Cycle Freedom

June 16, 2014

Greetings from the saddle,

“It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best….”

Ernest Hemingway

Somewhere in the collections of sepia toned memories scattered among my family there is a picture of me sitting on my first bike.  I am wearing a cowboy hat.  I am smiling. 

You might guess I am smiling because I was wearing a cowboy hat, or because it’s my birthday, or maybe because I was told to smile for the camera.  Fifty some years later, I can tell you exactly why I was smiling.

I have only owned a handful of bicycles in my life, besides the one in the picture, the one with training wheels on it.   There was a Huffy, a Sears Free Spirit, a Schwinn and a Motobecane.  And this other one.

Each one represented something that still resonates with me.  A progressive measure of freedom.  From the first bike I felt it.  I knew that the first one would take me down the sidewalk, maybe around the block.  And it made my heart soar.  And I smiled.

Bicycles led to some of the most adventurous, inspirational, breathtaking moments in my life.   Each bike I had took me a little farther from home, and deeper into those experiences, since every mile that passed put me more on my own.  Those adventures are carved into me, they are a part of my DNA now.

Cycling has led to friendships, some passing, some lifelong.  The company of a partner riding down the road, talking, singing, remembering, creates deep bonds.  The people I have met along the road is the basis for how I feel about humanity as a whole, helped form my attitude toward others, and my philosophy about my role in life.

Bicycles introduced me to tools.  My first connection between man and mechanism was tweaking on the parts of my bike that needed my attention.  It has always been a partnership since then.  Even when I don’t know what I am doing, I feel a sense of competency when I pick up an 8mm open ended wrench.

I have one other bike, my Specialized. It is in the garage right now, waiting for me to release it to its full potential.  Maybe waiting for me to find mine as well.

I have very few possessions I care a lot about, but I love my bicycle.  It was an extravagant purchase, though I stopped thinking about what it cost the moment I rode it for the first time.

For a while it has been suspended from the ceiling of my garage, a minor sin.  I look at it most every morning, fooled myself into admiring it as a piece of art, a striking blend of symmetry and color. 

Yesterday I gave myself a Father’s day gift. I lowered it from its place, topped off the pressure to 110 pounds in each tire, batted away a few cobwebs.  I wheeled it into the sun, listened to that soft click of the freewheel, and felt something in my chest.  As soon as I swung my leg over the saddle, I smiled.

It is a symbiotic connection.  The bike is inanimate without the rider.  It has been invested with energy but that remains dormant until the pedals are turned.  The rider is made into more because of the bicycle; the power in the legs and arms are transformed through the gears and wheels into greater speed, greater distance, and a new perspective.

My bicycle is beautiful.  I admire its lines, the graceful curve of the frame, the rake of the dropped handlebars, the perfect geometry.  I love that it works exactly as it was designed.  The precision of the derailleurs, the exactness of the brakes, the tight responsive feel of the frame as I drive it along the road.

I pointed the front wheel west, and glided out into the fields and trees and past the big white dog and out into the open land.   The road unrolled in front of me like grey ribbon, urging me toward something.  The hum of the tires, barely touching the blacktop, the whir of the spokes through the air, the whistle of the wind past me.  My body working in synchronicity with the machine, a familiar connection that took me back to every other bike I’ve ridden.

And over the handlebars, looking at the road stretching ahead of me, I got the same feeling, the lift, the exhilaration that I felt on that first bike.  And the next.  And the next.

The excitement of freedom.

Not escaping, not running away, just pure joy in going, exploring, seeing, being.  Not separated by the glass of the car or the metal tube of the plane, but in the world I have been destined to be a part of.  Rolling over the contours.

Under my own power, gliding through the beauty put here for all of us.  In it.  Soaking up the sun, breathing in the fresh smell of the growing things, the wind cooling the sweat on my skin, the muscles and lungs and fingers and eyes all meshed with the morning.

Ahhhh.

Hope this finds you smiling,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Auto Revolution

June 9, 2014

Greetings from the revolution,

“Simplicity is making the journey of this life with just baggage enough.” ~ Charles Warner

One of the more popular science fiction themes in literature and movies is framed around the concept that at some point we will develop technology to such a degree that the machines will take over.

It is my contention that this is already in progress.  But the insurgence is not coming from the direction you think.   

Yes, computers are steadily becoming more powerful and pervasive, and the concept of artificial intelligence is moving from fantasy to possible.  But that potential is still beyond the horizon.

