The slow, agonizing descent

It was the first day of autumn yesterday. I enjoy the change of the seasons, but here, in this place, the change from summer to fall leaves me cold and melancholy. I’ve come to dread fall in Scotland.

It’s still September, but the sun has changed. It’s sagging now, just sort of hanging there, low in the southern sky. Scotland is preparing for dark.

In Ottawa the onset of fall has deeper undertones and subtleties. The air turns crisp and cool, and the oaks and maples start their magnificent shed.  But as beautiful as autumn is in Ottawa, it’s tempered by the certainty of the long hard winter to come. The summer just gone will be a hazy memory, a fantasy of cottages and beer patios and friends and warmth. But though the next season (the hard part of living in Canada) is always tough, I always used to look forward to the first snowfall, the first blizzard, the first big hush.

Autumn in Scotland doesn’t evoke such memories of seasons, for there wasn’t really a summer this year (again), and winter here is bleak at the best of times. So I find my thoughts now are just precipitations of previous Scottish winters.

Wet. Dark. Roads shiny-slippery with diesel and salt. No traction. No light. Life on two wheels becomes more grim and less grin.

The sun’s trajectory has changed over these last few weeks. We are now headed downwards, down into the the long slow descent towards December 21st. Daylight lessens, and then lessens more, and in a couple of weeks we’ll turn back the clocks, making it darker still. Soon it’ll be dark when I get up and dark when I leave work. There’ll be no more rides home on the now treacherous back roads.

Visor fogs up. Cold, wet feet. Electric gloves fail, again.

In December in Scotland, darkness falls as early as 3:30.

But once into December, my spirits start to lift, for my favourite day of the year is rapidly approaching – December 21st, the solstice. The day the light starts coming back. Every day thereafter brings a few minutes more. By February the roads might be dry enough for real motorcycling. By March I will have forgiven Scotland’s darkness, again. By May Scotland is eternal light and I am happy once more.

Here we go! Hold on tight!

Six months a Dad

I’m thoroughly enjoying Baby Bruce these days. He’s just turned six months old. About six weeks ago he was blowing my mind with how beautiful he was. I’d look at him and feel so damn lucky to be with him. I don’t know what happened during the next six weeks – maybe I only had eyes for the Dragon – but it’s happening again, but this time it’s even better. He’s just as eerily beautiful, but now it’s the interaction which is fascinating me. He’s always been alert and curious, but he’s now actively seeking new experiences. This boy is looking for adventure.

There are so many different expressions on his face now, from frustration and ennui to interest and excitement to full-on joy. (All of this sometimes in a matter of seconds, which is worrisome…)

He gave me my first hug yesterday. Well, it wasn’t like a normal hug – he wasn’t wrapping his arms around me or like that. It was a face hug: we were sitting on the floor together and he leaned over and grabbed my face with his wee hands and pulled me to him. We touched foreheads and noses for a while. He had such a gentle look on his face while he was doing it, his mouth wide open, his eyes both tranquil and excited. It was gorgeous.

Bruce brings life. As simple as that.

He’s now learned my name. Sharon says, “Where’s Daddy?”, and he looks for me. Ok, not every time, but enough to beat the statistical odds. As soon as Sharon hears my bike outside, she starts doing “Da-da! Da-da! Where’s daddy?” By the time I get in she’s wound him so much that it probably doesn’t matter who walks into the room, but the look of recognition and happy greeting is a special moment in my day, and I always look forward to it.

I’m disappointed if he’s still asleep when I’m leaving for work. So sometimes I accidentally let the cats into his room, or stomp around a little louder than I have to, so that I can come in and get a wee good morning. He gives me the biggest smile, kicks his legs a good bit, then follows me around, watching me as I’m getting dressed. If I’m not pressed for time I’ll lie down in the bed with him and let him crawl on me for awhile while we talk about the coming day.

Every day we get more and more entwined. He’s doing a good number on my head.

He’s a great looking baby, there’s really no doubt about that. He’s a long, lean, happy machine. But he doesn’t really seem like a baby to me. More like a little boy with those occasionally annoying baby tendencies, those demands for attention.

