Wisteria Lane

It is good to be back in Boston, just in time for Thanksgiving. We are off to visit family - but first, I wanted to share this:

I spotted this unseasonably floral bicycle in scenic Somerville. It is a Batavus Old Dutch, in "head-to-toe" lilac. The pannier-basket is decorated with garlands of faux wisteria.
When it comes to pastel purple, the owner obviously follows the "more is more" principle - which I, for one, very much appreciate on dreary November days like today. (I wonder whether colourful bicycles could be used to treat Seasonal Affective Disorder, just like "light therapy"?)

Hooray for lovely bicycles and have a good Thanksgiving!

Schooldaze

When I began posting my yearly school pictures, I didn't know that the footnoteMaven was going to make "School Days" the topic for the next edition of her "Smile For The Camera" carnival...

Hmm, since I'm in Kansas right now, it seems appropriate to send you off to a post from two years ago... Past its Prime. Or perhaps two posts from earlier in .. - Hale Brubaker was a teacher at Crow's Corner School in Whitley County, Indiana in 1904 and his niece and nephew attended Scott School in Troy Township in 1914.

Well, I suppose, since this is supposed to be a post for a "photo" carnival, I should include one here... so here 'tis, a portrait of me drawn by a schoolchild in 1978 while I was on assignment at the Navy base in Yokosuka, Japan.

RAB GUIDE GLOVE REVIEW

Belaying Jess up Twin Runnels of theMoonflower, C.Popephoto


RAB GUIDE GLOVE REVIEW



By Craig Pope





I burn though 3-5 pair of gloves a season climbing on ice alone. When u log a lot of rappels, mixed pitches, endless gear and rope handling, gloves wear out.



There are three areas a glove has to excel: warmth, dexterity, and weatherproof. Naturally, compromises in warmth/weatherproof facilitate the dexterity used to climb M-hard, and visa versa.



When I'm out "cragging" mixed rock and ice, I almost always pack around at least a few pair of gloves, and the one pair I always make sure to have with me is the RAB Guide Glove. One pair took a beating fora whole year, including 3 weeks in AK.



With a warmer, more durable glove, comes the price of reduced dexterity. However, with the Guide Glove, the way RAB joins the insulation/liner to the outer fabric/leather eliminates slippage of the liner material - unlike the majority of warmer, thicker gloves. I hate pulling a glove off only to spend 5 minutes tucking the liner back into each individual finger. I climb PLENTY of hard, technical ice routes with these gloves on colder days. What little the RAB Guide Glove lacks in dexterity, it makes up tenfold in waterproof, breathable Event, a full leather palm and fingers for durability. I rappelled at least 350 ice/mixed pitches in the one pair last year, and only at the beginning of this season did I finally have to retire them...almost.



When climbing the Moonflower on the North Buttress of Mount Hunter last spring, I found myself wishing I had brought two pair of the Guide Gloves - especially when the other pair of gloves eventually became nothing but weight in my pack. From simul-ing lower angle terrain with knuckles constantly in the snow, to freeing M7 with a pack and managing gear, to being turned around by hours of mind numbing, hammering spindrift...my hands were sometimes cold, but dry and able to function on an 8 hr rappel in miserable conditions. All of my toes suffered frostbite - and I narrowly avoided amputation (tight single boots anddehydration the culprits), but there was no harm to my fingers.



When I can see the last dozen pitches in an Ice gloves future, it's always where the stitching of the grip material connects the sidewall construction, (generally fabric), And almost always on the last three fingers if not between the index and thumb... With the Rab Guide Glove, instead of stitching and sidewall construction, the pinky finger is wrapped on two sides with a continuous piece of reinforced leather - but, just the pinky finger is designed that way. I would love to c ALL fingers covered on three sides without stitching. When I did burn through some stitching on the two middle fingers, and the "almost retirement" consisted of sewing it back up, and continue wearing em!



Leather stretches, and glove insulation gets packed out. I was glad I bought my pair with a relatively tight fit. If I am climbing a route that demands a thinner glove, The RAB Guide Glove is always

clipped to my harness or in my jacket for belays and rope handling.