The machines you have to worry about are in your driveway.   We are already working every day to support them.  Passively, imperceptibly, these machines are edging toward controlling our lives.

There are about 250 million cars registered in the U.S., presumably driven by the approximately 200 million drivers in this country.  This does not count the self-driving cars that Google is working on.  Which means that we already outnumbered.

There was a time when even a Person of My Limited Ability, (PoMLA© is a registered trademark of Wordsmith Inc.)  could do the required maintenance and repairs on the family car.  Open the hood, get out the wrenches, tweak and poke until things sounded better and then get back on the road.

Now, if there is an issue with our cars we have to take them to the local High Priest of Auto Repair.  He hooks them up to another machine which forms a diagnosis, and then through a mysterious method which we are not allowed to see, the car is healed.  In turn we leave an offering for the High Priest so that he may later purchase a large boat.

I have read estimates that an average Joe spends about $10,000 a year to operate a car.

I did some easy math (see PoMLA©) and currently we are spending $2,500,000,000,000, just to drive around each year.   Two and half trillion dollars.  Not counting road taxes and the cost of building bridges and parking ramps and speed bumps and painting parking places on blacktop all of which gets passed along to the American consumer somehow.

So if you were working 40 hours a week, the first $6.25 per hour you earn goes to paying for your car.  The average driver logs about 15,000 miles each year.  More than half of the miles we drive, ironically, are to our jobs.  Where we work to pay for our cars.

I have had lots of cars, some of which I loved like family.  Cars have always represented a piece of freedom.  The ability to go wherever was needed or wanted.  The potential for exploring, adventure.  I have lots of great memories of the windows down and music up, nothing but open road in front of me. 

And I am not against cars or owning things.  But once in a while I wonder if that relationship is upside down. 

In fact we are working for all manner of machines.  We put in overtime to make some money so we can buy a new lawn mower, or a washing machine, or microwave, so that our lives will be easier.  And then we work some more to own a bigger mower, or a newer furnace so our lives will be easier. 

Every utility bill is a statement that says: “You worked a full day to pay for this electricity, produced by a giant machine somewhere, and brought to your house so you can run the other machines.”

I am not a Luddite, and I don’t foresee myself minimizing my technologically saturated life by much.  I like having the option to hop in my car and zoom to the store or go visit someone.  I estimate that it would take about four hours to walk to work, so even with the prospect of another trip to the Auto Repair Altar, I have no plans to trade in my car for eight hours of pedestrian commuting each day.

So with the convenience and the freedom comes a price.  And there is no sense in kidding ourselves about how we pay that price.  But don’t despair.  We are not slaves to our possessions unless we allow that to be true.  We can leverage the modern convenience to provide us with a lifestyle that is more fulfilling, safer, more comfortable.  If what we are trading is time, then it’s up to use the time we gain to our best advantage.

Like so many things, it is a question of balance.  We don’t need a computer to provide that.  Even a PoMLA© knows what to do.

Hope this finds you riding a bike,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Blue Jeans

June 2, 2014

Greetings from beneath the 501,

It’s interesting to look at the important social questions of an era.  Last week, perhaps, was not the best time to look for one, in case you got stopped by the wrong question

There was a time when you bought a pair of jeans and it was like beginning a relationship. 

Before there were thousands of choices from any one brand of jeans.  Before they were sized and lifestyle categorized.  The time just after jeans were worn exclusively by farmers and railroad workers, and right before they became high fashion.   That time.   There has been all manner of phases to tempt us to own more pairs.  Acid washed. Stone Washed.  The torn jeans.  Slim cut, boot cut, low riders, bibs.  Multiple pockets, brocade, embossing, leather accents.

Before all of those choices, there were just jeans.  Or ‘Levi’s’ as we called all blue jeans, including Lee and Wrangler’s. 

When you bought jeans they were so stiff that trying them on was like pulling on cardboard.  If you were not careful you would lose a layer of skin.  You would walk stilt legged to the mirror at the Yankee store and stand there trying to imagine what the jeans would eventually look like. You knew they would shrink, but how much and where?  You knew they would relax, but could you survive until then?  And then you just gambled.

Washing your blue jeans was the next phase of the relationship.  You would learn if this was going to work out or not. 

The first several times you washed your jeans, they had to be alone, since they turned the water blue.  When they seemed to be about the right color, you could put them in the dryer.  After they came out of the dryer, they would hopefully be approximately the size you were hoping for. 

