Pain Up; Rain Down: Riding the Blue Ridge Parkway

 

The climb to Thunder Ridge on Virginia's Blue Ridge Parkway is a smooth, steady, winding climb of 3,300 feet at five percent for just over twelve miles. I drove to the base of the climb on the James River and began the climb in bright sun; the temperature just over 90 degrees.

The forecast was for more of the same.  

That was true until the tenth mile. The sky to the east was bright and sunny. The sky to the west was suddenly gray.  Sprinkles began, but it was so bright to the east, I thought I could get to the top before it got bad.  

The sprinkles became light rain. The mountain to the east almost disappeared in haze.  Then with one kilometer to go, I heard thunder.  

Shit. I was too late.

I turned around and rode in increasing rain at down the hill for about a mile, then sheets of rain and crosswinds hit me.  I watched water swirl and eddy on the road in front of me.  I took off my sunglasses and tipped my helmet low so I could see.  I let myself roll for a while at 35mph then started squeezing the brakes. After riding slower for a while, I let the brakes go and went back to coasting in the torrents.  

Raindrops stung my face and arms when the wind turned and whipped toward me.  At one point after miles of descending I thought, 'At least there are no bugs!' Bugs buzzed around me all the way up.

I passed the turnoff for the ranger office and knew I was close to the bottom of the hill.  The grade lessened.  Then I was pedaling slightly uphill across the James River to the parking area.  I pulled up to the car, opened the door and emptied my pockets onto the passenger seat. Then I took the wheels off the bike, put it in the car (I have a 2001 Prius; the bike rides in the back seat; it won't fit in the trunk.) and stripped off my soaked clothes. 

I dried off with an old sheet I had in the trunk and sat on an old camouflage shirt.  It was so humid I turned on the AC and the rear window defroster. 

Tomorrow I am going back to Thunder Ridge.  The forecast is good and I want to get all the way to the top!

----

When I arrived in Richmond for a few days, I  searched on line for the toughest climbs in the area. A group called PJAMM listed their top ten climbs in Virginia.  Thunder Ridge was the longest. Here is their site.

Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil

Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil by Hannah Arendt seemed a very different book this year than when I first read it the first time in 2011.  Twelve years ago, I had never visited a Nazi Death Camp. I had not even visited a Holocaust museum. Since 2017 I have visited ten death camps in four countries.  The book was much more vivid in this reading. 

Since 2018, I have been a member of the Virtual Reading Group of the Hannah Arendt Center at Bard College. Over the past three months, I have listed to weekly 30-minute introductions of the chapters of the book by Roger Berkowitz, the director of the Hannah Arendt Center.

The book is a compilation of essays first published in the New Yorker magazine in 1963 in five parts.  Later in the year the essays were published as a book.

Arendt reported on the trial for the New Yorker and considered both her essays and the later book as a work of journalism. The "journalist" in this case was a philosopher of considerable renown and a Jew who narrowly and early escaped the Holocaust.  She was a refugee in France before finding her way to America.  

The essays and the book cover the trial and give background on the life of Adolf Eichmann as well as a country-by-country accounting of the Holocaust. Arendt makes clear that Eichmann's role in transporting Jews to death camps required the  cooperation of Jewish leaders to be as terribly effective as it was.  

In Bulgaria and Denmark, the Nazis got very little cooperation from Jews or the government and most Jews survived the war.  In the countries conquered by both the Soviets and the Nazis, the Jews were almost completely wiped out. Less than one percent of the Jews in the Baltic Republics survived the war. Poland was not much better.  More Jews survived in Germany than in the worst countries in the east.  

Eichmann was most effective in Hungary where cooperation by Jewish leaders made possible deportation of a half million Jews in less than a year.  Arendt makes clear that Eichmann was a mid-level Nazi bureaucrat with a talent for logistics who was able to move three million people to death camps. He was a horrible person who deserved death, but he was not a titanic evil person with a plan like Adolf Hitler.  

The waves of criticism that crashed on Arendt after the publication of the book had much to do with the portrayal of Eichmann as a shallow functionary rather than a personification of evil.  The controversy that began in 1963 continues today as evidenced by comments in the Virtual Reading Group from people who strongly disagree with Arendt on Eichmann.  Some of the discussion were heated (but polite).

The reading group is recorded and available in the podcast "Reading Hannah Arendt with Roger Berkowitz" hosted by Jana Mader, the Director of Academic Programs at the Hannah Arendt Center.

Twenty Guns: A Sign of Mental Illness?

 

A fire-proof gun safe for pistols, long guns and ammo

Available on Amazon...