Sometimes I get envious of Sharon, that she gets him all day long while I have to go to work. But on the other hand I have had him all to myself for a few hours here and there, and while it’s fun it’s also just non-stop. I want a tea or a smoke or maybe read the paper — there’s no way.

I read to him sometimes, but I’d much rather be reading proper books instead of silly poems and baby babble. He’s way young yet, but pretty soon I’m going to start him on Treasure Island or Lord of the Rings.

One of my favourite games is when I toss him up so high that his fingers brush the ceiling, and on his way back down he does this magnificent double somersault with a triple twist. In the pike position, of course. But really I think my favourite is when he’s just sort of slithering over us as we all sit on the couch. He likes that. He starts saying all these extraordinary things, speaking about his day and the thought-feelings in his wee head.

Sharon is good with the games. I think it’s important to have continual and recognizable games with the wean. This builds on his vocabulary of the familiar and encourages a sense of humor. And he’s already quite funny indeed.

The wonderful and irritating thing about babies is that they’ve not let learnt how to suppress their emotions. The merely amusing is hilarious; a lull in the general action is devastating.

Bruce has all the time he needs to get a handle on what the world is all about. And that has an influence on me. Fathers are supposed to influence their kids. But it’s like we’re doing it the other way around, which I didn’t expect.

The truth is, I’m in love. Twice. Before I met Sharon I didn’t think our kind of love was possible. But here we still are, and our love runs through our lives like a constant current. It’s real and abundant and sexy and admiring. But this boy – I have found a new kind of love with him, and it makes my day.

I guess all parents feel this elation from time to time, to one extent or another. But this boy, this boy is such a charmer, such a work of art. Sometimes just looking at him I feel that our hearts are both speaking the same rhythm, and that somehow the world is a wonderful place after all.

I feel sad sometimes though, knowing he’ll grow up. He’ll learn to suppress, he’ll learn the stilted ways of acceptable behavior in a big fucked up complicated world. At a certain age kids morph from angels into devils, and treat each other with meanness and pettiness. But even then, even then I look forward to being his Dad. I will listen, and help if I can. I’m not worried – kids can usually figure stuff out a lot quicker that adults.

I still don’t really know how I got here, with wife and baby. It’s all of a sudden. But my days now have a lot more laughter in them, and that can only be good.

What the World Eats

I came across this fascinating photo essay via the most excellent Arts & Letters Daily website. It shows fifteen different families from around the world posing with the foodstuffs they consume in a week. Some very unhealthy diets out there…

We’ve been struggling with our own food bill lately. Everything seems to have gotten more expensive. Meanwhile, the UK’s largest food chain, Tesco, made 2.5 billion pounds in profit last year. That’s almost £5,000 profit a minute, every minute of every hour of every day. Record profits at our expense. Why do we continue to spend our money there? Convenience. They have everything right there in one store. I guess we’ve gotten hooked on it. We need to get unhooked.

GTR14 update

I took the Auchmountain road again today, but got there from another direction, giving me all sorts of new winding corners along the way.
It was good, really good. I am now speaking fluent Dragon, at least in terms of the meandering back roads around here. I’m looking forward to further bonding on the sweepers found farther North.
These local roads are exciting for their variety. Tight blind corners followed by all sorts of room, then a first-gear hairpin, opening up to a straight incline towards a blind summit. Over the summit could be a tractor, some horseyback riders, a herd of cows – who knows?
On the Versys you go full tilt – no matter what the shape of the upcoming corner, then back off on the way in. It was a blast – wringing that bike’s neck, red-lining, next gear, then the corner, now backing off, then clean through the corner. Approaching the apex you just jam it open and go.
You can’t drive the Dragon in this fashion around here. You need to mind the power band, leave it for when there’s a little (more) room. But it’s no fun just cruising these roads, so I keep nailing it, leaving her in second gear where we’d both be better of in third. A little twist of the wrist and things happen very quickly. Everything remains balanced though, the chassis so solid, the feedback constant but never alarming like on lighter bikes, the suspension soaking up the rough bits, the tires so weighted that we’re glued. It’s crazy.
I scraped my boot for the first time today. Good wholesome fun. She’s just so powerful and forgiving and smooth and sexy. I checked out the chicken strips on the tires after getting home yesterday. The rear showed hardly anything; a little more on the front. Always like this.