Humiliating side note.  When I was a boy, my mom would buy jeans for me, a little bigger than needed so I could grow into them.  The pant legs would be rolled up, and the waist cinched with a belt to avoid tripping or losing my dignity in some other way.  It would sometimes take a year to get to the point where they fit in something close to normal.  The first twelve months of wearing jeans I looked like I inherited pants from my grandpa.

Even More Humiliating side note: I had a pair of jeans that I was growing out of, so they were ‘floods’; a little too short in the legs.  My mom bought some groovy fabric and sewed it on the cuffs to extend them.  Just to make them more fashionable, (so I wouldn’t be embarrassed) she put in a matching panel on the sides of the legs to give them the ‘bell bottoms’ all the kids wanted. 

I remember reaching an age when I bought my first pair of jeans with my own money.  It was a rite of passage.  I knew that from then on I would be master of my own destiny.  No more iron on patches over worn knees.  No more groovy cuffs.

You don’t own a pair of jeans as much as you create a partner.  After the initial breaking in phase, the jeans begin to find how to settle on your hips, or form to your backside, or where to drape over your shoes.  They know you need a little room to bend at the knee, or that space around the waist that allows you to lean over without cramping your breathing style.

Jeans were made to get a little frayed around the heel.  The knees fade where you have been changing the tire, playing on the grass, or begging for forgiveness.  The seat softens from sitting on the porch, the swing, the bumper of your first car.  The pockets sag and loosen just enough so you can dig out your last quarter.

And in the relationship, there would be a day you had to put them in the washing machine to shake loose the grass stains, the rust mark, the grease from where you wiped your hand changing the tire.  And each time they came back to you from the dryer, they held on to you in a warm hug for a while.  Then there was a brief adjustment as they got to know your body again, and then you were in sync.

And it seemed you never wanted to say goodbye to your jeans.  The knees gave out, the waistband separated, a seam split, and you patched them up and held on.  Maybe they became shorts, and then a purse, or you used them to patch something else, and then one day they just were gone.  And you started a new relationship with another pair.

Last week the question came up: “How often do you wash your jeans?”    Levi’s CEO Chip Bergh suggests that you don’t need to wash them; ever.  That’s what elevated the question to ‘important social issue’ status.  Perhaps.

It is a strange question, in part because it’s never been asked.  There are the purists who say never wash the denim.  At the other end are those who cringe at the thought of all that bacteria clinging to jeans that have been worn and not sanitized.

You may not have already entered this national dialogue, and perhaps that saves you from thinking about a silly question.  (If you want to jump in, answer my survey question here: https://www.surveymonkey.com/s/VYB8MV7    Results will be on my blog post  )

 I have an opinion, no surprise since I’m writing this.  I think blue jeans are meant to be washed as part of the relationship.  How often?  You just know.  It’s like knowing when you need to put on a sweater, or adjust the seat in your car, or loosen your belt.

Or sometimes your mom tells you. 

Hope this finds you waiting by the dryer,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Memorial Day

Greetings from the pact,

It’s too easy to forget this kind of obligation.  You didn’t sign any contract, never saw any details, the expectations were never explained to you.  It’s complicated that way.

But the contract is there.  It’s not written in expensive legalese on certified documents, witnessed and notarized, made official by affixing red wax seals, or embossed stamps.

But it is a binding compact.  A deal. 

I have figured out that the contract is easy for most of us to forget, ignore, and worse, to violate.  We have been separated from the reality of it.

It’s harder to ignore the contract when your Dad was in the military, or your brother is over in Iraq, or you live just outside a Marine base or a cemetery.  Or when you are in line to get breakfast.

When I met Travis Mills I was in line to get breakfast. 

I introduced myself and met his father in law and we talked while we waited.   Travis makes a significant first impression.  He is busting with life.  He is brimming with energy and enthusiasm, even in the most mundane moments.  He looks at you like he can’t wait to tell you something.

“I’m just a regular guy trying to get by.” he said to me, a humble way of deflecting words like ‘courageous’.   He has a smile that makes me envious.  Whatever is bubbling inside him is bigger than any challenges that have come his way. 

Not many soldiers survive if they are standing on an IED when it explodes.  Even fewer survive if the explosion tears off their arms and legs.  From the war in Afghanistan and Iraq, you can count those survivors on one hand.  Travis is one of those five.

I have talked to Travis a few times now and the impression is the same.  He feels like he is incredibly lucky.  Blessed that he survived to raise his daughter, Chloe, and spend the rest of his life with his wife.  Lucky to live out what he believes is his purpose.