Always on the harness...photo Jenny Gaddy, at FA "licking Razorblades" banks last wk










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The 2 Hour Commute

For the past week I have been spending every day at Mike Flanigan's workshop in semi-rural Holliston, MA. The place is 25 miles from my house and I decided to experiment with getting there by bike. This took about 2 hours, which is a pretty long commute. I then tried using other modes of transportation. To my surprise, the trip ended up being the same in duration. Here is a comparison:




Somerville-Holliston, via Roadbike (a loaded Rawland):

I left the house at 6:30am. The route I planned was a direct one, which I figured would be low traffic this early in the morning. And it was, for the first, suburban leg of the trip. After that I expected the road to get even nicer, as it grew more rural. What I did not count on, was that it would also become narrower and busier. Riding through Wellesley, Natick and Sherborn via Rt 16 in the morning was terrifying; I would not recommend it. The winding road is one lane in each direction with no shoulder. Lots of trucks drive at high speeds. I tried to stay calm, kept my line, and hoped for the best - but I would not repeat this trip intentionally. There are alternative routes that are longer and hillier, but safer. Once I entered Holliston, things improved and the last mile of the trip was pretty nice. I arrived 2 hours after I left the house, including a coffee stop along the way.






Somerville-Holliston, via Brompton + Train:

I left the house at 6:30am and cycled to the closest T-Station. From there I took the subway to South Station in Boston and the commuter rail to Framingham. The commuter train takes about 40 minutes. There is WiFi, and I used it to check my email. I disembarked in Framingham, and from there it was another 6 miles to my destination. I cycled on the main road again, simply because I had no time for a more circuitous route. This road actually wasn't too bad, save for one chaotic stripmall-esque intersection, which I walked across. There are a couple of climbs on the way, but they felt fine in my bike's lowest gear. I arrived at Mike's shop 2 hours after I left the house.






Somerville-Holliston, via Train + Car:

When a snowstorm descended upon us, Mike suggested I take the train without my bike, and he would pick me up at the station in his van. Weakened from all the sawing and filing I'd been doing, I wimped out and did just that. I left the house at 6:30am and walked to the T station, then took the subway and commuter rail to Framingham. The train was late and slower than usual, as tends to happen in bad weather. When I arrived, Mike picked me up in his warm and cozy van. There was some commuter traffic on the drive from the station to his workshop. We arrived over 2 hours after I left the house.Later, I spoke to an acquaintance who commutes from Holliston to Somerville by car. In theory, the drive should take about an hour. But in practice, the traffic in the morning and evening is so bad that it takes at least an hour and a half each way, sometimes longer.






If I had to deal with this commute on a regular basis, I think my preferred mode of transport would be train + Brompton. This would allow me to remain self-reliant, to carry a huge amount of stuff in my front bag, and to get some work done on the train while still squeezing in 12 miles of riding in the course of the day. Every so often it would also be nice to do the roadbike trip, but it would mean setting off even earlier in order to do the longer, safer route. Driving for 1.5+ hours in a car each way would be my least preferred method, but might nonetheless be necessary in winter: I am not tough enough to cycle on those hilly, narrow rural roads in snow and ice, especially in the dark.




A 25 mile commute is not abnormal in North America; in fact it is probably fairly typical. It's hard to believe that 7 years ago I was doing it myself, spending hours a day in my car.Doing it by bike would have been unimaginable back then, an absurdity. Now? Well, to tell the truth, it did not feel normal commuting for that long on a bike. But neither did it feel normal any other way. It's just too long of a ride/drive to be doing twice a day, every day, out of necessity, in all weather conditions. That's my take on the 2 hour commute. I am grateful to not have one these days.

Brilliant Orange Colored Poppies

By a consensus of opinion of my readers, it has been determined that these are a variety of Poppies! As are these and these. Thanks to everyone for their input... and that's all of the flowers!! No more, at least until the next time ;-)









The "pod" after the bloom is done.



The dappled coloring comes from the bright mid-day sun. A cloudy day would have been much better for taking these pictures. In reality, they were the darker orange color all over, as in the first photo. Temple Square Gardens – Tuesday, June 7th.

