A dog's life in Juneau

I am wrapped in a cloud and my first view of Alaska is muted like a Japanese sumi-e painting. Mountains move in an out of soft focus while the fog swirls around the moving ship. I lean against the wet deck railing and listen to the sound of rushing water. I catch a glimpse of a waterfall tumbling down the side of a mist wreathed mountain.

My bare feet are cold and I shiver. I decide that I will need my winter gear today. I plan to spend the day hiking on remote mountain trails and mushing. If it's cold at sea level it will be even colder at elevation. As I ponder the need for a hat and gloves the fog evaporates. It startles me to realize that the gray cloud has completely ceased to exist. The dim mountain shadows are replaced with a brilliant green. Snow fields and glaciers glitter along the mountain tops and the thunder of the waterfalls, born from the summer snow melt, delight me. Every where I turn I can see water dropping into the sea. I move inside and get ready to go ashore as Juneau's first houses and cars come into view.

The tramway lifts out of the station and begins a dizzying ascent up Mt. Roberts. It sways as the passengers jostle each other for a place by the windows. The operator begins her talk about how far up we are going (very far up!), how many bears roam around on Mt. Roberts (too many bears!), and when the last tram of the day departs. If you miss it you have to hike back down past all those bears and a beast called the hoary marmot. Since I try to avoid anything that's remotely whorey, I make note of the need to leave before the last tram descends.

The trails on Mt. Roberts are well marked but steep. I pass several of my shipmates taking breaks on trail side benches and viewing areas. When I need to rest I pretend that I am stopping to take a picture, smell the abundant wildflowers, or look through my binoculars. Climb, climb, click, click. Climb, climb, sniff, sniff. Climb, climb, look, look. Eventually I get to the top of the world. The view is spectacular and what do you know! There's cell phone reception up here! I call the First Runner Up to tell him about the bald eagle that has been circling over my head for the past hour.

The First Runner Up is an outdoorsman. He hunts. He fishes. He camps in the rain. He would appreciate that I am willing to fend off bears and hoary things in order to have the opportunity to say, "I'm on vacation and you're NOT. Na na na na boo boo!" Not that I actually plan on saying that. I will think it, he will know I am thinking it, but we will talk about eagles. Drats! The First Runner up is sly. He lets my call roll into voicemail. I am forced to leave an oral postcard. "An eagle is watching me play in the snow on the top of the world. Wish you were here! Miss you. Bye." Nice, but not nearly as satisfying as "Na na na na boo boo." I glance at the time as I tuck my cellphone back in my pocket. I need to go back down the mountain. Sled dogs are waiting for me on Douglas Island.

The dogs that pull sleds in Alaska are called Alaskan Huskies. What they really should be called is Alaskan Muttlies. Most of them descend from the dogs who arrived in Alaska during the gold rush 100 years ago. They are a ratty looking bunch that don't come close to resembling the Disney dogs you see in the movies. But what they lack in looks they more than make up for in intelligence. You can see that when you look in their eyes, if, that is, they bother to let you look. Alaskan huskies know tourists when they see them. They also know that we are inconsequential. Their attention is on their musher, the other dogs, and the trail. They are all world class athletes in training. Most of them are veterans of the Iditerod. The exception are the young ones who are being trained by the older ones. The young ones have yet to learn that a tourist isn't worth their time or energy. They wag their tails when I approach. The veterans remain aloof.

The barking is deafening as the dogs strain in their harnesses. I am in front of the musher in the last seat of an 800 lb wheeled cart. This is where you want to be when you are behind a team of 16 dogs. The farther back you are from the dogs' hind ends the better the view and the smell. The folks in the front of the cart are about to learn this.

The musher is a mud splattered French man named Pierre. He has competed in the Iditerod for the last three years. The money that tourists pay to ride with the dogs during summer camp supports him and his team for the rest of the year. Well known mushers of winning teams have corporate sponsorship from dog food companies or people like Bill Gates. The average competitor, though, is someone who just eeks by. Feeding and housing the dogs is expensive. Equipment is expensive. This is more than a hobby. It is a way of life. "Is this your dream job?" I ask Pierre. He nods and his expression, which has been stern since we met, softens. "It is the only thing I want to do, " he tells me. "I do not want to do anything else." I look around at the affluent people who sit with me in the cart. How many of them can say they do not want to do anything else but what they do? Pierre is a rich man. It's the others who are eeking by.

Basket case

Cruising is all about the food. Everyone is preoccupied with when the next all-you-can eat experience will occur. I found this slightly disturbing so I began to limit my exposure to the people on the buffet lines. This did not mean, however, that I limited my exposure to food. Food was everywhere and I happily played with it.

Fabrezio smiled shyly as I tied the Holland America apron around my waist and placed the tall chef's toque on my head. His job is to teach a dozen of us sea-faring foodies how to create a light and tasty summer dish suitable for entertaining. I can see that he is nervous and much more comfortable preparing food than talking about it. But oh, how I loved when he talked about it! His Italian accent charmed me as did his expectation that we already had basic culinary skills.

The menu was simple yet elegant. He divided us into 3 groups each with the responsibility to create either the herbal mojito style cocktail, the modified Caesar salad, or the Thai inspired shrimp entree. I was part of the salad group and immediately set myself to finely dicing shallots. There was a bit of a grumble among some of the foodies who wanted to do everything and not just a part of the meal. They were not team players. They should have been stripped of their aprons and toques and sent back to the buffet line. In the end they refused to try the food we created because of inconsistent handwashing among the student chefs. This pleased me. More shrimp for me!

While I didn't appreciate the complainers' arrogance, I could understand their germaphobic orientation. Everywhere you go a crew member is trying to squirt Purell hand sanitizer on you. This reinforces a mind set that everyone around you is a vector for the plague or some hideous virus. And, while an outbreak of norovirus can be very costly to a cruise line, not to mention very uncomfortable for the passengers who come down with it, I hated being assaulted with the germ killer. I soon learned to take evasive action and dance around the sanitizer guys the same way I avoid perfume squirters in department stores. But I digress. Back to food...

Thinking about and eating food is one thing. Thinking about how you look while eating food is another. It's very important to look good while eating, especially on formal nights, when the captain can see you eating. So, to ensure that I was worthy of the captain's scrutiny, I found myself in the stylist's chair later that afternoon.

I watched orcas frolic alongside the ship through the spa window while the stylist stood behind me holding handfuls of my hair. "You want me to put all of this on top of your head?" she asked dubiously. I eyed her doubtful expression in the mirror. "As much of it as you can fit up there," I replied. "You are the expert. Do whatever you think would look good." Most experts like to be given free rein to do what they do best. I never tell stylists how to style or chef's how to cook. I just confidently place myself in their hands and see what happens. I'm rarely disappointed although I am often surprised.

I watched the whales rather than the stylist. I could feel twisting and tugging and pulling and pinning. When I did venture a look in the stylist's direction she was very focused on the back of my head. After more twisting, tugging, pulling, and pinning the curling iron came out and there was a fair bit of sizzling. Finally, she told me I was done. She held up a mirror and I gazed at my reflection. I am sure she saw my startled look.

"You don't like it." she said. "I can do something else."
"No, I like it!" I insisted. "It's really...unusual." I looked back at my reflection. Most of my hair was lifted to the right side of my face and fell in ringlets to my shoulder. Behind my head, however, was an intricate woven pattern. My hair had been twisted and threaded in and out leaving the impression of...well...of a basket! All it needed was a bunch of grapes and a couple of bananas and the look would have been complete!

I took my basket-headed self back to my stateroom and slipped into my black evening gown. The VIP cocktail party was in full swing across the hall in the Neptune Lounge. Several couples were vying for the attention of Capt. Van Den Berg but he stood there in his formal uniform with a disgruntled air about him. It was obvious that he didn't relish this part of his job. He is a man who loves the sea but not the sea-goers. I chose not to burden him with one more introduction and headed off to see a boy named Su.

Ship Shape

A smiling cabin steward escorts me to my stateroom. He tells me that I have time to relax, eat lunch, and explore the ship before the lifeboat and safety drill begins. He shows me where my lifevest is stored and reminds me to take it with me when the announcement to go on deck is made. I step out on to my verandah and look toward the city. It's another quasi-gray day in Seattle. I have been told that the sun shines in this city but I think that is an urban legend.

My stateroom is spacious and well appointed. There are plenty of closets, a ton of dresser space, a whirlpool tub, fresh flowers and fruit, and big cushy bathrobes. Personalized stationary imprinted with my name and my stateroom number waits for me on the desk. Does Holland America know that I am eschewing email? Are they accommodating this with paper and pen? I've heard that the service in first class is amazing, but this is extraordinary. There are other gifts along with the stationary. My favorite is the bottle of champagne compliments of the captain. I decide to enjoy it on my verandah once we are underway. But safety first. It's time to put on my lifevest and head to Lifeboat Number 7.

"Step back, step back, PLEASE!" the officer barks as we try to squeeze ourselves away from the deck rail. I wink at the woman next to me and push back a little farther. "I hope I'm not getting too familiar with your husband," I tell her. The man behind me seems to enjoy this. If he enjoyed it any more he would owe me a dinner.

The ship's officer begins his roll call and once we are all accounted for he tells us that in the event of an emergency women, children, and infirm people will be evacuated first. I ponder this maritime tradition. Saving children first makes sense. I can't think of anyone who would support kids going down with the ship. But women? Shouldn't there be a coin toss or something to determine if women or men evacuate first? Heads it's women, tails it's men? The blatant sexism bothers me. The argument that the kids would need the women more than the men is false and should offend men. But none of the men appear offended. To the contrary, they are smiling for the ship's photographer. I look around to see if any of my fellow lifeboat assignees are "infirm." Unfirm, maybe. There's a bit of paunch and some jiggly wiggly going on, but no one appears infirm. Good. Loading infirm people ahead of able bodied people is counter to the evacuation principles that I must follow when managing a critical incident. You can lose a lot of well people if they get log jammed behind a sick or injured person. So, unlike on the high seas, the landlubbing infirm are evacuated last.