The doctors told Travis it would take two years to get to a point where he could function without his arms and legs.  Clearly those standards were set for someone else.  He devoured the therapy, strapped on his new arms and legs, and clawed his way back into his life.  He has been striding forward every day since.  The courage he shows honors what he has been given, and honors the other side, what might have been.  The fate that was dealt to other soldiers who won’t come home to raise their daughters.

We have this compact to remember them.  The people who stepped up, for whatever reason, and put themselves between us and harm.  The ones who understood the risk and took it anyway and didn’t live the rest of their lives.

There will be flags fluttering in cemeteries, in parades, in windows, on cars.  More of them than usual today because many of us want to remind ourselves and our neighbors about the deal we made.

These people who made the deal with us. They jump out of planes, and sit in dangerous holes, and walk on roads filled with devices aimed to kill them, and they wait and wait.  They teeter on the edge of the blade, knowing that today could be the day it takes them.

Travis was just doing his job. Third tour in Iraq, he was leading his men in an advance position, on a road that had already been swept for mines, and he set his pack down on a bomb that was designed to turn him into someone we honor on Memorial Day.

But we have gotten better at saving the heroes on the battlefield, and the result is this: ten years ago a guy like Travis gets shredded by a mine, he doesn’t make it home alive.  He becomes one of the millions who we remember today.  But maybe not every day.

So Travis continues to serve us. 

He reminds us to remember the vets who come home injured and maimed from battle, and help their families too.  He inspires other men and women who come home broken.  And he serves to remind us of the men and women who didn’t make it. 

The contract is written in our memories of those we loved, and those we respect, who served on our behalf.  You see the words in the flag, carved on headstones, listed on monuments.  You get the intent of the covenant every time you see someone in uniform salute as the flag goes by.  You would feel it if you listened to Travis Mills tell you why he went back for a third tour. You know what the deal was.

It says that we will honor the memory of those who died in service to our country.  We will respect their sacrifice, their gift to us, and pay our part in return.  Today is a day when the contract gets unrolled where we can see it, but it’s up to us to live up to the agreement every day.

Hope this finds you living up to it,

David

PS: To know more about Travis Mills and what he is doing to make a positive difference for others, please visit his webpage:  http://www.travismills.org/

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Hay Fever

May 19, 2014

Greetings from the innocent bystander,

There are very few elements of nature that are without a purpose.  For example, in spring some people are tempted to complain; it’s not summery enough, it’s wetter than last year, the sun comes up at odd hours.  Nature provides pollen to give people something to take their mind off the spring conditions.  Instead they can think about sneezing without too much loss of dignity.

Hay fever is rampant this time of year, affecting the majority of people with symptoms ranging from watery eyes and sneezing and congestion, but ironically no fever. 

I have not thought at all why it is called ‘hay fever’.  The name seems odd now, considering its feverless effects, and since many of us live in largely hay-free environments.   The name does produce an image: those big mounds of infectious hay, off-gassing all manner of fever inducing clouds.  Or am I thinking of straw?  On more than one occasion I have been corrected about ‘hay’ versus ‘straw’, but to be honest, I still don’t know which is which, except that there is no such thing as ‘straw fever’. 

It’s a well-known fact that hay fever can cause extreme digression.

There was a time when I could say I had no allergies.  As a matter of fact, I did say that.  I might have even said it with a certain smugness.  I may have felt that my impervious to such weaknesses was my own doing, a product of clean living and eating the right food, exercise and an ascetic lifestyle.  Yes, that might have seemed smug.

I did not know that perhaps one might develop allergies later in life.  I thought, in my naïve earlier existence, that since I didn’t sneeze in spring perhaps I had been given a genetic pass.  I had a post nasal drip exemption, an immunity passed on from the Highlands of Scotland where my ancestors were burning peat to stay warm which perhaps altered their DNA in some haggis induced pollen resistant mutation.  You can see why I had such confidence in this line of reasoning.

Spring explodes, intent on reproduction, and man is collateral damage.  We are minding our own business, our highly developed brains perhaps engaged in whatever occurs to us in spring, and we are hit by the fallout of a far inferior organism and turned into red nosed, weeping beings. 

For some of us, (I may now include my formerly smug self) the effusive spring effort brings on cold-like symptoms, which we do not deserve because we have been obsessively washing our hands all winter. 