I’d love to still have the Versys though, to do a timed run on the same road in the same conditions. With video. I honestly don’t know which bike would win. The GTR is not designed for this road – she’s too fast. The Versys was designed precisely for this road. Same rider, same road, two different bikes – I’d love to see it.

As much as I love the Dragon, I do miss the Versys. One day I’ll have a stable. Throw in a Z1000 and a Triumph Thruxton and I’ll be ready for anything.

Soon I hope to drive her up North for a weekend, looking for fast roads and loose women. (Oh, wait – I’m married with children – strike the women part). This bike was built for long rides, so it’s high time I get out of tractor country and let this Dragon fly.

The Dragon makes the news

Make your own here. Thanks to Zoom at KnitNut for the link.

Dishes

As a dedicated husband and father I’ve been trying to do more around the house lately.

Doing the dishes is getting easier, but it sure seems to take me a while. For a quickly prepared meal it’s not so bad; but when she’s used every single knife and fork and all 17 saucepans (and this is just the two of us!) – then it’s going to take me some time to get my head together, build up the courage.

This involves finding the iPod, the iPod speaker system and all the various cables, syncing the latest podcasts, then finally moving all this gear into the kitchen and setting it up. All to realize that the iPod has formatted itself again. Hell, I’m committed at this point, so it’s a trip back up to my study with a supply of beer and cigarettes to sync it again.

Once I get the podcast going (Car Talk, or Prairie Home Companion, both from NPR), I’ll survey the horror and then just get going. That takes practice, the getting going part. I used to skulk away under a dark cloud of self-pity, but now I just ignore the stacks in my peripheral vision and just start with what’s in front of me, which is usually a sink full of dirty dishes soaking in nastiness. Sharon has no idea what strength of character it takes me to reach down into that horrible greasy mess to pull out the plug. And then fish about for the dishcloth, which invariably is covered with the slimiest of crud. This thoroughly revolts me. I can’t tell you.

Instead of filling the sink back up again, I just leave the water running and clean as I go.

This way I can rinse the dishes directly after I’ve washed them. Perhaps I should think about all that wasted energy and water, but I’m on a mission here. My sacrifice has just begun.

I can deal with ominous towers of scorched pots and crusted plates. Weekly therapy helps me deal with the slime in the bottom of the sink. But it’s the hot water supply which goads me, bullies me, trips me onto my face and then laughs at me. At full blast the hot-water tap isn’t a problem. But at a nice modest flow, perfect for washing dishes? Forget about it. It gets scorching hot all of a sudden, causing me to swear loudly and smash another glass. The sensible thing to do now would be to add a little cold water to the mix, right? Wrong. That way lies frustration and futility. Within seconds the water is ice cold. Christ. Fine, so I’ll just turn the cold off. And so I’m left with a trickle of lukewarm uselessness. But no matter how gingerly I adjust it, as soon as my hand leaves the hot-water tap the faucet is gushing a fire-hose of even colder water.

There’s a thousand variations, none of which results in a steady stream of proper hot water. I soon realized that this boiler was like a diesel engine – it only performs well when under load. So I started turning the central heating on to high while I did the dishes. This helped. But neither my conscience not my wallet can it afford now that it’s summer. (And I thought war was supposed to be good for the economy.)

Sharon doesn’t ask me to do the dishes anymore. Too much yelling and stress and broken stuff. As a good family man sometimes I’ll just do them anyways. Not often, mind you – it just doesn’t occur to me. Sometimes when I realize how much other stuff she actually has to do I’ll notice and offer, but usually she just takes a good look at me, gauging my mood, before suggesting something less vexing, like running the Hoover. How hard can that be? Don’t get me started.