Better living through simpler metaphors

Even if you don't work in waste management, Mondays can feel as though you're crawling out of a landfill. For me at least, this Monday felt worse.

This Monday -- technically, Tuesday, since it followed the Martin Luther King Day weekend -- felt as though I were unsuccessfully trying to surface from under the Great Pacific Garbage Patch; that ever-growing continent of plastic products and chemical sludge floating between the Americas and Asia.

After enduring two consecutive all-nighters to meet an important deadline, home awaited me with a list of other long-neglected deadlines (such as teaching the boys how to respect power tools in getting their Scouts Pinewood Derby cars ready for competition). The unrelenting tensions from our domestic situation, debris from previous wasted weekends and various "oceanic currents" all conspired to broaden the expanse of the trash vortex -- making it nearly impossible to find a stable harbor from the bedroom to the home office. Even the familiar comforts such as the coffee brewer, public radio and my laptop seemed to float out of my reach. But without a solid surface to sit upon, these objects provided no stability in these roily waters.

Needless to say, my struggle with this maritime phenomenon wasn't very productive. By lunchtime, I hadn't focused on any particular task -- not the email, not the  research for an upcoming project, not the bank account, not the unwritten thank-you notes, not the latest blog posting, not even my attention-defiency -- for longer than 45 seconds.

As a sole proprietor of my own content-development business, I took the liberty that few employees can: I got off the island.

Rather than wasting my brain energy on several complicated tasks I couldn't manage, I engaged my body (and my Giant Defy) in a simple, achievable goal: getting back where I started.

In my last blog, I mentioned my resolution to train for Ride the Rockies this year -- in the hopes of bringing my BMI back to the mid '20s, giving me a renewed purpose in life (and a good excuse to spend a full week doing something I enjoy anyway: using my body as a means of transporting from one place to another in a reasonable amount of time while enjoying the scenery, breathing fresh air [but less of it], getting acquainted with new friends and catching up with old ones and drinking beer).

Since Ride the Rockies takes place in June, I'm still confident that I will be in good physical condition and complete the tour and add a victory lap on the final day. I'm even sure I will come up with the $300 registration fee -- the only question is whether I will do so with a clear conscience.

Yet, when I forsook my mid-day responsibilities for a 38-mile loop along the South Platte West to the C-470 trail up to the Dakota Hogback and back to the basement in my Mommy's house, I wasn't thinking of training for Ride the Rockies, I was thinking of simply accomplishing something - anything.

While the conditions were favorable: pleasant weather, familiar terrain, helpful headwind, and hills that would be considered "flatlands" by serious cyclists, my body did not appreciate its good fortune. The ride failed to induce the desired effect of freedom and exhilaration that inspires non-communal cyclists to return to the saddle.

Instead, I felt like a man unable to move at an adequate pace in a world that was conveniently made for men. As I summited the mighty Chatfield Reservoir Dam, leading down the C-470 pedestrian trail to a strand of retail outlets and chain restaurants by the Ken Caryl exit -- a good 18 miles from the point of origin -- I felt that I had relocated from the Great Pacific Garbage Patch to the living realization of a civil engineer's grunt work. My neck and shoulders clinched. My knees creaked. I thought I heard the Giant Defy grouse, "Try to keep up with me, willya!?" The metaphor of a lone cyclist struggling to scale a modest hill along the crest of metro Denver wasn't lost on me.

Though I could have easily bagged it -- by asking mom for a ride, hailing a cab from the Chipotle Mexican Grille, or by stabbing myself in the heart with the 1-inch-long Allen keys from my multi-tool kit -- I decided not to get off the other island, but rather to take a detour to the nearest Village Inn.

In some ways, Village Inn is the polar opposite of the Dakota Hogback. Where the Hogback is the jagged, dinosaur-carcaus-riddled, rattlesnake-friendly gateway to the foothills dovetailing to the highest of the American high desert, Village Inn is all about the post-high dessert, pancakes that remain fluffy as a down blanket -- even though they're almost translucent with butter.