Oh no! I'm thinking about triage and mass evacuation! That's work, not vacation! I turn my thoughts to more pleasant things. I imagine myself watching wildlife from the verandah. I consider which dress to wear to dinner. I salivate over the little tea cakes and sandwiches in the private lounge across from my stateroom. I think about spending tomorrow at sea and then waking up in Juneau, Alaska.

I have done my homework regarding Juneau. It isn't smart to travel without knowing the issues and stakeholders in the places you visit. Juneau, I have learned, has a few trouble spots. Apparently a pizza war has been raging ever since the owner of a popular pizzeria hunted leaopards in Africa. Now there is a movement to boycott his business. I guess the natives hate it if you hunt anywhere but at home. At any rate, I don't wish to stir up trouble so I will avoid all pizzerias in Juneau. Everyone knows that pizza wars can be treacherous.

The Space Needle glides past me as the bubbles in my wineglass tickle my nose. Music drifts down to me from the Lido Deck. Soon pine trees and mountain peaks replace the city skyline. I hear an electronic chirp as my cell phone changes its display to "no service." The only way to reach me now is via shore-to-ship radio at $16 a minute. Wow! If someone calls me now it's because they think a conversation with me is worth $960 an hour. I flatter myself with this thought as I head off to explore the ship.

Tomorrow...spa side orcas, evening gowns, and a boy named Su.

Slainte!

Vacation time, more or less...

I have been described as a "ridiculously goal oriented" person. I disagree with the term "ridiculously" but I certainly can't deny the rest of the statement. Traveling to Alaska is no exception. Oh sure, it's supposed to be a vacation and vacations are supposed to be a time when you aren't driven to achieve, but even now I have very specific goals for my time away. They are:

1. Remain completely unplugged. No internet. No news. No phone calls related to work. OnStar scoffed at the thought that I could do this. I am determined to do it, especially now that I have been scoffed at!

2. Read something for pleasure rather than for scientific or professional purposes. It has been 8 months since I have lost myself in prose or poetry. That is far too long.

3. Do less. Put less pressure on myself to be productive. Focus less on schedules -although I do have to be concerned about when to get back onboard the ship. Worry less about who needs what from me when.

4. Do More. Sit more. Sleep more. Daydream more. Walk into the world without expectations more.

Seems easy enough, doesn't it?

It is Day 1 and I'm not sure if I should unplug now or later. I decide later. I need to set out for the airport in 2 hours. I'm not completely packed. My house is in disarray and resembles a place inhabited by drunken frat boys. I need to do something about this before the housekeeper comes. Oh, and there is a crisis brewing at work that has required a lot of attention. I pull up my email. Doesn't anyone sleep at night? There are over a dozen urgent messages from students and fellow faculty. I answer them and then set my automated away message. I decide to tell people that I will be away for 2 days beyond my return date.

Somehow, it all comes together. The house gets picked up, the bags get packed, and I get myself to the airport. So far I haven't done very well at meeting my goals. I'm doing less and more in the wrong direction. I promise myself that once I am on the plane this will change. And it does. Sit more. I'm definitely sitting more! I pull out my travel pillow and prop myself against the window. Soon I am sleeping more. Somewhere over the Great Plains I pull out one of the two novels I have packed. I'm reading for pleasure! From time to time I leave my book and gaze out the window to let my mind wander. When it tries to wander over to work I bitch slap it back to other thoughts. Five hours pass and Mt. Hood and Ranier come into view. Soon I will be on the ground and I will walk in the world with few expectations.

My feet take me to a dive bar in an offbeat Seattle neighborhood. The neon sign in the Five Point Cafe and Bar window says they have been cheating tourists and drunks since 1929. Their self deprecation appeals to me. So does their menu. Since I have no expectations I can't be disappointed.

I'm definitely not disappointed. Someone in the kitchen knows what they are doing. The food is outstanding. I ask for a second glass of wine to go with my meal. The waitress smiles. "I'll have to bring the bottle to you," she says. "You have the only wine glass we own." Wow! I definitely didn't expect that. I try hard to push my expectations even lower and I am rewarded. The bottle comes to my table. It's a 3.5 ounce twist top.

The wine does it's magic. I feel my travel fatigue slipping away. I lean back and congratulate myself. It's Day 1 and I did it. I met my goals:

Sat more - check

Slept more - check

Read for pleasure - check

Daydreamed more - check

Held few expectations - check

I tell myself that I can do this. If I just keep my goals up front, I can have a great time. Is that ridiculous or what?

Stay tuned. Tomorrow I hit the high seas.

Natural Selection

Survival of the fittest. No place exemplifies Spencer and Darwin's theories of natural selection better than Alaska. The terrain is rugged. The sea that embraces that terrain is capricious. There are times when it is crystal clear and you can see the star fish and crabs that creep below you. The next moment it is agitated, a murky fog-wrapped gray green that is laden with supernaturally blue icebergs. Huge humpback whales beat the surface with their enormous tails in grand gestures of "Hi! How are ya! Got herring?" Bald eagles eye you from great heights before they swoop down to inspect you more closely. They leave you feeling like you don't measure up. Their piercing gaze clearly communicates what they are thinking, "You are weak. This is a harsh land. You wouldn't last a minute here if you weren't sheltered by that enormous stateroom with the staff that waits on you hand and foot. Go get yourself another latte you pathetic human!"

But the eagle is wrong. There are harsh environments he doesn't know about that I navigate with the same skill he does. There is a land that is as fickle and unforgiving as the one he soars above, although I must admit that it is much less beautiful. It is a land called Baggage Claim and it is inhabited by a primitive people. Surviving Baggage Claim requires skill and cunning. Like Alaska, it is an example of survival of the fittest. Here is my story:

The transcontinental flight was uneventful save for a desperate run across multiple concourses in search of not-really-lost passports. It is well past midnight when Baggage Belt #5 begins to turn in Richmond and the crowd surges forward to claim their luggage. The fittest of us position themselves for optimal retrieval. Some look like they want to mark their territory by urinating. Then again, it's been a long flight. Perhaps they just need to pee like I do.

The less aggressive of our species hang behind and lose the competition for a first bag strike. These are the ones with inferior bladder capacity who chose to pee before arriving at baggage claim. They are urine-less and unable to mark their territory. They are willing to let the more dominant members grab their bags first. I'm not one of those people. I arrive at Baggage Belt #5 early. I have superior bladder capacity, but regardless, I have to pee so badly I could mark my territory and the guy's next to me. I might even be able to mark Baggage Belt #4 if the wind is right.

Bag after bag comes into view and I swoop in to strike with precision. I lift the bags like an eagle lifts a salmon, with a great show of flailing and a high pitched screech. I drop the bags at my feet and watch for the next. And watch. And watch. And watch. The belt turns. The inferior back row folks are now grabbing their bags. Soon they melt away. The belt stops turning. A brave from the SkyCap Tribe comes along and loads the unclaimed bags onto a cart.

"That's it." he tells me. "If you are missing luggage go to that office over there." He points over his shoulder to a massive woman behind a tall counter. "Let her know which bag didn't make it." I check my bag tags so that I can identify the missing bag for her. Uh Oh! One of my bags has two tags. Obviously it was tagged twice and my missing bag never got a tag. I gather up my things and head over to talk to the Chief of the No Bags Left Behind Tribe.

I approach the chief with respect and greet her formally. I identify my clan and prepare to offer gifts if necessary. She eyes me warily. Most people are hostile to the Chief. She has learned to distrust anyone who isn't part of her tribe.

Me: "Excuse me. It appears that one of my bags never made it on the plane in SEA because it wasn't tagged."

Chief: "Give me the tag number of the missing bag."

Me: "It doesn't have a tag number since it didn't get a tag. This bag ended up with two tags."
I lift the double tagged bag to the counter to show her the problem.

Chief: "I need the number of the tag that didn't come to RIC.

Me: "All the tags made it to RIC...because one bag had TWO TAGS while the bag that is missing didn't get ANY tags. All the tags made it but not all the bags."

Chief: "Well, just pick one of the tag numbers and give it to me then."

Me: "Your computer will tell you that bag got to RIC."

Chief: "Well, make up a number then."

Me: "Then people will look for a bag with a fictitious tag...and the bag has NO TAG. "

Chief: "I don't know how to fix this. "

Survival of the fittest. I know how to fix this but I don't want to offend the Chief of No Bag Left Behind by telling her how to do her job. I don't want to appear arrogant and ugly although I'm beginning to feel arrogant and ugly. I also don't want to come across like a woman about to wet her pants. I work on keeping a pleasant expression on my face and cross my legs. Successful negotiations with primitive people requires both stamina and subtlety.

Me: "Can you call the Delta Baggage folks in SEA, tell them that there is a black Travel Pro Suiter that failed to get tagged at curbside and it was bound for RIC? Maybe you could tell them the luggage tag has my business card in it. They can put it on a plane to RIC but it will cost you less to deliver it to my home if you send it to CHO."

Chief: "I can't do that on the computer."

Me: "That's right. It requires a phone call. Are you able to make one?

The chief doesn't respond to my question. She gazes over my shoulder, her face inscrutable. I consider offering her beads as a sign of friendship. Then I remember that my beads are in the missing bag. I ponder if I should ask to speak with the Shaman. Perhaps the Shaman could find a way to reach back into the mists of time, find my bag, and transport it to me. The Chief refocuses on me.

