Here are the maps for the ride. It’ll be a busy weekend!
As some of you may know I’ve been going to this boxing conditioning gym for the past two months. It’s been great! Today, I passed to the second level of workouts and thought I’d share the results. We do three sets of each activity, hit the heavy bag in between different exercises and take thirty second rests after each boxing round.
May 20, 2009
Half mile run: 3:47
Standing chest press: 10 lbs – 32, 22, 26
Sit ups: 36, 16, 12
Squats: 31, 37, 44
Pull downs: 31, 35, 23
Tricep push downs: 34, 23, 27
Bridges: 22, 34, 52
Chin up pull down: 41, 30, 39
DB shoulder press: 8 lbs – 40, 14, 8
August 19, 2009
Half mile run: 3:27
Standing chest press: 8 lbs – 52, 42, 44
Sit ups: 40, 40, 40
Squats: 62, 57, 58
Pull downs: 56, 55, 54
Tricep push downs: 47, 43, 43
Bridges: 77, 79, 98
Chin up pull down: 59, 58, 56
DB shoulder press: 8 lbs – 50, 43, 44
To pass to level 2 I had to get 40 reps for each set. 🙂
— Mobile Post
To be honest, I have no idea how I came across this book. Was it the title that caught my eye, or had I seen a friend mark it as “to read” online? Either way, I’m thrilled it passed into my life. The collection is full of beauty and delves into the worlds of blue collar life, masculinity, the ebb and flow of life in the Midwest. I find writing about poetry collections to be difficult. It’s a shotgun blast of poems and ideas, some of which are similar, but mostly they vary to a degree that it’s impossible to be general. Instead, I’ll point to some poems that stood out for me.
From “The Potato Eaters”
They unwrap the potatoes from the aluminum foil
with an odd delicacy, and I notice their still blackened hands
as they halve and butter them. The coffee sends up steam
like lathe smoke, and their bodies slowly relax
as they give themselves to the pleasure of the food
and the shop’s strange silence after hours of noise,
the clang of iron and the burst and hiss of the cutting torch.
From “Weather Report”
The divorcée coming from the laundromat
knows the cycles of laundry and despair:
back then, the towels they shared, but now a basket
filled with someone else’s underwear.
Wired tight on No Doz and coffee, I’ve cut iron
for two straight days and nights, and the white cowbird
drifting down the sun blurs through my rankled eyes
and the grease-smeared windows above my lathe. There,
toward the vanishing point where the cowbird dips
and hovers, is history: a ghost town, the least of all
It’s not laziness, there is effort
in remaining still
legs not locked but loose
arms rested but ready, unconsciously
shifting weight, absorbing shocks
like a sailor out to sea, or a commuter
jostled over steel rails
with a pulse steady as the beat
before a dancer springs from a pose
steps into motion as eyes
track the action, movements link moments
fractions of time forgotten in the grace
of limbs pushing against gravity
a gentle geometry no more complex
than the heart’s cadence
at rest, the rise of lungs,
or pupils dilating with the dark
as an afterimage flares from retinas
translates the inverted into the language
of our bodies, a cascade of nerve signals
Though I’d pass along this write up about Jack Ridl. He’s an inspirational teacher, and along with Susan Atefat Peckham was a great mentor for me at Hope College.
After days at the gym, playing tennis, and cycling I had one request for this weekend’s ride. Keep it short. When I scoped out the trek, it seemed like a nice route biking north on Midland and following it all the way to the park. Maps and reality do not always go well together. The road turned into highway with no shoulder, lots of traffic and single lanes. For the most part it was okay, but not that pleasant. The bright side was making it to the park; it’s a large amount of land and offers a lot to see and do. We biked around the lake, had flashbacks to the 90’s due to the number of rollerbladers and nearly hit a few small children weaving around like drunks on their tiny bikes. Be prepared for slow, congested riding on the trail around the lake. In the end, I won’t be repeating this ride again, the traffic is annoying and biking past strip malls, gas stations, and fast food places lacks the aesthetic I usually go for (giant Jesus signs and adult novelty shop billboards are a popular addition to most Missouri roadways). What made the trip exciting though is that I tested out my road tires. Speed rules!
— Mobile post
Meant to post this much sooner and actually have a compelling write up involving lightheadedness, jerks in a Porche honking and giving us the finger, the smells of fresh cut grass and diesel gas, never ending ascents, fast descents, spasmodic quads, beautiful weather, the taste of lemon-lime Gatorade on a parched throat, sprawling strip malls and gated communities, followed by downing water on my front porch, laying down in the sun with the breeze blowing and exhaustion solidifying my muscles. But all you get is this short description and a map of our ride. Next time will be better.
Thanks to everyone who recently chipped in some donations, you guys are awesome! I’m really looking forward to the ride, and will keep you further updated on the process.
This Sunday I revisited the Riverfront Trail. It was gorgeous weather, nothing like last week, and an all around fun ride. Biking from U. City we covered roughly 43 miles and crossed the river into Illinois. There are a few spots full of debris, and some ugly crossings over the roads, and this delightful obstacle where the path washed away. Made me think of Shel Silverstein and Where the Sidewalk Ends.
There’s an appeal to disappearing, a romantic idea of starting all over again, leaving a shared past for others to interpret and understand while new possibilities stretch out. What would it be like to step from the restraints of one’s identity? Kobo Abé approaches some of these ideas in The Woman in the Dunes, but from a perspective that is more Hitchcock or Poe than anyone else.
The novel opens with a middle age teacher out collecting insects for the week along an obscure coast of Japan. He’s told no one his plans in an attempt to cause jealousy among his co-workers and so that they will fall into the bland trap of gossip. Nobody knows where he has gone. He’s kept it from his mother, and from the woman with whom he is in a relationship. The teacher has decided to search this area for insects because it is remote and he has also developed a theory of the shifting nature of sand, which appeals to his world view. It’s along these dunes that he discovers a village in struggle with the sand. The people are poor, isolated, and mistrustful. The dunes threaten their small village and pile around the perimeter. Looking for shelter, the teacher is taken to a place where he can spend the night. The night turns into days and weeks.
The survival of the town depends on these homes beyond the perimeter where the poorest villagers live in the bottoms of steep bowls shaped from the winds. Each night the men and women must dig out the sand while the villagers haul it up. The teacher has become a slave. He resists, he plots his escapes, he lashes out at the woman with whom he lives and questions his life and identity.
From a creative perspective, this is an interesting novel. As a fan of Haruki Murakami, I wondered if The Woman in the Dunes influenced his writing at all. Following the vein of magic realism or the bizarre, it is an easy progression from writer to the next. Granted, this is the first novel I’ve read by Abé, so my ideas may be completely unfounded. Full of tension and terror, the reader begins to question what their own actions may be in similar situation (think kidnapping alone, and not kidnapping and life living in the bottom of a strange, shifting, dune village). The writing is not full of beauty, but this may be because it is a translation. It is a quick read though, and if you are looking for something a little different, this book will provide a haunting narrative.