More importantly, Village Inn provides a bottomless well to the very fluid that sustains life and commerce: coffee! That's in stark contrast to the the arid Dakota Ridgeback -- where the parched soil quickly spits out any liquid flowing from the heavens back into the suburban storm drains.

Where the Dakota Hogback is geologically unique ridge, the ubiqutious Village Inns look exactly the same -- from the personable waitstaff (the kind that "go along" with the joke when customers knowingly ask if the coconut cream pie has any calories) to identical mock-inspirational posters at every chain (i.e. "Never eat more than you can lift." -- Miss Piggy).

Before studying the menu, I decided that a mid-sized pancakes and eggs breakfast would be the best way to literally and figuratively reboot the day -- even though it was already 2:45 p.m. After loading up on carbs, corn syrup and coffee and completing another round of Words With Friends, I was good to go and sailed slightly downhill back to the point of origin, resume my work and even post this blog.

Though long, uncomfortable and generally unsatisfying, today's ride made me wonder if the destination is underrated over the critically acclaimed journey.

Instead of tackling many tasks simultaneously (with distractions), sometimes it's better to give yourself time and space to focus on getting from point B back to point A -- but be easy on yourself for when you don't performing at your usual pace and allow yourself a diversion when needed.

Simplify your objectives, but not your ambition.

After all, it's much less productive to try to line up your iPhone, laptop and coffee pot in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch than it is to ride your bike 38 miles to get back to where you started.

Getting in tune for June

That's life. 

That's what people say. 

You're riding high in April. 

Shot down in May. 

But I'm going to change that tune. 

When I'm back up there in June. 

-- Frank Sinatra

As someone who was riding fairly high last April and shot down in May, Mr. Sinatra’s words sound woefully contrived and patronizing at this point of time. 

Though I tried to change the tune personally and professionally, I went a little off-key in July, contracted laryngitis in August and voluntarily left the band in September. But I've gone solo and switched from a major label to an indie -- which is more of my style anyway. 

Overall, I'd characterize the parting with my employer as amicable. I took away great experience, a lucrative contract and several close personal friends. But it's too soon to say whether my domestic situation will result in an official parting -- amicable or otherwise. 

Now it's January 2014. I paid for a mini-van, a MacBook Air and an iPhone -- all in cash from my contracts. I've got a 1,000-square-foot office and apartment -- in my mother's basement, a place on the couch in my kids' house and an actual bed in the family cabin near Fairplay. 

This Christmas, my mom redeemed her frequent flyer miles and bought me airfare to visit my sister, who practically lives in a Buddhist spa off Lake Champlain in Vermont. My other sister gave me an Italian leather wallet that she carried with her during to a Vatican mass -- so, it must've been blessed by Pope Francis. With help from their mother's debit card, my four kids "bought" a $50 REI gift card to defray the costs of bike shoes and pedals -- though all of their laughter joy would've sufficed. My estranged spouse knitted me a hat -- so, that my head feels enveloped in love when the bitter cold comes. 

Overall, you can say I've gained more than I lost in 2013 -- though I would like to give back the 22 pounds I've amassed between Halloween and Jan. 3. And it would be nice to have more certainty about the future. As they say, apart from the truly inevitable -- death and taxes -- what exactly is certainty anyway? I know the bills will be paid for the next few months and I've got plenty of opportunity and support to draw from in the meantime. 

My resolutions for this year are simultaneously basic and ambitious: 

1) Create more "space" in my life by clearing the literal clutter (such as unused notes from the ghosts of projects past and Google Alerts in my email account) and the figurative clutter (such as worrying about that which is out of my control -- albeit, almost everything and Words With Friends). 

2) Train for Ride the Rockies -- which just so happens to fall in that hopeful month of June. In short, that means a complete overhaul in how I eat, drink and exercise. 

But after I cross the finish line, exchange high-fives and consume victory craft beer, there will certainly be more hills to climb, headwinds to endure and tailwinds to enjoy. 

Because, as Frank said, "That's life."