A very smart friend just posted that the father of the 20-year-old who tried to assassinate former President Trump owns 20 guns. He thought that indicated Dad was mentally ill.  

If Dad is mentally ill, he is part of a mass psychosis.  There are nearly 400 million guns in America yet the majority of Americans don't own guns, so a large, vocal minority owns a lot of guns.  

Twenty is not far from average for an avid gun owner.  When I was deployed to Iraq, I asked soldiers I served with how many guns they owned.  I should have made a careful but the number that came up most often was sixteen.  They included soldiers of every rank, enlisted and officers.  

According to Pew Research, 32% of Americans own guns, just over 100 million people.  

The majority, 62%, own one hand gun. That's more than 60 million people.

More than 25 million people own three to seven guns. 

The top 14% own 8 to 140 guns.  The average of 17 guns was in line my informal survey in Iraq. That's about 15 million people who own an average of 17 guns, or a total of 250 million guns.  

If you combine all the multiple gun owners that group is more than 40 million people. Can 12% of the population be mentally ill?  Not in any sane definition of mental illness.  

The 40 million people who own multiple guns are part of a community in which owning many guns is normal.  Nearly all of them have jobs and are part of communities.  They made a choice the majority would not make, but they are not mentally ill.

Today, I talked to an 80-year-old guy who is a life-long resident of Lancaster County. He volunteers with community groups and has been part of emergency communications teams that help in disasters. He has five guns: two pistols, two shotguns and a hunting rifle. They are locked in a gun safe.  He is part of a community in which five guns is not even remarkable. 

 

 

Mundolingua: A Word Museum Paris

Near Luxembourg Gardens in the 6th Arrondissement of Paris is Mundolingua a museum of words: "Stacks of books and dictionaries share space with dozens of digital screens, the intimate exhibit spaces at once cozy and quirky. Words in many languages and alphabets adorn the walls, and, as you wander from the first floor down to the building’s 17th-century cellar, you are surrounded by languages at every turn."

   

Please follow the link above if you are interested. Better yet, if you get to Paris add ths odd museum to your list of sites to vist.

So Many Mennonites on Bicycles!

 

Last Saturday, I was riding between Leola and New Holland in Lancaster County. On that five miles of PA Route 23 I saw more groups of Mennonite men than I have ever seen in more than 40years of living in Lancaster County.  Every few hundred yards I saw another group of three to five guys in straw hats, suspenders and farm boots riding and talking.  

On  the way back I caught up to one group and asked why there were so many bikes on the New Holland Pike.  They told me I was seeing people leaving Horse Progress Days at the end of the two-day trade show/event/festival.

In a huge field on South Groffdale Road, south of Leola, were tents and displays of manure spreaders, tillage equipment, sprayers, and then the haying equipment--all designed for horse-drawn (and mule-drawn) farming. 

Over the two days ofthe event, 30,000 people came from all over the U.S.and Canada to see the latest in horse-powered farm equipment.  

Along with the bicycles were several pairs of Amish men riding high-wheeled scooters along Route 23.

The next day I rode the same road and saw a few buggies, but no bicycles or scooters.  I will have to wait until next year.  

 

Moving to Panama--For a Year

 

The Panama Canal

For the third time in my life, I will live in another country beginning on August 15.  My wife got a Fulbright grant to study abroad for a year, so I will join her in Panama City on the Pacific Coast of a very narrow country. She is going to study math and to teach in a community outreach math program (She is fluent in Spanish). 

While she works, I will make dinner and ride coast to coast! I have never ridden coast to coast before on the six continents I have visited, but Panama will be the place I make my first transcontinental ride from Pacific.  The distance is 75km or 45 miles ocean to ocean. A lot less distance than New York to San Francisco.

The last two times I lived overseas, I was a soldier. I carried a gun.  This time, no gun.  

In Iraq I had the gun all the time. 

In West Germany during the Cold War, I rode inside my gun. I also carried a sidearm. 

I have never been to anyplace between Tijuana, Mexico, and Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, so there are many places to explore.  Panama is a beautiful place from all I have read and heard, and the canal is a marvel of engineering.  So it should be an amazing year. 

In Terror of Ducatis on Sestriere: My First Climb in the Italian Alps

In 2000, I made the first several climbs up to the Sestriere ski resort.  It was a beautiful September day as I toiled the seven-mile climb. At several point on the way up, I was riding through avalanche tunnels--they are a roof over the road, open on the cliff side. 

It's dark inside the tunnels, not totally but dark compared to ride in bright sun.  As I rode through first tunnel I could hear the roar of Ducati race-replica motorcycles climbing between the turns, then the odd silence as they coast through the hairpins and roar to life again out of the turns. 