It’s not just pollen of course; I understand that people are allergic to a variety of spring things. The irritants can come from all manner of plants, including flowers and trees and grasses other botanical things I don’t know the names of because I didn’t pay attention in school, thinking I would never need to know about stuff like that because of my youthful invulnerability to hay fever.  Suffice it to say, there are scores of spores to invade our pores when we’re outdoors doing our chores.

This onslaught causes what doctors call ‘Allergic rhinitis’ so they don’t have to explain the whole ‘hay fever’ dichotomy.  The medical world has developed a cornucopia of drugs to combat the symptoms of rhinitis.  These drugs have a myriad of side effects which ironically include ‘fever’. 

I know that scientists say that the spread of pollen and its cousins is a method of plant propagation.  But I suspect that in the big plans somewhere it was designed to have an impact on some other living things that otherwise might take arrogance to new levels. 

I will take my dose of pollen with good nature and accept that I am a flawed and imperfect being, susceptible to unflattering mucus and red nose.  I will try to concentrate on what good is brought about by spring and all of its flowering, and not too look too comical while sneezing.

Hope this finds you humbled,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Balance

April 28, 2014

Greetings from the vestibular,

Four feet, eight and half inches apart.  Twin ribbons of steel tethered by beams of wood, just far enough apart to discourage trying to leap from one to the next. 

Among the places I explored during the first decade of my life, there was something particularly fascinating about train tracks.  Some of it was where the tracks wandered; lonely stretches of woods, concrete overpasses, tunnels, bridges with interesting history.  Some of it was the trains that passed by. The inner hobo in me tempted by the possibility of hooking a ride in an empty boxcar.

Summer morning, pushing through the damp weeds, crunching across the rock apron that split the right-of-way, and then stepping between the tracks.  Walking awkwardly on the ties for a bit, and then, after a glance back to make sure there were no trains visible, placing a foot on the rail. Then the other foot.  Then wobbling a bit, and finding the balance.

There was something almost hypnotic in the movement.  I could walk for a mile, arms out, teetering on the rail, tongue set firmly in the corner of my mouth.  One foot in front of the other, not always a graceful form, but a functional one.  Suspended a few inches from the earth by the steel, held in place by my own balance.

Balancing.  I tried walking along the metal handrails going down to the football field, or the top piece of the chain link fence that bordered the school.  Glided along the ridgeline of the houses in my neighborhood in late night adventures.  I like the sensation of focusing on balance; harnessing the senses, concentrating the body’s resources, to keep from tipping over.

Balance in the human body is a remarkable thing.  Just the act of walking is a product of balance.  The posture, the coordination, the combined effort of muscles and tendons, big toes, the eyes and the inner ear, cooperating to keep us upright.  It’s a miraculous confluence of effort, which seems automatic, unconscious, and the result is remarkable.

And like a lot of miracles, it’s easy to take for granted.  Ask anyone who has had vertigo. 

Most of us are not challenged to walk a tight rope, or balance along a railroad track on a regular basis.  Our balancing is more routine; standing, walking, climbing stairs.  It is easy to forget that walking across a room carrying a tray or setting off on a ten mile run is a result of a complex synchronization of a myriad of mechanisms and systems and tissue and bone that allows us to be upright.

Which leads me to another kind of balance.

In each of our lives there is a blend of activities that make up the mosaic of our days.  Responsibilities, challenges, difficulties, the ‘must do’ aspects of our lives.  There are chores and taxes and distractions and setbacks.  We all have chunks of time that get absorbed by the tedious, the unpleasant, the frustrating and the mundane.

And that is balanced by the fun, silly pastimes, pleasurable activities, or idle moments of rest.  There are the hours we spend that are inspired by passion. Some parts of our day we give to others because it brings us joy.  We find time to do what we love, or what enriches our life. 

The same with people.  Some are treasures; close friends, loved ones, cherished family.  People who smile at you, and those people who make you smile just thinking about seeing them again.  And of course there are people who have a negative impact, who leave you gritting your teeth or shaking your head, thankful that you have others in your life to give it balance.

It’s this balance that makes it possible to endure the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’.  Knowing that your day will have its moments of challenge, and also relying on the joys to lift you up, to maintain your equilibrium.

But the balance cannot be taken for granted.  Like walking along a single train track, it requires attention, focus.  When you lose balance the results are not always dramatic or catastrophic, it can be very subtle and that can be worse.  Losing your balance can be insidious.  The positive in your day can slowly be absorbed, or overshadowed.  The pleasures can be eaten up by the struggles.  Until one day it dawns on you that you are straining to stand upright because the internal scale has toppled to one side.