Chief: "Was it an actual Travel Pro or did it just look like one?

Me: "It was an actual Travel Pro"

Chief: "That's an expensive bag. We have a $3,000 liability limit if you haven't purchased the excess value coverage."

Me: "AmEx has me covered for that."

Chief: "What was in the bag?"

Me: "A bunch of fancy dresses, evening gowns, designer shoes, and my favorite push up bra".

Chief: "Are you kidding?"

Me: "Yea, I know. I should have put the push up bra in my carry on. Big mistake."

I try to look contrite. I smile at the Chief encouragingly.

Me: "Your people have never let me down before. I know you'll have the bag back to me in no time."

The Chief nods and smiles back. I congratulate myself on my statesmanship as she pens magic symbols on a folder and hands it to me.

Chief: "I hope the SkyCap in Seattle took your bag to the Unclaimed Luggage Lodge. We can get it back to you if he did that. Here's your claim number. You can go online and track your bag's progress with that number. They should deliver it to your home by tomorrow afternoon if it can be found."

I accept the Chief's offering and express my thanks. I walk out into the Virginia night. I notice right away that it is warm here and dark, so unlike Alaska where it is cool and damp and where the sun doesn't set until almost midnight. Alaska. More about that tomorrow...

Slainte.

An Insider's View

It has been 25 years since I was in Anacostia and the area along the river by RFK stadium. I used to walk the neighborhood with a medical bag making house calls to impoverished home-bound people. I remember a Catholic University law student once asked me if I was “too young or too stupid" to be afraid of the ghetto. The answer was neither. I had a healthy respect for Anacostia’s challenges. Apparently so did my patients. The first time I called on a patient I was surprised to find the elderly woman in bed, wizened and small, and flanked by two hefty men in their mid 20s. She informed me that they were her grandsons and they would walk me to my next appointment. A couple of blocks over I was left in the hands of another big man who was my patient’s nephew. He handed me off to a man and a woman on my final visit and they accompanied me back to my car. Unlike the burly men who walked with me earlier in the day, they were slightly built. They made up for their lack of size by being armed and they were quick to let me and others know it. I thanked them for their consideration as I got into my car and they shrugged. “We need you to come back,” the woman said, “This is how we make sure you do.” It was a simple system. Each time I made a house call there was a security detail present that made sure I made it safely to the next patient. The walk between visits was usually short but long enough for conversation. And as you know, I love conversation!

So what does an Irish Catholic New Englander talk about to an Inner City Zion Methodist? The answer: the latest events at RFK. The stadium stood on the margins of the ghetto and served as a constant reminder to the residents around it of unattainable affluence. Baseball had left the city a decade before, but the NFL still had a solid presence. This meant that we often talked about Joe Theismann and the Redskins. Along with an interest in Theismann, my body guards and I also had another thing in common: none of us could afford a ticket to see him play in person. When we walked past the stadium we talked about what we had heard it was like inside or what we had seen of it on television. None of us had actually been past the main gate.

Twenty five years later, I finally made it inside. The neighborhood around RFK Stadium has gentrified. A security detail is unnecessary. The row houses are meticulously kept with manicured gardens that beckon you. Expensive cars line the streets. The wizened old lady and her grandsons are gone. Now the stadium is neglected rather than the houses it towers over. It no longer mocks the struggles of the people who live in it's shadow with a glimpse of wealth on game day. To the contrary, the neighborhood’s wealth mocks the impoverished stadium. The Redskins left years ago. The Nationals will move out next year to a brand new ball field. The stadium is tired and shows its age, but that doesn’t matter to me as I approach the main gate.

A voice in my head shouts, “I’m going inside! I’m going inside!” A louder voice drowns it out with, "PROGRAMS! Getcher PROOOO...GRAMS!" As my ticket is scanned I have two things on my mind. First, to find the bathroom. Second, to find the beer guy. From there I will work my way out into the sunshine and find my seat. Soon it will be time to play ball! But first things first...

Tomorrow: The view from inside.
Slainte!

Almost Heaven, West Virginia

My cell phone rings after hours of “no service.”
“Where are you?” asks the First Runner Up.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“Well... what state are you in?”
“The state of confusion,” I reply.

The run between Mr. Jefferson’s hometown and the Football Hall of Fame is familiar and easy. The interstate highways that I usually travel cut across the Shenandoah Valley and climb through the Blue Ridge and Appalachian Mountains. The drive is glorious no matter what the season, but in late spring it is spectacular. I expect an uneventful and pretty ride as I swing my car west.

My first hint that this ride will be different comes when my GPS system tells me to head north on I-81. Huh? North? Is it sure? Shouldn’t I go south and then continue west on 64?

“NO!” Ms. GPS tells me. “You are going to travel by US routes to The Heart of it All. The interstate route is miles longer.” “Listen to me,” she implores. “I’m going to save you time!”

I ponder the wisdom of this decision. It is Sunday. I’m making this trip in response to a medical emergency. Less time is good. Less stress is better. Sleep has been in short supply, it is midday, and I am already weary. I am alone, without a back up driver, and Ms. GPS wants to lead me through a remote area of West Virginia. Would there be fuel there? Food? Potties??? I am unsure if a joyride in uncharted territory is in my best interest. I resist the idea until I hear Robert Frost’s words echo in my head. He faced two roads that diverged in a yellow wood. He took the road less traveled and that made all the difference. I head north.

Thirty miles later I leave the security of I-81 and plunge into the George Washington National Forest. The single lane road winds around and rolls up and down like a rollercoaster. Sunlight has a hard time penetrating the dense canopy overhead. I back off the throttle to take a tight turn. Then another. I experience a moment of déjà vu. I have driven a road like this before in a Penske box truck. My mind flashes back to last summer’s high wire act out of Lake Tahoe. The switch backs come closer together. I promised myself in Tahoe that the next time I climbed a mountain it would be in a two seater that hugs the ground. I have kept that promise. I gear down my SLK to take the next corkscrew turn.

The bikes emerge as a blur out of the dappled sunlight. The helmeted riders hunch down and lean precariously far over into the turns. The high pitched whines of their engines remind me of angry bees. A dozen or more fly by me in coordinating touring outfits. The hum fades away and it becomes quiet again. I continue to navigate the twists and turns. Another swarm of fashion savvy bikers buzz by me. Ms. GPS tells me my average speed is 26 mph. She also tells me my maximum speed of the day was arrest worthy. Ms. GPS is a nag. I consider pulling her power supply but I am utterly dependent on her navigation. I decide to ignore my Techno Companion for now and look out at the world around me.

Oh my! Except for the paved road beneath me the world is untouched by human beings. Craggy granite ridges run along the mountain tops. These huge ragged monuments are a testament to this place’s antiquity. I cannot safely look far beyond the next turn but I know I am surrounded by beauty. It settles around me in a soft focused spring green. When the road finally straightens out I pull over.

Below me is a deep unpopulated valley flanked by nearly vertical mountains. A hawk soars effortlessly before me, hanging at eye level on the wind currents that rise from the valley below. It gives me a fierce look before letting out a piercing cry. I reach to call The First Runner Up to tell him how awesome this bird is but cell phones do not work here. I am unplugged from everything except the satellites that guide me. The hawk screeches again and then wheels downward in a compact spiral. I lose it against the trees below. I climb back into my car and it gives me a throaty growl as I pull back out onto the narrow road.

I drive for three hours and see only what God has made. There are no fast food restaurants and no rest areas. As I swing around another impossibly tight turn I am startled to find a place to stop. Marie’s Pork Palace is a rambling and ramshackle building that sits in the middle of a small parking lot filled with motorcycles. I do not see a place to park my car and the road is too narrow to just leave it off to the side. I wonder why someone would establish a biker bar/barbeque joint in the middle of the wilderness. I also ponder if the people inside are wearing outfits that coordinate with their bike’s styling. I think about my bladder capacity. To stop or not to stop? I’m tempted, but with an average speed of 26 mph I will never make it to Ohio while there is still daylight. Ms. GPS differs. She has my ETA calculated to the minute. She can even figure in my potty time should I decide to take it. I press on with the intent to get my average driving speed up to 30.

As I suspected before beginning my journey on US 33 W, there is no turning off. I have no alternative route through the mountains. Fatigue hits hard in the 6th hour. My fingers tingle, my bottom hurts, and I need a nap. I see a crossroad up ahead and the hint of a building. I pull into Mean Gene’s Burgers. A sign on the door announces that restrooms are for customers only. Gene IS mean! I ask for the washroom as I buy a bag of peanuts and a Diet Pepsi. The sullen man behind the counter (could this be Mean Gene?) tells me that it is out of order but there is a gas station about 15 miles up the road. Fifteen miles! At speeds that barely reach 25 mph, 15 miles will take forever! I contemplate returning the purchases but realize that I could use the caffeine infusion. I drive on and feel myself descending to the low lands below me. The road opens up and straightens out as I zip past rushing streams that cut through emerald fields dotted with yellow and white wildflowers. I feel as though I’m racing along. Ms. GPS tells me that my average speed is 31.5 mph. HA! Goal met! Next goal: Potty and 40 mph!

The gas station is at the end of my mountain trek. I tumble out of the woods to find civilization. There’s a Wal-Mart and a highway! Wal-Mart! God I love that place! I take a quick pit stop and drop the top for the rest of my ride. The wind rushes past me and my need for a nap fades. Ms. GPS tells me I have an hour and a half left of straight as an arrow highway driving. What a breeze!

Aerosmith is screaming for me to walk this way as I whip into The First Runner Up’s driveway. Ms. GPS is shouting above the aging rockers that I have arrived at my destination. I look at the time. Eight hours have passed since I left America’s Eden. I chide Ms. GPS that miles were saved but not time. I took the road less traveled but there was no difference! She and Frost were wrong!

Or were they?
A hawk conversed with me. The world was serene and beautiful. I was unplugged and unassailed by news or need. I had the luxury of my own thoughts for splendid mile after splendid mile. It was work but it was worth it.

I lift my glass and The First Runner Up clinks it. “Slainte,” he says as I throw the shot of Jameson’s back and chase it with a mouth full of Guinness. The First Runner Up grins at me. He has taken me to an Irish pub. He knows that I am at home in dark pubs drinking even darker beers. I tell him how we need to make the drive through the mountains together. He’s an outdoorsman. He would love it! I forget the tingling fingers, the potty deficiencies, the Biker Bees, and the Mean Gene’s who populate the forest. I tell him about the rocky peeks and the vistas that spread before you as you turn every corner. I tell him it’s the perfect ride to make with a friend. He looks at me knowingly. “Yeah,” he says, “you just want me to do the work.”

In Memorium for The Pride of VPI

" V. P., old V. P. You know our hearts are with you,

In our luck which never seems to die;

Win or lose we'll greet you with a glad returning,

You're the pride of V. P. I. "

- from the Virginia Tech Fight Song.

Ross Abdullah Alameddine

Christopher James Bishop

Brian Roy Bluhm

Ryan Christopher Clark

Austin Michelle Cloyd

Jocelyne Couture-Nowak

Kevin P. Granata

Matthew Gregory Gwaltney

Caitlin Millar Hammaren

Jeremy Michael Herbstritt

Rachel Hill

Emily Jane Hilscher

Jarrett Lee Lane

Matthew Josepeh LaPorte

Henry J. Lee

Liviu Librescu

G.V. Loganathan

Partahi Mamora Halomoan Lumbantoraun

Lauren Ashley McCain

Daniel Patrick O'Neil

Juan Ramon Ortiz

Minal Hiralal Panchal

Daniel Alejandro Perez Cueva

Erin Nichole Peterson

Michael Steven Pohle, Jr.

Julia Kathleen Pryde

Mary Karen Read

Reema Joseph Samaha

Waleed Mohamed Shaalan

Leslie Geraldine Sherman

Maxine Shelley Turner

Nicole Regina White

On the first day of class every semester I begin this way: "There are more than 100 of you. There is only one of me. You have the advantage of having to learn just one name. I have to learn over 100. If you are a man, I will know you name by the end of class today. If you are exotic in your appearance, I will know your name by the end of class next week. But if you are a woman in your early twenties with sandy brown or ash blonde shoulder length hair...I will never learn your name." The class always laughs at this while the dozens of women who fit that description look at one another.

Of course, what I say isn't entirely true. They soon learn that anonymity isn't easily achieved in my courses. Over the weeks they hear me say, "Tell me your name. OK, now tell me (where I would find you in a bookstore, what animal are you most like, what song do you play most on your iPod, where is your favorite place to be?) That is how I fit the names to the faces. In about a month I know them all. There is Jennifer "I don't read, I drink coffee. Look for me at the coffee bar." There is also Willa "the Rabbit, " Jeanne "Anything by Lumidee," and "In my Hot Tub" Erin.

I cannot place faces to the names from Virginia Tech. I do not know where I would find them in a bookstore, or what animal they thought they resembled, or what music flowed into their ears that no one else could hear. But even so, they are not anonymous. I feel their loss keenly. It is a rare priviledge to be a university professor and to have the pleasure of shaping student lives. That's always been the payoff for me. Earning acceptance in a top tier university is difficult. You need to have your best game on and distinguish yourself within your discipline if you are a faculty member. If you are a student you have to demonstrate outstanding scholarship. I know that I am lucky to have been able to do that in both roles. Mourning for my sister school brings that thought to the forefront of my mind. I am incredibly fortunate. I need to remember not to take my good fortune for granted. I need to make sure I always have my best game on.

Putting the Balls in Ballroom

The Holland America brochure extols the luxury of the penthouse suite that I am scheduled to travel in this July. It also describes the privileges that this class of accommodation bestows on me. Apparently I will be separated from the lower classes with my own fleet of servants, a bar/lounge that the riff-raff can't chat with me in, and a place at the captain's table. Obviously, I need to put some hoit in my toit before I take this journey up into the wilds of Alaska. It's time I learn how to dance. I can no longer get by with the alcohol-fueled improvisation that has served me well at weddings and nightclubs. No. It's time I learn the real deal. Stone sober dancing, otherwise known as "American Smooth and Latin Ballroom I." I sign up for lessons.

The dance instructor looks like a miniature gypsy. Her bright silver shoes are topped by a lemon yellow ruffled skirt, white blouse, and black shawl. A satin ribbon wraps around her head and trails down her back. Long jet black earrings hang to her shoulders. She's as cute as a button and makes me feel graceless in my jeans and brown loafers. She begins by telling us how we must start with the fundamentals. We need to stand properly, erect with knees slightly bent.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall and try to improve my posture. Tummy in, shoulders back, not too far back because now my tits stick out, just back enough to lift them a bit. I roll my hips forward slightly and drop my tush down bending my knees. If standing still is this much work, dancing is going to be impossible! I look at the other couples in the room. They seem to be standing without effort. My Partner grins back at me. He also finds standing easy.
"Very good!" the instructor tells us. My Partner and I swell with pride at our obviously superior standing ability! And now it's time to move.

The Gypsy demonstrates the basic footwork for the Tango. Two slow steps forward for My Partner, two slow steps backward for me, then one quick one back and another quick one to the side with a slow elegant close. Uh huh. Got it. Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick, Close. Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick, Close. Alrighty! This is GREAT! I'm dancing! In a straight line backwards. In a room with walls. TURN! TURN! How do we TURN???

Turning is not that difficult if the leader leads and the follower follows. So says The Gypsy. "Leading," she tells me, "is walking forward and directing your partner. Following, on the other hand, is walking backwards in a direction that you cannot see. Following is an exercise in trust." I inwardly cringe. The Gypsy doesn't realize how profound her statement is and how it cuts to the core of who I am. I am not a follower. And I certainly cannot trust someone else with the direction I must go. No. Sorry. My dance career has ended before it has begun. There will be no roses clenched in my teeth while the seductive rhythms of the Tango play. The impossibility of it all comes crashing down around me. I am doomed to the drunken gyrations of the riff raff. I console myself that at least that form of dance allows me to self determine.

The Gypsy has not noticed the personal crisis that she has caused. She claps her hands and moves on to points of contact and more advanced footwork. She tells me my job as the follower is to stay in My Partner's hand. I can only do this if I provide a strong frame for My Partner's points of contact. I must be unyielding and firm. A leader cannot lead a soft noodle. The follower must be strong. Strong! Unyielding and firm! Now THAT I can do! My dance career is reborn. The tooth-clenched rose becomes possible again. I smile at My Partner.

"I haven't seen you smile this genuinely in a very long time," My Partner says.

"I like dancing," I reply.

Running With The Pack

My dear friend Sabrina recently sent me pictures from a dog sledding expedition that she and her husband took in Canada. It reminded me of when I had the opportunity to fly behind some amazing canines at the top of the world. This was my reply to Sabrina:

Mushing has to be one of the most fun things I have ever done. I had the opportunity to do it in Vail, CO a few years ago. I expected that I would be pulled in a nice warm sled while the dogs and musher did all the work. That fantasy lasted for about 30 minutes. Then the sled owner told me it was my turn to run with the dogs. And he did mean run! I wasn't up on the runners much since it seemed like we were always going uphill. Up. Up. Up. How can you do an entire run uphill without ever coming down??? We ran along a ridge of the Rockies with the whole world beneath us. And I kept thinking, "Where is the oxygen up here?" Of course, I was much chubbier and less fit then, so what little oxygen there was didn't go very far.

The dogs, on the other hand, were very fit. They were a motley crew of mixed breeds for the most part, with one that was half greyhound. His legs were much longer than the other dogs and his coat wasn't nearly as thick. He was a racing dog more than a freighting dog, but he seemed to love hauling my chubbiness around. The wheel dog was a stout fellow named Einstein. Since I was completely unfamiliar with mushing, my weight was never on the correct runner when we were turning. That made Einstein's job very hard and he would look over his shoulder at me with a baleful doggie look.

The lead dog was a young male, about 2 years old. I don't recall his name but I recall his temperment. He was trouble. I'll just call him Nasty Dog. He constantly asserted his dominance with the other team dogs and he absolutely had it in for Einstein. He was a generally unpleasant animal. Aloof, aggressive, he bullied the team dogs and was compliant only to his owner. And his owner adored him. He kept him in the house rather than staked with the rest of the team at night.

At any rate, after we returned from our run the owner staked Nasty Dog and walked back to the truck to open the transport boxes. He told me to go ahead and smooch on the team dogs if I wanted to but to leave Nasty Dog alone. He didn't like people much. The first doggie I smooched was Einstein because I had given him such a tough day. He appreciated my attention but Nasty Dog protested with wild barking and snarls. I then moved on to the other team dogs much to Nasty's displeasure. He foamed at the mouth and pulled at the stake. I was about midway up the line, smooching on a matched set of litter mates, when Nasty Dog broke free. The team wheeled around with him as he charged for Einstein and I realized I was going to get cut in half by the tugline or fouled up with the dogs if I didn't do something. Either way, I knew I was going to get hurt. So I lunged at Nasty Dog, grabbed him by his harness, and threw my considerable weight into him. He was practically lifted off the ground as I shouted "NO!" into his snarling face. Now I was the one who was foaming at the mouth. "NO!" I shouted again as I gave him a shake.

And what a baby he became! He practically wet himself. He whined and wimpered as I put him back on his feet. He tucked his tail underneath his belly and dropped his head low. I held his harness tightly and scratched him in spite of myself. He seemed to like it. He even wagged his tail. His owner came running up to restake him. "Good job," he told me. "That would have been bad." "Thanks," I gasped. I watched as Nasty was lead back to his stake and wondered, "Where the hell is the oxygen up here?" Only an oxygen deprived brain would think to grab a snarling dog and snarl back!

Sweet Home Alabama

I have spent a lot of the last 4 months in the Deep South which is why I haven't posted much. Let's just say I've been preoocupied. First, I've been focused on setting up a household that I won't actually live in. That can be tricky. And second, I have been solving problems from The Not So Deep South when my plans go off track. Luckily, off track plans are something I expect. In the best Emergency Medicine Tradition, I anticipate the unexpected and I have a Plan B. Sometimes I even have a Plan C. It's easier to have those plans, however, when you know a little something about your surroundings. Between my research and my personal experiences, I can now say I know a little something about The Land of Rocket Scientists.

Alabama feels familiar to me these days. I don't worry about becoming lost anymore. Not that being lost is ever much of a worry. Wrong turns are an opportunity for adventure. And to be honest, it’s an opportunity that I get to enjoy often! Fortunately, getting lost makes me grin. And with a cell phone in hand I can take any number of people along on that adventure with me. Which just means more grinning. I can save my worries for more important things, like getting my aunt settled into a new assisted living arrangement; an arrangement that promises to help her find her way down Memory Lane.

I stand among dozens of boxes in a sunny room. Once again I need to figure out how to fit a lifetime of possessions in an ever shrinking space. Just a few months ago I moved these things down from NY. Just like then, I have to juggle “need” with “want.” Agnes doesn’t need a china cabinet filled with glassware, but she wants it. Her treasures matter to her, so I figure out a way to fit it all into a single space that must act as living room, dining room, and bedroom. Fine china, crystal, figurines, collectibles, picture frames. Each is carefully unwrapped and placed inside the cabinet. What doesn’t fit is displayed on dresser and table tops. I move toward the entertainment center. Two small but impossibly heavy boxes sit at my feet. They are marked “records.” I cut through the tape and the musty smell of old cardboard wafts up towards me. I reach in and pull out Agnes’ albums. This is the soundtrack of her life. It spans 50+ years.

My first handful of records include Frank Sinatra, Tommy Dorsey, Herb Alpert and the Tiujuana Brass, and Elvis. I slide them onto the shelf and reach for a second handful. More jazz and R&B. Miles Davis, Diana Ross, Aretha Franklin, George Benson, Jeff Beck. So far she’s pretty hip for an 81 year old. I place the albums on her shelf and reach into the box again. The British invade. The Beatles, Paul McCartney after the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, The Who. I am 8 years old again. We are at Squantz Pond. Agnes is wearing high heels and a lace dress to a picnic. She tells me that Paul is the best looking but that John is a genius. I don’t know who she’s talking about but I smile and nod. I rarely know what Aunt Agnes is talking about. I grab some pink lemonade and run off to throw a baseball around. Years later I know what she's talking about and I agree. Paul was adorable, John was a genius.

Jimi Hendrix. Janis Joplin, Led Zepplin, The Edgar Winter Group, Aerosmith, Patti Smith, The Grateful Dead. I am fourteen and we are playing Scrabble. Aunt Agnes reaches for her highball and tells me that she has tried pot. She doesn’t see what all the fuss is about. It doesn’t do much for her. She puts her tiles down. Triple word score. She’s killing me at this game. I slide the albums onto her shelf. Words don’t come easily to her now but music still makes her smile.

AC/DC, INXS, Joe Jackson, The Talking Heads, The Cars, Van Halen, Madonna, The Charlie Daniels Band, R.E.M. I’m home from college and I meet Agnes in NYC’s Chinatown. We eat Dim Sum and she tells me all about Europe. I tell her that I’m getting married and she beams. I promise her I will be back to shop for wedding veils with her in the garment district. She offers to alter my mother’s wedding gown for me. She has sewn dresses for me my whole life. She’s so excited about the prospect of working on the gown that I accept the offer. I slide the sound of the 80s onto the shelf and reach again into the boxes.

Pavoratti, Maria Callas, Domingo, The Three Tenors. She sweeps into the lobby of The Met in a full length white fox fur. Underneath she is wearing a pair of farmer overalls. The contrast is startling in a place filled with gray-haired people in their best dress. “Do you have your opera glasses?” she asks. I admit to not owning any. She thought that may be the case and has an extra set with her. We settle into our seats and I’m relieved to see subtitles projected above the stage. She tells me that City Opera has been stealing patrons away for years with subtitles. Finally the Met stopped being elitist and gave in to public demand. The house lights dim. I slip the opera collection onto the shelves alongside big band, jazz, Motown, and rock.

During the 90s vinyl gave way to CDs. Aunt Agnes was in her seventies by then and didn’t make the technological transition. Although she owns a CD player, she has only a few albums in that format. She still uses her turntable faithfully. And of course, there’s the radio. When I turned the radio on in her apartment in NY it was set to urban hip hop. I listened for awhile as I packed boxes and then found a classic rock station. I’m not as progressive as Agnes.

She holds my hand as we walk into her new apartment. La Traviata plays on the stereo while Agnes explores her new home. She looks in the closets and the dresser drawers. She stands in front of the china cabinet and assesses her glassware. I tell her that I've managed to keep almost everything although her winter clothes are stored off site. Her furs, however, are hanging in her closet. Her opera glasses are on the top shelf of her wardrobe. "Will this work for you?" I ask. I hold my breath. There is no Plan B if this doesn't work for her. There are no options but I hate to bring that to her attention. "Oh, it's darling." she replies. She’s happy among her things and I am relieved.

Picture Perfect

I stand in front of my over burdened bookcase and pull paperback after paperback off the shelf. I turn to the inside back covers and look at the authors' pictures. Ken Follett grins at me playfully. John Grisham gazes at me with the easy smile of a neighbor. I notice that the women who write romance novels are photographed through a filter, their faces are luminous in soft focus. My publisher has demanded a head shot. In an hour I will be sitting in a photographer's studio trying to look scholarly but not boring, interesting but not unusual, attractive but not come hither. I want to look like a blend between Follett, Grisham, and Steele. I want a playful knowingness in my soft focused smile.

I practice my look in the mirror. Too big a smile and my eyes squint shut leaving me with crows feet...perhaps even chicken's feet! Too small a smile and I appear constipated. I lift my chin. I square my shoulders. I try to gaze into the distance looking wise and inscrutible. I realize I look myopic instead. I tilt my head slightly to the left. Then to the right. I ponder what to do with my hair. I rub gel between my palms and try to tame it. I decide to let it do whatever it wants to do. The idea that I have control over my mass of curls is delusional.

I rummage through my closet looking for something to wear. I pull on my black cashmere sweater with the ballet neckline. I decide it makes me look like I'm sitting for a school graduation portrait. The only thing missing is the string of fake pearls. I slip into the green silk jacket lined in gold that I picked up in San Francisco's Chinatown. It's lovely, but too formal. I throw on a butter yellow V-necked tshirt with 3/4 sleeves. Too casual. I warn myself to stay away from flesh toned turtlenecks. I wore one for my passport picture and it made me look like I had a giant goiter. Customs officials around the world would stamp my passport and hand it back to me with a sympathetic look on their faces. Even the French official felt sorry for me. No, I must avoid turtlenecks.

One top after another gets tossed aside until I settle on a satin copper shell covered by my moss green suede jacket. I pull on a pair of brown dress slacks and slide into my favorite pair of embroidered Chinese shoes. Simple. Elegant. Smart. I smile at the shoes. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing, these little slipper shoes make me feel put together. Not that it matters what you wear on your feet for a head shot. Still, it's nice to know my toes are happy.

Now on to the make up. I hastily throw on eye color, powder, and blush. The clock is ticking and I can't find my lipstick. Oh, I can find plenty of "Devilicious Red" and "Tropical Sun Kissed Coral." Those long forgotten shades still clutter my vanity. But the "Nicer than Normal" shade is missing. I finally find it at the bottom of my briefcase. I hurry out the door and decide my lipstick can wait until I get to the studio.

I have two minutes to spare before my appointment. I pull into a remote parking spot and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. That's when I realize that I have put mascara on only one eye. Dread overcomes me. I am about to have my picture taken and this picture will be on the back of zillions of books sold on Amazon. (Perhaps not quite zillions. Perhaps only "a whole bunch!") I think of a number of places that are better than where I am now. The dentist. In front of a three way mirror trying on bathing suits. Divorce court. I drag myself into the studio.

The photographer is the kind of guy who belonged to the AV Club and School Newspaper staff in highschool. You know the kind. Pudgy, introverted, task oriented. He asks me what sort of shot my publisher wants. I am honest with him and tell him that I don't know. I was instructed to obtain a "digital headshot."

The photographer has me climb up onto a tall stool. He snaps a picture and I see him scowl and discard it. He snaps another. He discards another. He seems unhappy with any of the pictures he is taking. I assure him that if the results aren't what he expects, that it isn't his fault. First, there's the whole mascara problem. Second, cameras and I have always had an uneasy relationship. I look better moving. I am not a static person. I move through the world rather than sit and have the world move past me. "If only my publisher had asked for a video version of a headshot," I tell him, "I'd be golden then." The photographer tells me that I actually take a good picture. He wasn't happy with the lighting, he explains, as he tilts the big foil lined umbrellas closer to me.

Several more pictures are snapped and I sigh as he changes his lens. He looks up and asks me what is wrong. I tell him that I wish there was a way to get my shoes in my headshot, but short of wrapping my legs around my shoulders like a contortionist, this isn't possible. A few more pics and we are through. "Your proofs will be ready in an hour," he says. "There are a few with nice smiles. There's one I think you will really like."

I waste an hour shopping. Every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection I notice that I have mascara on only one eye. I dread going back to pick up the proofs. I think about leaving them in the studio and sending my publisher the picture off of my university ID. It's institutional but servicable. Reluctantly I make my way back to the photographer. He smiles at me from behind the counter as he hands me an envelop containing a CD and proofs. I flip it open. And there they are! My shoes! I look up surprized and grin. "I thought you'd like that one," he tells me. "I do!" I tell him as I hold up the picture of me perched on the stool. "I'm going to send it to my publisher. If all he wants to use is my head, fine." The photographer explains that the publisher's art department can crop the picture to just a headshot. I nod.

"Cool shoes" he tells me as I hand over my American Express Card.

"Thanks," I reply. "By the way, have you ever thought of using that as a pick up line?"

Memory Lane

I have been on the road a lot lately. Nearly every week I have had to make the trek between The Capital of the Confederacy to that bastion of yankee aggressors known as New England. Each of these trips were because I have lost family. One family member was lost suddenly, shockingly, leaving me blinking in the autumn sun stunned at the finality and injustice of losing a good man when bad men remain. I asked God, "Help me understand..." (God knows I'm pissed off when I begin a statement this way.) "Help me understand why you took Gary but left behind George Bush, Osama Bin Laden, and the guy who cut me off on the highway?"

I didn't ask God this question in the shower, where I can blame running water for my not being able to hear his answer. I asked him straight out in the quiet of a cold October night while stars flickered at me like bic lighters at a rock concert. I clenched my jaw after I asked so that my chattering teeth wouldn't drown out the answer. I stood there, the Rogue Catholic that He knows so well, and I waited. It wasn't long before He answered. He reminded me of what I know. We are here for a purpose and we do not stay one second longer than necessary once that purpose is fulfilled. When we leave we return to where we came from and we take with us the people who love us. They are present for us in actuality, and we are present for them in memory while they continue on with their purpose.

"Certainly," I responded to God, "you could have found some sort of extra credit project to keep Gary here longer."
"Certainly," God replied. "but I was busy keeping you from getting killed on the highway when that moron cut you off so I didn't get around to assigning it." I suppose I could have chided God for His failure to multitask to my satisfaction, but to be honest, He has done an excellent job of creating and keeping the cosmos running. I also got a bit of personal satisfaction knowing that both God and I think the guy on the highway is a moron.

My other family member is being lost slowly; a little more of her is gone every day. I am the person she asked to care for her when she could no longer manage for herself. Now I find myself wrestling with quality of life questions, medical decisions, investment and money management issues and I fear that the business of caring for Aunt Agnes leaves me too weary to enjoy what time I have left with her. I stuggle to answer questions like, "When will I stop recognizing my grandchildren?" and "Is there a way to keep me safe without placing me under house arrest?" For Agnes, her mind is failing before her body does. She is losing her way down Memory Lane.

And I suppose that is the place where I have journeyed to the most in the last couple of months. If you are on the road with Irish, then you are traveling along Memory Lane. My aunt, tiny and wrinkled; a gnome of a woman, animatedly described how my hair fell in long banana curls when I was four. "You were a darling," Agnes tells me. "I wanted your mother to take you into the city to be a model. You were a little Shirley Temple." We wind our way up from The Big Apple, north to Connecticut through trees aflame with color. "On Fridays in the summer this highway would be bumper to bumper," she tells me. "Everyone left for the Berkshires or the Catskills."

We talk about girlie girl things. She recalls the emerald green satin dress she made for me when I got married in 1982. She does not remember that marriage was brief. But I can't blame her. I barely remember being married then either. She tells me that I have always had a lovely figure. It would seem that Alzheimer's Disease has also erased her memory of me as a chubby chick! She tells me you can never start too early managing fine lines and wrinkles. "I'm not going to forget you." she tells me with determination. Tears prick behind my eyelids. "Of course you won't," I tell her. "and more importantly, I will never forget you."

50-50

My headlights pierce the predawn darkness as I wend through central Virginia horse country. Fog settles into low lying fields and some wisps of it linger in my sleepy head. It is not unusual for me to make these early morning treks but they are never fun. I am not a morning person. I yawn and try to switch the car over to autopilot. Then I remember that I didn't invest in that option 5 years ago when I thought buying a stationwagon was a good idea. I have changed my mind about station wagons. They no longer suit me. They make my butt look big. Next month I will hand the keys to this car to someone else and I will move on to a little two seater. No one's butt looks big in a two seater.

My cell phone rings and casts an eerie blue glow onto the dashboard. The time reads 5:02 and the caller ID says it is "Private." What it should say is "OnStar." I groggily answer.

His voice is chipper as he tells me that the woman at check-in told him he was 5 lbs over weight and must charge him a $50 penalty. I want to meet this woman! I would gladly pay her $50 if she could tell me I am merely 5 lbs overweight.

"I wasn't going to pay $50," OnStar says. "So I took out one of my boots and I'm taking it as carry on."
"You have 5 lb boots?" I ask sleepily.
"Yes. They are steel toed, you know."

No, I didn't know. To be honest, I don't pay much attention to guy footwear. Girl footwear is another story. I pay very close attention to that. I consider my boot collection as the horizen turns a deep purple and then dark gray. The seasons are changing. Day breaks later. It is almost boot weather.

Back home, I rummage through my closet until I find my favorite pair of boots. Black, 3 inch stiletto heels, knee high, and laced up the back, these boots all but shout "Naughty!" Paired with a peek-a-boo black lace negligee and they make a gal feel like she should be in a Victoria's Secret window display. Pull a calf length burgandy velvet dress on over that and "Naughty!" becomes a mere whisper. They are the perfect boots. But how much do they weigh?

I take them into the bathroom and hop onto the scale. I weigh myself holding a boot. Holy Cats! I never knew a boot could weigh so much! Obviously this is a 10 lb boot! I don't need to weigh myself without it to confirm that fact. I just know...

Time Travel

It isn't often that I have the luxury of traveling backwards through the time-space continuum, which is probably good considering the expense. Time travel requires a nice outfit, new shoes, my hair done, and make up. It also requires stamina. Gripping a steering wheel for 8 or more hours while I drive back through the decades is tiring. Having to deal with TSA if I chose to fly back in time is tedious. All in all, time travel is hard. But it's worth it.

The gin and tonic hummed happily in my veins and I smiled as I sank my bare feet into the grass. The Winner sat across from me chattering. It didn't matter what she was saying, her words were animated, happy, adolescent. Next to her was "her best friend from high school," his face as familiar to me today as it was decades ago. He did what he has always done, listened, watched, and grinned his Cheshire cat grin. The years spin backwards while tales of prep school are told.

Yes! This is how it was in 1978. The Winner and I blathering on and on, our best friend taking it in and smiling. It is possible to go back. Time travel doesn't require atomic powered Energy-To-Matter Converters. Time travel simply requires surrounding yourself with the people who love you and who remember what you looked like when you were a size 8.

Miracle on 34th Street

I never expected to be in midtown Manhattan on the fifth anniversary of 9/11. I simply headed due west on Long Island to I-95 south. I didn't consider that the shortest route would mean crossing through the heart of NYC. I am glad that I blithely traced my fingertip along 495 W without thought. Otherwise I would not have experienced my own miracle on 34th street.

Those who know me well, know I was born in Brooklyn. And those who have been with me when I'm fatigued know that I occasionally lose my hard earned diction and slip into the Brooklynese of my childhood. That is, I tawk funny. It's Noo Yawk Tawk. The nuns at St. Joseph's beat most of it out of me. Can you think of a harder way to earn diction? But they couldn't beat all of it out of me. And I suppose that's the miracle I experienced today; the unexpected recognition of self as I came face to face with a part of me I thought was left behind.

My car and I, used to the winding roads of Virginia horse country rather than the stop and go of city driving, creapt up 34th Street. The Empire State Building rose on my left and Macy's beckoned to me on the right. People of every conceivable type brushed past one another on the sidewalk. Their movements were economical and had a no nonsense air of determination that said, "I am getting to where I am going now, not later."

As I watched this urgent dance between the city dwellers, tourists, kamikazi cabbies, and unflappable bus drivers, I suddenly realized why I approach the world with an in your face, I'll grab you by the short hairs if you cross me aggression. I understand that some people find it hard to reconcile the highly educated world traveler they know me to be with the tough fighter that emerges when I feel threatened. There is no doubt that education, professional achievement, travel, and affluence all acted as a finishing school. But in the end, I am a Noo Yawka. If you peel away the veneer of refinement you find someone who can push herself through a crowd, fearlessly crosswalk, and deep down hates the BoSox with an irrational passion.

I am a Noo Yawka. I had almost forgotten that I am a Noo Yawka. But at 11:06 am today I sat absolutely still in the streets of New York City and I remembered. No cars moved. No horns honked. No one impatiently offered vulgar gestures. All of us sat there in silence, all of us New Yorkers, and all of us remembered.

Homecoming

The classroom is unfamiliar. Unlike the antiquated rooms I have taught in for the last two years, this one is large and airy, with a dual projection system that brightly displays my slides on either side of me. The room also has a sound system that allows me to play The Chieftains as the students begin to file in. They take their seats to the steady beat of a bodhran as it accompanies a clear Irish tenor who sings of the squid jiggin' ground. I watch as feet tap unconciously to the fiddles. This is my 10th year as university faculty but it is the first time that I have brought this part of me to the classroom. The music you are drawn to reveals who you are. I let the music introduce me in a way that my words cannot.

It doesn't take long for the students to realize they are in the room with a Celt. If the mass of red curls doesn't tip them off, the storytelling does. Today I tell the story of how I got here. They hear of undergraduate days spent in Washington, DC, of my struggles as a new clinician in Syracuse caring for 54 surgical patients alone, of zipping into a flightsuit and caring for the critically ill and injured while sacrificing my hearing to the drone of the rotor blades. They hear of doctoral work done in Cleveland, the land of dead NFL teams, and the circumstances that brought me to Virginia, the land of dead presidents. They hear of my committment to lead my discipline and my expectation that they will do the same someday. There are 81 of them. Some of the students are fresh from their undergraduate studies and have yet to step into a hospital. Others have been around longer than I have. I tell them that by the end of the semester I will know how each of them came to be in my classroom. They hear how the art and science of caring for critically ill people isn't what I do, it's what I am. I am both artist and scientist. The older students nod their heads. I assure the newbies that this will hold true for them someday.

I tell them that for the next 4 months we will be studying pathophysiology, and, because this is a graduate level course, I will be telling the story of man's battle with disease from the middle rather than the beginning. I tell them that the course amounts to a saga and that "pathos" comes from the Greek for "suffering." I am honest with them that they will experience their own pathos during the semester. The time will come when they will look at an inllustration of a biochemical pathway and curse me. I tell them that I am okay with that. I have been cursed before. I ask them to be creative in their cursing. Spewing vulgarities is uninspired. I promise extra credit to those who can curse me in ways I have not heard before. The students laugh. One brave soul asks if she can try that now. I yield the microphone and she comes forward to say something in what sounds like Russian. I ask her what it means. She blushes and tells me she cannot tell me. Laughter fills the room again.

"Have you heard it before?" she asks.
"Nope," I tell her. "You earned yourself extra credit."

And then I do as I promised. I begin the saga in the middle. Our hero is a eukaryotic cell and all eyes turn to the projection screens as I describe the hero's attributes. Pens skim across notepaper. The unfamiliarity of my surroundings fade away. I am home.

A look at my inbox

It's that time of year when college profs become swamped and run as fast as Penske trucks on the Bonneville Salt Flats. So, I'm going to cheat with this entry and let my readers write it. Here's a peek into my inbox:

Comment: “…she is an extremely talented writer, though not much of a speller.”
- from my editor in the mid-Atlantic when he recommended my blog site to other professional colleagues.

My Response: So trew!

Comment: “I am extremely disappointed in the low star rating you gave Missouri. ….we have highlights not mentioned in your journal. How about the Precious Moments Chapel?”
- from a reader and my favorite paramedic outside of metro St. Louis

My Response: Now I know where to book my next speaking engagement! I will come back to Missouri for a second look. By the way, I don’t think being afraid of the creaking tram at the Gateway Arch counts as giving your whole state a low star rating. Didn’t I rave about The Fiesty Bulldog?

Comment: “I write high concept but you live it. A contest for a free vacation that turns out to be help moving across the country? If you don’t write this one I will.”
- from a screenwriting colleague in central Virginia

My Response: The treatment is already registered with WGA(w). Keep working on your hermaphroditic priest story. It’s fresh, it’s funny, and best of all, it’s yours.

Comment: “If professors were like you when I was young I would have gone to college instead of becoming a rock star. I’m hot for teacher.”
- from a reader with delusions of Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction.

My Response: I’m sorry, Mr. Van Halen, but “Your hair makes me think of sex” is still the worst pick up line.

The World According to Irish.

You are welcome to come along with Irish On the Road for the next grand adventure. I have received a lot of email asking me to keep this space going so I will. I can't promise a daily blog of how I move through this amazing world, but I will try to report on it from time to time and make you smile. The world is a big place filled with incredibly cool people. I'm happy to share them with you...with pics! I have finally figured out how to do that! Stop in tomorrow to catch a few of them.
Slainte

The Lavatory Fairy

Arrh! Arrh! Arrh!
The sea lions greet us as our boat heads out into the bay. The Winner and I are seated on the top deck. Morning sun shines on our faces while Alcatraz rises from the rock island in front of us. I lean back and feel myself relax into the seat. I am not driving. It is wonderful not to be driving!

The Bay is busy. Sailboats race toward a finish line that I can’t discern. The tour guide tells the story of how the Golden Gate Bridge was built as it towers over us. Outriggers dot the water. The crews paddle hard towards us. They are also racing toward a finish line that I can’t see. We head back to the city to finish our tour by land.

The Winner and I climb to the top of a double decker bus. Again, I relax into my seat as the sun shines on my face. Some guy named Phil is driving. Yea, Phil! The bus threads its way through the tourist jammed neighborhoods. People fill the sidewalks. We drive through the craziness of Fisherman’s Wharf to the financial district, retail center, Chinatown, the Tenderloin (a quick peek at the city’s red light district – who knew that slumming it has become a tourist attraction?), North Beach and then back to where we started.

We decide to spend the evening in Chinatown. We walk beneath the ornate gate and drop in and out of shops filled with Asian art, fashion, and trinkets. A wedding celebration erupts on the street from a restaurant. Drums beat. Cymbals clang. Two dragons shake their huge ornamental heads at the crowd that gathers to watch them pass. We wait for the parade to reach the end of the street before heading into the restaurant.

The menu is extensive and written in unfamiliar kanji. The waiter tells me that I will not like the Yin Yan Fried Rice. He says it is has sauce over it. I order it anyway and tell him I don’t mind trying new things. The food comes out a little at a time which makes it feel like we are eating dim sum. The Winner enjoys warm saki while I have a glass of plum wine. The waiter is right about the Yin Yan Fried Rice. It isn’t that I don’t like it. It’s just that I like other things better. I guess that holds true for the waiter too. Bill paid, we head back to shopping. We drop into an upscale store that is filled with lovely art and antiques. I lose track of the Winner. My cell phone rings. The Winner’s number shows up. I answer.

“Oh my God!” she exclaims. “I’m in a pod bathroom up the hill. I am having terrible GI distress. It cost me a quarter to get in here.” I try to sort out what she’s telling me. She’s up the street? She paid a quarter to get into a pod bathroom? Does she need me? How do I find her?

She then informs me that her quarter has bought her twenty minutes. After 20 minutes the lights will flash and the door will open automatically. I’m speechless. I have no idea how to respond. I reply, “Thank you for handling this on your own.” It occurs to me that the bathroom is costing the Winner 75 cents an hour. Is this an expense I need to cover for her FREE vacation? I think it is. I will play Lavatory Fairy tonight and tuck some change under her pillow.

Night falls and we walk back to the hotel. Crowds still fill the sidewalks. They spill out of bars and bistros and mill about everywhere. I have to step in the street at times to get around people who are waiting to get into restaurants. I lose track of the different languages that I hear. Spanish, French, Vietnamese, German, and something that sounds like Pig Latin.

Oodgay ightnay. I’m ready to tuck myself into bed. Tomorrow the Winner and I head to the airport early. Once again I’m relieved to know that I won’t be driving.

California Dreaming

I’m not sure what time it is but it is early. I can hear the Winner breathing in the dark. I pull myself out of bed and fire up the laptop. In a few hours I have a business meeting and I need to prepare for it. I promised The Winner she could sleep in before her vigorous work out and I’m keeping to that promise. I work as quietly as possible. The Winner begins to stir as I slip out to my meeting.

For an hour and a half I sit with a professional colleague and discuss curriculum design, marketing strategies, fee structures, and my speaking availability. He is eager to have me on the circuit as soon as possible. “Where do you want to speak?” He asks. “Is there a particular venue that you want me to pursue?” I pause for a moment. I have just traversed the entire country. I have seen so much and I have a difficult time thinking of where I want to go next. I decide to take geography out of the equation. “It isn’t where that matters,” I respond. “it’s whom.” We agree that I will speak to audiences that are “significant” and that I will be working with “local luminaries” where ever my program is given. We part with a smile.

The Winner and I head to midtown. I pull The Big Yellow Truck up in front of the art deco apartment. A long haired barefoot man and his dog emerge. He lights a cigarette and eyes the now open truck. The Winner and I begin to off load the contents. The dog trots over to us to investigate.

I have only moved essentials across the country so there isn’t much to move inside. The long haired barefoot man, who has introduced himself as Dan, offers to help and I accept. His dog, Willow, continually smiles and trots in and out of the apartment as boxes are carried. I smooch on the dog happily. Another man with a Bohemian air about him arrives on a bike from the 1960’s. The fat tires and fenders remind me of when I was a kid. He tells me his name is Robert as he lifts the other side of the dresser I was wrestling with and helps me carry it inside. Robert lives on the third floor. He wears capris. Man capris. I ponder this odd fashion choice. California is a strange place but I like it.

The Winner and I have one last piece to move. It’s a sleeper sofa. Sleeper sofas are evil. They weigh a ton. They are uncomfortable to sleep on. But in a studio apartment they make sense. We lower the sofa out of the truck and Dan pitches in to get it into the building. We set it down in the hallway outside the apartment and ponder how we can get it through the narrow door and even narrower inner hallway. We take off the legs. We turn it on end. We go through every gyration possible. It does not fit. I cuss. I stomp my feet. I hauled this bad ass couch over the Rockies. It has to fit! It has to!
We consider bringing it in through the back window and we realize it will not fit that way either. We bring it back out to the truck and I borrow Dan’s phone book. I look up rubbish disposal companies. I finally find the dump and get directions. I can discard up to 900 lbs for $25. The dump is in a remote area west of town. I throw empty cardboard boxes into the back of the truck for disposal as well. I want to get my 900 lbs worth.

A trash hauler pulls up to the stop sign at the corner. The Winner says, “Maybe that guy will take it.” I trot up the sidewalk flagging down the driver. I offer money. I tell him the couch is right here on the street. All he needs to do is throw it into the back of his truck and take it away. He tells me it will cost me $20. Deal! He pulls his truck along side mine.
“She lied to me!” he tells his buddy. “It’s a sleeper sofa!”
“It’s light,” I tell him. “Two women were able to move it out of the truck easily.” They look skeptically at me. I double the $20 fee. The two men grab the couch, toss it in the back of their truck, take the cardboard boxes and pocket the money. Everyone is happy. I climb into The Big Yellow Truck. It is time to give it back to Penske.

“You took this truck WHERE?” the man behind the counter asks.
“I took it to Lake Tahoe. We took the route around the lake.” The man looks at me incredulously. He looks over at the Winner. She nods.
“We didn’t know what that road was like,” she explains. “There aren’t any signs.”
“I won’t even make that drive in a car!” The man says as he shakes his head.

We travel to San Francisco in a red Ford Explorer. Compared to The Big Yellow Truck the Explorer feels like a sports car. Still, I find myself missing it. It was thirsty. It didn’t want to keep all 4 wheels on the road. After 5 days it smelled like sweat. But it had become familiar. It did everything I needed it to do.

Evening falls and the Winner and I stroll along Fisherman’s Wharf. The carnival atmosphere charms us. We decide to eat waterside. The sun set over the bay as sailboats glide by Alcatraz. We flip through a tour book trying to decide how to spend tomorrow. Dinner done we drop in and out of shops picking up postcards. I step into a chocolate shop and move among the candy in a state of intoxication that has nothing to do with the bottle of champagne the Winner and I shared at dinner. I stand in front of the glass case and point out the little pieces of perfection I plan to take back to the hotel.

The box of Joseph Schmidt truffles sits next to me while I type. They are little pieces of art, almost too pretty to eat. Almost. I definitely will eat them. But not tonight. Instead, I will put them on my “Things to do tomorrow” list.
Slainte

Ramblin' and Gamblin'

Even God is still asleep when I pull myself out of bed and begin packing things up for the road. Today the Winner and I will cross the desert and navigate the Sierra Nevadas before arriving in Sacramento. Even with the extra hour I get from pushing back my watch to Pacific Time, it will be a long day.

The sun is just beginning to peak over the mountain tops when the Winner and I stop on the shores of the Great Salt Lake. The water is an odd teal and there is a fetid smell of rotting vegatation. Salt crystals wink like diamonds along the water's edge. We climb back into The Big Yellow Truck and begin the long straight trek out into the Bonneville salt flats. Wide plains of stark white stretch out to meet mountains on all sides of me.
I imagine myself flying along in a bright yellow two seater. Technically, I AM flying along in a bright yellow two seater.

"Oh my God!" I shout. "I'm going 90 miles an hour!"
"Oh my God!" the Winner exclaims. "Who would have known? Nothing is around to give you an impression of how fast you are going."

I back off the accelerator reluctantly. While there is a thrill to flying down the highway at high speed, doing so in a Penske box truck is insane. I am not insane. I am merely neurotic.

We pull into a rest stop and walk out onto the Salt Flats. The Bonneville Speedway lies 7 miles in front of us. The world's fastest land speeds were clocked there back in the 1970s. Someone more neurotic than I strapped themselves into a rocket propelled vehicle and hurled themselves at speeds topping 600 mph over the barren flats. I am unimpressed. I have gone 90 in a Penske truck.

The desert is cool today. The oppressive heat that I expected to greet me has moved east. The Winner talks to family in CT. Temperatures are 105. Here in the desert it is the low 80s, dry, comfortable, lovely. We fly by golden fields and mountain tops. Rock formations rise along side us like abstract sculpture. Midway across the state we pull into the Colt Inn and Casino at Battle Mountain. We play the slots and we win! The sound of quarters dropping into the tray make me laugh. Six dollars! Enough to buy a bowl of chili and a tall glass of iced tea. There is such a thing as a FREE lunch. An hour later The Big Yellow truck swings back out onto I-80 west. Next stop Reno.

The Winner earns her FREE vacation by reading me the newspaper. We chat about polygamy. We both agree that having extra wives would be handy. Maybe the folks who populated the Old Testament were on to something. Satellite radio follows us through the desert and we sing along to tunes from the 80s. The Big Yellow Truck sails along without complaint. My eyes scan the landscape and then drops to the dashboard. Oh MY! The Big Yellow Truck is thirsty. I tell the Winner that we will be pulling off at the next exit to get gas.

The next exit approaches and a small sign under it states "No Services." We roll along. Miles later there is a sign for Jessup but I don't see a town. I see desert stretching to both sides of me.

"Where is Jessup?" I ask the Winner.
"I don't know. It's not even on the map."

The next exit tells me that it is a junction point for Route 95. Route 95 is a dirt road to oblivion. There is no sign of civilization. Neither is there any sign of life for the exit for Naval Air Station Folsom. These exits don't show up on the map. I feel like I am in the Twilight Zone. I cross over one ridge of mountains, decend into a dusty valley, only to have to cross over another ridge of mountains. I try to coast on the downhill to conserve fuel.

"What IS the next town on the map?" I ask.
"Fenley. It's 36 miles from here. Has the warning light lit yet?"

The warning light has not lit but the fuel guage flirts with the red zone. Thirty six miles in a thirsty box truck crossing one mountain ridge after another. I think I can do it if I back off the speed a little and turn off the AC. We coast into Fenley and fill the tank. A hundred dollars later and a sigh of relief we are back on the road.

We thread through Reno rush hour traffic, cross into California, and turn south towards Lake Tahoe. The golden brown of the desert gives way to pine trees. I have missed the green. It has been two days of driving through sepia tone. The green feels like technicolor.

We drive south along the Truckee river as people in brightly colored rafts float past us. We pass Squaw Valley, once home to Winter Olympians. I find a place to park The Big Yellow Truck lakeside in Tahoe City. We stand on the shores of the mountain ringed lake and admire how the snow covered peaks are mirrored in the deep blue water. We put our hands into the water and shiver. It is cold and it should be. We are still high in the mountains. The late afternoon sun is warm on our faces and we congratulate ourselves for the easy ride through the desert. We are another easy 100 miles from Sacramento. The day has been a breeze.

We climb into The Big Yellow Truck for the final leg of our journey. We gawk at the magnificent homes and resorts that line the lakeshore. Tourists dodge us as we wend along the lake. We begin to climb up and away from the lake. The Big Yellow Truck gears down to haul us higher and higher. I do not expect this climb. The map shows a road that runs along side the lake but the lake has fallen away below us. Up we go. Up. Up. Ever up. The snow covered valleys that I admired from the distance begin to look like they are at eye level.

The road narrows. The switchbacks become tighter. Redwoods tower along side us. The view is magnificent. Signs pop up along the road admonishing us to "Share the road." Share the road? Of course we will share the road. What selfish person wouldn't share the road?

And then it happens. A sign tells us we are approaching Inspiration Point and just as I consider what sort of inspiration I could use The Big Yellow Truck becomes part of a high wire act. The road before me is 24 feet wide. There is nothing on either side. No guard rails. No stone walls. No towering trees. We are on top of the world with nothing but 1000s of feet of vertical drop on either side. I reconsider sharing the road. I decide to take my half out of the middle.

I can hear the panic in the Winner's voice as she exclaims, "Where are the guardrails?"
"I don't know. I'm moving toward the middle. Don't distract me."
"Stop talking!" The Winner shouts.

I clutch the steering wheel of The Big Yellow Truck and place us on the double yellow line. The car approaching me has the same idea. I ease right fearing that a wind gust will send me toppling down the mountain. We creep along and I am afraid. There is no margin for error. Rarely does the world hold moments for me where there are no margins for error. The adrenalin surges through my veins kicking my heart rate into over drive. I glance at The Winner. Her face is a mask of anxiety, the pupils of her eyes are dilated.

Slowly we begin to descend. The vertical drop remains to the left but there is mountain side again on the right. Signs warn us that the coming switch backs should be taken no faster than 10 miles an hour. Around the bend we go. Slowly. Oh so controlled. The next switch back tells us that the speed limit is 0.

"Does that sign say to sit still?" I ask The Winner.
"I think someone stole the "1." she replies.
I am disappointed. I want to sit still. I want to hand this Big Yellow Truck over to someone braver than me.

The Winner and I start looking for elevation signs. Seven thousand gives way to 6000. Six thousand to 4000. Then we climb again. Back to 7000. The Big Yellow Truck takes us from mountain peak to mountain peak. And finally we start to descend. Agonizingly slowly we roll downward and around one bend after another.

My breath still comes in short gasps when we see the sign that says, "Sacramento. Elevation 25 feet." Once again I'm traveling at 70 miles an hour as sports cars and impatient people fly by me, cutting me off, making me feel ungraceful. But at least I am no longer afraid. A Lexus cutting me off at high speed has nothing over the bicycle on a high wire experience I had in the mountains.

I finish my day with two double Bombay Saphire gin and tonics and then I crawl into bed. The Winner turns on the TV but my mind is full. I cannot process any more.

My last thought as I pull the plug on the day is that I will never forget this. Just as I will never forget my first kiss, or the moment I realized I have met my soul friend, or the first time a guy saw me naked, I will never forget the first time I crossed the Sierra Nevadas. And I know that I will do it again. And the next time it will be in a bright yellow two seater that hugs the ground rather than one that sways above it.