I have this experience before on Mount Palomar in San Diego county.  But there are no tunnels on Mount Palomar.  As the bikes got closer I pedaled faster, not that it would make any difference, but I wanted to get out of the tunnel. I had a sudden vision of the bike at the back of the group moving right to pass one of his mates then slamming into me.  

The roar went from deep rumble to deafening howl as the pack swung out of a hairpin and accelerated into the tunnel. The tunnel had about a six percent grade so the roar swelled as they approached, throttles wide open.  I put my head down and kept pedaling.   I could see the end of the tunnel. I hoped the roaring bikes could see me.  

Then it was over. The bikes flew past me in a line. Clearly they had passed many bicyclists on this mountain.  They shot from the tunnel into the light and disappeared. I continued to pedal, a little more slowly.  

Mount Palomar has many more motorcycles than any alpine climb I have ridden, but they are almost always single or in pairs.  They also are mostly four-cylinder high-revving Hondas, Kawasakis and Suzikis.  When they were near me in a turn, I could hear the best riders dragging the hockey-puck pad on their knee as they leaned into the turn at 45 degrees or more.  

Only on Sestriere did I have packs of motorcycles fly past. In 2005, three different packs flew past me on my way up. 

Usually, the excitement on these rides is descending and feeling the rush of speeding around the hairpin turns. On this ride, the biggest rush was the pack of Ducati race-replica motorcycles that shot past me on the way to the summit.

-------

On Tuesday, July 2, 2024, the Tour de France will climb to Sestriere then to Col de Montgenevre, through Briancon, up to Col du Lauteret on the way to Col du Galibier then downhill to the finish in Valloire.  

A Russian Journalist Defies Putin on War in Ukraine

Zhanna Agalakova Жа́нна Леони́довна Агала́кова

Journalist working at Russian Channel One until the War in Ukraine

Zhanna Agalakova has an Instagram page with stunning photos of Paris.  She lives and works in the city near Clichy. I followed her for several years, admiring her photos.  But one day the image on March 17, 2022, Zhanna posted a video of her cutting off her Первеу Канал (Russian Channel One) ID bracelet.  

She ended a three-decade long career as a journalist in defiance of the Russian invasion of Ukraine.  Her husband and daughter were with her in Paris where they now make their home.  Zhanna's career is outlined on a Wikipedia page.

I met Zhanna in 2013 at the Ig Nobel Ceremony at Sanders Theater at Harvard University.  Marc Abrahams, emcee of the ceremony and impresario of all things Ig Nobel, asked me to escort Russian and Japanese camera crews when they filmed. Sanders theater had very clear guidelines about the amount of time the crews could film. The Russian and Japanese crews were notorious for not understanding the restrictions, year after year.  

From 2013 to 2018, I escorted Zhanna and Boris her cameraman into and out of the theater.   In 2019, Zhanna returned to Paris where she had worked previously for Channel 1 Russia.  Then in 2022, she quit very publicly and began a new life and career. 

In 2023, Zhanna and I had coffee near Clichy. She told me about her break with Channel 1 and with Russia and President Vladimir Putin over the Russian invasion of Ukraine.  I had hoped to talk to Zhanna again this trip, but maybe next time.  

 

Fascists Fail in France! One Bookstore at Least

 

A very funny pair of neighboring bookstores is no more.  The fascist bookstore La Librairie Nouvelle went out of business in its posh location opposite Luxembourg Gardens at 10 rue de Medicis.  Until last month the fascists were located between the two shops of The Red Wheelbarrow English-language bookstore on either side of them: a children's bookstore to the left at 9 rue de Medicis and a general bookstore to the right at 11.  

In May, the fascists folded and Penelope, the quiet, determined owner of The Red Wheelbarrow leased the former fascist store and is renovating it as her new children's bookstore.  Penelope said they may lease the current children's shop to another bookstore. From my first visit in 2019 until my most recent visit, I noticed Penelope always had a selection of anti-Facist books in her window display.

If they keep all three shops, The Red Wheelbarrow currently has many books more than three meters above the floor, accessible only by ladder. They could certainly fill the space.  

While I was at Red Wheelbarrow, I saw a new book by Kazuo Ishiguro, a book of lyrics, which I will be reading on the flight to America. 

Last week The Red Wheelbarrow had an author event and book signing. When I first visited the store in 2019, I met Nita Wiggins, and American professor living in Paris who just published a memoir. She had an author event at The Red Wheelbarrow.  