And so it takes commitment to keep the balance.  To purposely find the parts of your day that will give you the strength, the bearing, to keep from falling over.  It may be laughter or prayer or a call from a friend. It may be a long run or a hot cup of good coffee.  It may be reading or playing with children.  But whatever lifts you up, it is important to find it, use it, protect it. 

It’s Monday.  There are already a host of things waiting to pull you off your tightrope.  Begin today by arming yourself with what you love.  Take that into your world to keep you standing tall, head up, centered on what brings you to your best.  And when you see someone else tipping over, give them something to lean on.

Hope this finds you funambulating,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Kentucky Derby

May 5, 2014

Greetings from the furlong,

What I was going to say was that I gave up the Kentucky Derby for Lent.

I like to think that I am of reasonable intelligence, and possess the ability to focus on important subjects for appropriate lengths of time.  I like to think I have the mental discipline that produces single minded acuity.   It’s not true, but I like to think it.

It’s not unusual for me to lose focus in a very short span of time, including while I have been on elevators.  There have been times when I will push a button and then think about something else and then forget on which floor I was supposed to get off.   I also admit that I have gotten on an elevator and not pushed the button at all and then mentally checked out.  Then the door opens again and I am still on the same floor, confused, and forced to pretend I intended to get off on that floor, which leads to all kinds of face saving complications, including walking up seven flights of stairs.

So the subject of the Kentucky Derby was floated in casual conversation.  I was paying attention at first, but by the time the second hand had swept all the way around my watch, I was already wondering about something else.  Elevator inspectors, I think.

The Kentucky Derby is a big deal in horse racing.  Some say it is the ‘Superbowl’ of horse racing, though Derby aficionados would be aghast at such a crass comparison.  As a side note, there is a big field in the middle of Churchill downs where a football game could be staged during Derby week in order to entertain people in when things are dull.  Just an idea.

The Derby has been described as ‘The Greatest Two Minutes in Sports’, which to me would seem a little presumptuous.  I would say that there are athletes in the last two minutes of a marathon, or the March Madness finals, or the last 120 seconds of round fifteen with Cassius Clay, that might take exception to that claim.

In fact, it might be all of the Kentucky Derby pretentiousness that puts me off.  Frankly, I’m not even sure it qualifies as a sport; it seems there is a lot more primping than competing.  I have no doubt that the jockeys are working hard, though not near as hard as the horses, and we know who is taking home the bigger payday in that pairing.   Not sure if the new minimum wage would solve that.  But I digress.

I have thought about other sports, from NASCAR to curling, and they all have their own rituals and celebrations.  They all have traditions, ceremony, and rigmarole, some more involved than others.  Truth be known, I don’t really identify much with those events either, in part because most sports require a span of attention slightly longer than the few seconds that mine has been limited to. 

But at the Kentucky Derby the spectacle is somehow elevated beyond the pale of the ordinary sport.  There are formal gowns and sophisticated drinks and elegant couture, and at some point, horses with flowers on them. It’s like some staged a prom and a horse race broke out.  It is designed to be more genteel, more regal, more refined.  These words have never been included in the same paragraph as my name.  The Kentucky Derby might just be too hoity-toity for a boy from the Midwest whose idea of a well spent afternoon is losing track of time.

At the heart of the Kentucky Derby pomp is the ladies’ hats.  Ornate, bright, and most important, big.  The style this year was to have a brim large enough to shelter a herd of thoroughbreds.  I am not sure if the horses wear hats too, although I believe that at one time they wore bowlers, which is where the Derby reference came from.   

The question was “Are you going to watch the Kentucky Derby?”  Deep in the recesses of my brain there was a funny remark, a combination of sarcasm and a little irreverence, all designed to express my indifference toward the presumptuous pageantry paraded in the premiere pony play-off.   Unfortunately they were embedded a little too deep in the recesses and I lost interest before they showed up on my tongue.      

I realize now, of course, that Lent ended a week ago; I just lost track of time, paying attention to a series of less important things in an ever-descending spiral down to the subject of weight limits on elevators.  So even if I had been alert enough to express myself, the response might have seemed at the very least irrelevant. 

Regardless, I am interested in improving my attention span, and expanding my cultural horizons, so I have decided to commit to watching the Kentucky Derby, the whole two minutes.  I will whip up a pitcher of mint juleps, put on my biggest hat, and as soon as I can figure out when it is running, I will warm up the TV and enjoy the spectacle with the best of the gentry.

Hope this finds you in the winner’s circle,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith