out. There was little happy ground when it came to how things smelled, making this effervescent fragrance in the kitchen almost intoxicating to her. Yet the identity of the scent eluded her, leaving only a trace in her nostrils of its familiarity, like an old friend with an unforgettable face but with a name lost somewhere in the finite reaches of memory. 

Rain

The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but here it his the roof and the roads all around, making riding or running out of doors—for me or for The Boy—all but impossible. So I lay in bed, listening to the trickle, reminiscing of the sounds of the rain reverberating on the aluminum roof—and writing here. Why? Because I can. Because I must find something, some way of motivating myself to write, and what better means of giving new life to writing than the very substance giving new life to a parched planet. 

That and it's Friday. Yea, Friday. :)

Thanks for reading. 

New Year

For calendar year 2014, I had hoped to resurrect this blog and write more than I had in years past. But, while I did write more in 2014 than I did in 2013, I wasn't as prolific as I had hoped. So, here I am on New Year's Day daring to again be a better and more contributing writer. Heaven knows neither the Web nor the world don't have enough of them. 

There is more I could say but won't, as I have gone into this post without a plan, and I really like having a plan before launching into some tirade or other. Besides, it's late, and I need rest; The Boy will be up at stupid o'clock in the morning, I'm sure, and he's a 2+ hour head start on me in terms of sleep so far this evening. 

Happy new year to you & yours, then, and thanks for reading. 

Foiled

As a consequence perusing online dating services in my somewhat younger and far more single days, I became aware of a band called Blue October. Seeing that numerous girls with cute profile pictures cited them as favorite bands, I did some reading on the ever-reliable Internet and learned they hailed from just up the road in Houston. So I downloaded some of their tracks and found they had a sound into which I could get, accompanying cute girl or no.

Fast-forward to 2006, and, in August of that year, the album Foiled was released. In short time, I heard the single "Hate Me" playing on one of the Internet radio stations I streamed regularly, so I headed to the now-defunct Borders to buy the album. I am so glad I did.

Earlier that same year I met this cute girl who turned out not to be into Blue October but was into triathlon. When we began dating in late-November, Foiled became increasingly popular on some mainstream radio stations (from what I could tell—I don't really listen to contemporary, commercial radio), and Blue October became more of a regular rotation on my playlists, including Foiled but older albums, as well, which contained those first tracks I nabbed. I found the words & music to be adequate contemporaries to my go-to band, The Cure.

Now, in 2014, 8+ years since its release, Foiled is again in regular—and frequent—rotation for albums to which I listen, and I continue to find new means of appreciating assorted aspects of the album. At present, it's the drum tracks on the first three songs; they strike me as subtly beautiful.

Lyrically, the bookends of the album, "You Make Me Smile" & "Eighteenth Floor Balcony" are nothing short of sublime. Both remind me of the early days of dating that cute triathlete, especially our first road trip together to see some friends in Dallas: Hearing Texas tunes tick by Texas miles, reaching out into the literal & figurative darkness to discover the other was doing the same. Holding hands. Falling in love. Getting married. Buying a house. Having a kid. And now a second.

Thank you, Blue October, for making Foiled, Foiled Again, and so many albums since. Though I have yet to see you in concert (something always seems to come up when the band is even remotely in the neighborhood—and Texas is a big neighborhood), I continue to enjoy your tunes, including the live tracks on Foiled Again & the acoustic awesomenesss of Ugly Side. My only real gripe is that every album contains at least one F-bomb on it, barring me from using it as background music throughout the instructional day. However, the language is but one technique used to get the raw emotion poured into every song—"like children to the playground"—and I wouldn't want it any other way.

And to you, fair reader, thanks for reading.

Shuffle

A few days ago, I made up my training plan for this year's San Antonio Marathon, since I'm again pacing the 4-hour finishers. Because I knew that meant a lot of long runs, oftentimes alone, I dusted off & charged up my iPod Shuffle for those runs. Tonight, I ran with music for the first time in months...maybe even a year or more. It was nice.

The playlists I make up for the Shuffle are largely comprised of high-energy, high-tempo tunes to help tick by the miles. Tonight's playlist included Tupac Shakur's "Holler if You Hear Me," a tune that has helped propel me to some pretty stellar run splits. Tonight was not necessarily one of those nights. Granted, my splits were faster than what they had been as of late, but not the ±7:00 I used to run.

In less than a week's time, Suunto is set to release its newest watch in the Ambit GPS line, the Ambit 3. Among features desired from this watch is one of cadence. It's just one more metric in an already impressive lineup of those offered by the Ambit series, including the seemingly outdated, no-longer-being-updated original Ambit (now referred to as the Ambit 1) with which I run. In addition to cadence, the Ambit 3 will offer updating & uploading via mobile devices, as well as the ability to update the firmware; again, the Ambit 1 is set with an update from over a year ago. While I would love, love, love to have one of the Ambit 3s, it's just not in the budget. Besides, the Shuffle and its high-tempo playlist helps with cadence. It's what I used before I even ran with GPS.

So, I keep on running with an older iPod Shuffle and an older Suunto Ambit. The miles still go by, and I still feel better than I would if just sitting on the sofa, doing nothing. Tonight's run was definitely one of those runs, and I've a feeling there will be many more of those as the distance required in marathon prep continues to mount. I can't wait.

Thanks for reading.

Requiem

Tonight, at open house for The Boy at his daycare, I was alerted to the to-be-confirmed news that actor, comedian, cyclist, and wonderful human being Robin Williams had died. It was a momentary distraction from the ordinary. And, perhaps, that's exactly why I am having such a difficult time processing the death of this man.

At the time of my writing this, social media & media outlets alike are abuzz with news & tributes to Mr. Williams. Me, I've withheld from posting anything beyond tweeting this clip from Disney's Aladdin:

While I did enjoy Aladdin—and many of Williams's other comedic efforts—it was his dramatic roles that really resonated with me. Williams's character of John Keating in 1989's Dead Poets Society served as not only motivation to get me through high school but also as what a teacher could & should be to his students. I have attempted to model my own teaching practices and approach to curriculum in a similar fashion—and I told him as much when we met at the expo for the Lance Armstrong Foundation's Ride for the Roses (now known as the LiveStrong Cycling Challenge). He was kind enough to sign a DVD of DPS and pose for a picture.

Whatever the cause of death (most reports mention suicide) is irrelevant. A candle has been extinguished, leaving only its wispy smoke in the form of memories millions have of Williams's myriad performances, which spanned the whole of human emotion over the course of decades.

The earliest role in which I can remember Williams was that of wayward alien Mork from the television series Mork & Mindy. At the conclusion of each episode of the show, Mork would muse with off-screen presence & fellow alien Orson of the oddities observed in human existence. Of the "tributes" making the rounds on social media tonight cites one such exchange:

Because I was barely a kindergardener when the show aired, I cannot vouch for its authenticity, but such is of little importance. What is of import is its substance—aye, there's the rub—to not spend quite so much time looking out for number one; rather, keep an out on numbers two on down. Don't doom yourself to a life of loneliness. But don't just talk to others; talk with them. Speak. Listen. Learn. Live.

One of the more visually delicious films in which Williams starred was 1998's What Dreams May Come, a film, tragically ironic enough, which focused on the loss of loved ones, including through suicide. The title of the film stems from the famous "To Be or Not to Be" speech from Act 3, Scene 1 of Hamlet. A larger excerpt of that speech is with what I will close:

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

Thanks for reading.