Among its many fascist tomes, La Librairie Nouvelle displayed Le Grand Remplacement  by Renaud Camus.  The Great Replacement Theory that is at the center of the beliefs of Tucker Carlson and other American fascists was written by Camus in 1946. It has been a favorite of international Jew haters ever since.   

It seems strange that with fascism growing in popularity in France and across Europe that the fascist bookstore would fail now.  But Penelope told me 2017 that the clientele of La Librairie Nouvelle thought Trump and his acolytes were idiots. So maybe it is just intellectual fascism that is in decline. Pandering populist fascism is the preferred style.  

May fascists everywhere fall as easily as La Librairie Nouvelle.

Cool Hand Luke: "What we have here is a failure to communicate"

A few nights ago, I saw the 1967 movie "Cool Hand Luke" starring Paul Newman.  Several minutes into watching the movie, I was realized I had never seen it before.  I saw clips of the movie--I could remember Newman eating the last of 50 hard-boiled eggs. He ate the eggs in an hour in prison. The character Luke Jackson claimed he could eat fifty eggs in one hour.  All of the other inmates bet on whether he could or couldn't.

He could.  

For those who know the movie, that may be the most famous scene.  The most famous and still-quoted line form the movie is said twice by "The Captain" who runs the prison in rural Florida.

He says, "What we have here is a failure to communicate."  The Captain first says this when he puts the beaten Luke in "the box" after he was caught trying to escape for  the first time.  The next time the Captain says the same phrase, Luke is in the window of a Church waiting to be re-captured after this third attempt to escape.  After the Captain says, "What we have here is a failure to communicate" Luke is fatally shot in the neck by the prison sharpshooter.  

The movie has many funny moments. Paul Newman is funny even in the sadistic world of a southern road-gang prison. The movie is brutal and violent when it is not funny.  Newman's character Luke is a decorated World War II veteran with a silver star and a bronze star for gallantry under fire. But he has PTSD.

The movie opens with Luke drunk and drinking straight from the bottle. He is on a walkway between parking spaces in a southern town.  Parking meters mounted on 3-inch pipes lines the edges of the walkway.  Luke has a large pipe cutter. He staggers from meter to meter cutting the pipe and watching the meters drop to the ground. He doesn't rob the meters, just cuts them off.  After several sliced meters, he is arrested.  

In the military, in corporate offices and just kidding around at lunch, I have heard the phrase, "What we have here is a failure to communicate" and did not know its origin, until now.  

Swedish Emigres; Immigrants to Sweden

On Sunday I flew to Sweden, a direct flight from JFK airport NYC to Arlanda airport near Stockholm. I don't sleep on planes so near the end of the flight I was in the galley in the back of the plane talking to a couple who were flying to visit home.  

Johan and Alma are emigres from Sweden. They came to the United States in 2002 and setup a towing business in Vail, Colorado. Johan made a thriving business rescuing the cars of stranded skiers traveling to the Colorado mountains. They liked America and in 2010 applied for citizenship. That became a thirteen-year ordeal interrupted by COVID.  

Their daughter Emilia was flying with them. She was three when they arrived in America.  She went to a local preschool the following year and told her mother she would never go back to that school. "Everyone speaks Finnish at that school. Nobody speaks Swedish," she said. Alma assured her they were speaking English and she would soon learn.  The family spoke Swedish at home, but Emilia and her brother were fluent in English quickly.

The family moved to Jupiter, Florida, just before the COVID epidemic. Both Alma and Johan had bad cases of COVID but recovered and last year finally became American citizens.  This is their first trip to Sweden since becoming Americans.  Johan said he will be happy if he never sees snow again. Alma still likes seasons.  

The family has dual citizenship and breezed past those of us who are not EU citizens in the customs line. I waited ninety minutes for the first stamp in my new passport.  When I got impatient, I remembered the customs lines I walk past when returning to America.  

After I arrived, I ran into immigrants to Sweden from around the world.  At the airport train station, I got coffee from a women in a lavender hijab.  The next evening I got a pizza made by a Kenyan.  The following morning I got coffee from a woman from India.  

In the parts of the world that are free, immigration and emigration runs in every direction. People pursue the life they want to the ends of the earth.  On the other hand, no one is trying to immigrate to Russia, North Korea or almost any country ruled by religious dictators.  Freedom is its own reward.    

 

Lancaster to JFK Airport by Five Trains

 

Often, the cheapest direct flights to Europe fly from JFK Airport in Queens on the very eastern edge of NYC.  But that cheap fare and direct flight come with all the hassle and expense of getting to JFK.

The trip is cheaper for me and everyone else over 65 years old, than those not eligible for senior discounts.  