Visitors Center

There was a visitors center at the end of the road to the top of the mountain. It has tons of information about Hurricane Ridge. We spent time in the gift shop buying souvenirs, and gifts for others, as well as myself. They were having a sale and it was a big hit with the customers. We had lunch at the snack bar. Then spent a goodly amount of time just enjoying the view from all angles. The parking lot was packed and there were a lot of people there, especially sense it was a Sunday, but it didn't seem that crowded as so many parks can get on weekends. And everyone there was enjoying themselves as much as we were. You would find yourself uuing and awing, and exclaiming over the view, the flowers, the grass, the mountains, the glaciers, the sky, or a passing deer with a total stranger standing next to you. I found myself watching a small child about 2 years old and his parents as they enjoyed the park. I, also, found myself sitting quietly by an elderly lady and neither of us had to say a word about how we felt at what we were seeing. I heard several languages besides my native American - Spanish, German, English, Canadian, Japanese, and others I couldn't put a country to.

New England Coastal Town X

New England Coastal Town X. You know the one. Narrow streets, saltwater marshes, dog-rose bushes. Windswept rocky beaches, icy currents. The natives distinguished from the tourists by their accents, the age of their boat shoes, and their ability to go in the water (watah) without flinching. Dilapidating beachfront properties, clung to for generations before ultimately being sold because money's run out or the siblings can't decide who keeps the house.



The developers from the Cityare good guys,thank God, not at all like those soulless predators who would have entire blocks of historical properties bulldozed for condos. Worshipful of the town's character, they only want to update, to improve. They landscape with native plant life (they've researched this; it looks natural and wild yet subtly colour-coordinated).Gingerly and respectfully they extract Jesus and Mary statues from front yards. They remove asbestos, replace yellowed wallpaper, tear down drop ceilings to expose natural beams, liberate hardwood floors. They gut those claustrophobic interiors with their myriads of tiny rooms to create an open concept layout. They install granite kitchen counters, stainless steel appliances, add extra bathrooms (really, a 6-bedroom house with 1 bath?...).



The updated properties are resold at prices that reflect the quality of labour, the professionalism of the interior design and the local sourcing of materials. They are bought by urban escapees. Eager to live in the quaint town for a fraction of the cost of their cramped city apartment, they long to improve their quality of life with fresh air and natural beauty and a sense of community. But the economy is terrible, and their ideas of local employment opportunities prove over-optimistic. Two years later they return to the City, keeping the property as a summer house and income-generating vacation rental.



A tiny commercial street runs through a narrow peninsula. It is home to 6 ice cream shops and 5 seafood restaurants, every single one of them with water views. The seafood is freshly caught, the ice cream home made. "There's a line, but it's worth it." A woman wearing a white beach dress and straw hat asks the high school girl behind the counter if the scallops are good. Unthinkingly the girl answers that she hates seafood, then laughs apologetically and promises they are excellent. The woman asks the girl where she is from. She replies that she lives down the road, pointing in the direction. The woman is ecstatic as she carries her food away to the outdoor seating area. She tells her husband about the exchange. "You know they're locals if they hate seafood!"



Around the corner is a string of cozy little shops selling locally made jewelry, fair trade clothing from South America, organic hand lotions, antique furniture, used books. The local Art Association operates a Co-Op. Paintings, ceramics, woodblock prints. A hand-holding couple discusses purchasing an abstract seascape. "I want the lighthouse to be recognisable without the whole thing being cheesy, you know?" They study several pieces that meet these criteria, tilting their heads.



There is a yoga studio, a book club, a historical society, a concert hall, a market stall selling fresh produce thrice a week on the Green. Artist residencies are held on a bi-monthly basis. There is a mannerism and style of dress that distinguishes the seasonals from the more casual vacationers and day trippers, establishing a hierarchy of sorts.



And then there are the locals, that elusive species. They work the counters, staff the hotels, rent out the boats. But mostly, those who remain are like ghosts. Sometimes you hear the accents at the beach, or a voice calling a child in "for suppah" from an open window.



New England Coastal Town X. I've lived in one and I've visited many, and now here I am again. Memories blend with images glimpsed from afar as I ride my bike past the rocky beaches, charming shops and impeccably renovated properties.