The five trains senior fares:

Amtrak Lancaster to Philadelphia:  $10.40

SEPTA Philadelphia to Trenton:  Free

NJ Transit Trenton to NYC:  $7.50

LIRR NYC to Jamaica Station: $5

JFK AirTrain to terminals: $8.50

Total:  $31.40 

The same five trains adult fares:

Amtrak Lancaster to Philadelphia:  $20

SEPTA Philadelphia to Trenton:  $9.25

NJ Transit Trenton to NYC:  $15

LIRR NYC to Jamaica Station: $5

JFK AirTrain to terminals: $8.50

Total: $57.75

Amtrak direct from Lancaster (or Philadelphia) to NYC is at least $45 often more than $70, today was $120.  Not the cheap way to go.  

How many direct flights go from JFK? Here is the FlightsFrom map.

Wherever you are going, have a great trip.

Apocalypse Now? Or Later...

Why are so many people obsessed with the End Times, the Apocalypse, with Biblical Prophecy, with the End of the World? It seems crazy. In some cases it definitely is crazy. Is it more crazy than those who believe a secular apocalypse is coming? Those who see a future destroyed by an environmental disaster, a nuclear holocaust, or a global pandemic are just as sincere in their belief of impending doom.  

And yet....

In a very real sense, each of us will have a small apocalypse happen to us. We all die.  

At the point of our own death, we are at Apocalypse Now. Whatever the afterlife is, we are in it the moment we are dead.  Whatever end awaits the world we inhabit now is irrelevant to those who are dead. So those worried about either a secular or a prophetic apocalypse will stop worrying once this life ends. 

There is a grandeur to apocalyptic belief.  The Greek root of the word is revelation in the sense of revealed knowledge known only to the special ones able to understand. Knowledge of the future delights us, makes us  feel special, even though no one really knows the future--read predictions from any era of human history for a catalogue of complete ignorance.  

But living through a real disaster, a foretaste of apocalypse, is never grand.  Accounts of survivors of disasters and war talk about the narrow focus that allowed them to survive. I have read several accounts of survivors of the firebombing of Tokyo in March 1945.  People survived who stayed low, made sure they could breathe and kept some sort of barrier between themselves and the conflagration. 

The near-death experiences I had are funny in remembering how very narrow my mental focus was. After a 75mph motorcycle crash in 1980, I looked at my knees torn open so I could see the ligaments and told the guy who ran to help me, "I have to get up and walk around or I'll be stiff tomorrow." He convinced me to wait for the ambulance. But I was right, I was very stiff, the next day, and for months.

The religious people obsessing about the Apocalypse are not going to like it when it comes to their planet. 

Stopping pandemic, climate disaster and nuclear war require good people who care about the world to take power and influence from the worst people.  Power shapes policy. Fighting for good government everywhere will slow secular disasters. Preserving and strengthening democratic governments allows people to fight for good causes.  For tyrants, a good cause is what they want. 

Taking power is a messy business. Those in power in democracies have to work with others, make compromises, and choose the lesser of two evils over and over again.  But good government is much better than any kind of Apocalypse.

Meditating in a Train

On a sunny morning, I sat near the end of a train to Philadelphia and meditated.  I was sitting on the north side of the train looking across the aisle through the south window.  Eastern Lancaster County farm country spread out in my field of vision framed by the horizontal window and the tall seat backs on the opposite side of the train car.  

In the guided meditation we were told to see life as a river flowing past.  From my framed perspective a very green world flowed past. Sometimes that world was nearly still, as when a field of young corn spread far out from the window with a red barn and white farmhouse a half-mile away at the far end of the field. 

A moment later the train passed between two embankments.  The trees and shrubs near the track were a multi-hued blur of many greens and browns and yellows.  Then the train passed over a bridge and the view was of the tops of trees in the creek valley below.

The view I saw, like a river, was in one way almost eternal.  The passengers on the first trains to Philadelphia from Lancaster more than a century ago saw trees and farm fields and barns and horses and fences spreading on either side of the train. 

And yet, those farmers and horses passed away generations ago. The trees along the tracks and at the edge of the farm fields are different trees than those lining the tracks in the 19th Century.  As with a river, things that appear the same are very different just under the surface.  Since 1994, I have made the trip to and from Philadelphia thousands of times.  Most of that time I would have thought nothing changed along those tracks.  But both the landscape and I have changed over those 30 years. 

As I write, 25,970 days of my life are behind me. The river of life keeps flowing in my life and in the world outside the window. The world changes, I change. My senses only connect with the world and my own physical life in the current moment. All the rest is memory and anticipation.  

I know life can change radically in a moment, and yet as long as I am alive, there will be a continuity, like a river, flowing.