Bold birthday

Today is my wife’s birthday. Happy birthday, honey!! I will not share her actual age, because even in this day and age, that is still not appropriate. Let’s just say that she is as young at heart as she was when I first met her.

To honour her, I wanted to give her a gift that is worthy of her and all that has done for me over the years. This is no easy thing, since she basically saved my life when we first met (a different story) and she has put up with my fickle, self-serving nature for 30 years. In fact, it is a joke between us that I am so much in her debt that it will take a lifetime of husbandly devotion to pay it. This is a cost I am more than willing to shoulder.

Now I do not have the best track record when it comes to gift giving. One time, I spent an entire year creating a book of poetry for her, which seems pretty darned romantic until one finds out that my wife doesn’t like poetry at all. It now resides on a shelf somewhere, gathering dust, forgotten. I could have saved a lot of time and energy and frustration (hers) by foregoing the grand gesture and simply writing her a nice romantic story, using a language that is far more accessible and from the heart.

At another time, I thought I would be countercultural and instead of getting her a fancy ring, I bucked the trend and got her a nice golden locket with our pictures on the inside of it. It would remain near to her heart and she could open it at any time and be witness to two people who love each other. Brilliant, right? Not really. It turns out that my wife is a bit of a traditionalist and it had always been her dream to receive a beautiful diamond ring. If I had known her better, I would have known that and have given her what she wanted. A real indictment against me.

So you could imagine that I was in a bit of a quandary. A lot was riding on this gift, and no ideas were coming to mind.

But in her classic style, my wife recently bailed me out and gave me a gift recommendation (likely to save herself from receiving yet another inappropriate gift). She told me that I should cook her a meal.

Now in my defense, I had often suggested this to her, since she has made me such amazing dishes for our entire marriage. And now, after 30 years, she has finally gathered up her courage enough to risk it all and allow me to cook for her.

And a risk it is. To help you understand, let’s go back to when I first met my (future) wife. I was living in a bachelor suite at a beautiful apartment complex on U of A campus, and I had been living on my own for many years by that point. I had some pretty set routines, such as keeping my place spotless, and I had a fixed collection of meals that I made on a fixed schedule. Monday was chicken and rice, Tuesday was meat loaf, and so on.

One day, I invited her to my place so that she could share a lunch with me. If I remember correctly, I made something as fancy as instant noodles transformed into a stir fry, complete with sautéed celery and sliced mushrooms. I was actually pretty proud of myself for thinking outside of the box and not simply boiling the noodles, as the instructions recommended, and I even made the eating process more efficient by breaking up the noodles first before boiling them. She was gracious and enthusiastic when she received this culinary creation, but as I discovered later, she was a pretty good actress. Turns out it was rather tasteless and sadly, breaking the noodles is a serious transgression in Asian society. Whoops!

As we spent more and more time together, she came to discover my many lapses in the kitchen. I made rice from a pot, where the water always seemed to overboil and spill into the tray under the element, and the rice always seemed to come out wet and sticky (if only I had a rice cooker during those years!!!). When I made oatmeal and cream of wheat, I watched those pots so carefully, making sure I used the optimal timing for stirring and heating – and the results were always quite disappointing (funnily, my wife now simply puts them in the pot and walks away, never once looking at them, and they always come out better than what I did). My meat loaf was bland, my steaks were tough (the only thing rare about them was them tasting good), and my pasta was … packaged.

As I write this, I am getting more and more convinced that my wife married me as a humanitarian effort. She knew that I would never be able to get along by myself, and so in a grand sacrifice, she accepted the burden of taking care of me in the hopes of saving me. Humbling, to be sure, but there is likely a lot of truth in this perception.

But why does she wish to add to her sacrifice by asking me to feed her? Is she a sucker for punishment? For the decades that we have been together, she has had a strict rule: I am never allowed to enter the kitchen and prepare a meal. I have adhered to this restriction, and as such, the health of the family has blossomed as a result.

Yet she has waived this policy for her birthday, allowing me to enter the hallowed hardwood floor of our recently renovated kitchen and to desecrate it with my inept culinary skills. I shudder at the infractions that I might commit as I prep the ingredients and cook them on the stove.

Let’s just say that I will keep the Pepto Bismol and Gaviscon at the ready, I will keep a vomit bag within hands’ reach at the table, and I will have the numbers for the local clinic, hospital, and CDC available. I just hope she lives through this experience.

Happy Birthday? More like Joyous Survival Situation!

Sign of spring

I was riding back home from work on Friday when I saw something rather startling. Coming towards me was a woman riding a comfort bike, complete with riser handlebars and the large comfy seat. It was a clear sign of spring.

Except for the fact that it was -10 degrees outside! She was bundled up in a thick coat with a scarf that covered most of her face, and she was doing her best trying to remain upright on the bike as she rode over a thick covering of ice and snow with her narrow tires. To her credit, she was successful in her efforts, but the sheer concentration required was completely at odds with the relaxed nature of her bike.

It must be noted that spring had officially arrived a couple days before, and so you can imagine how disappointed the residents of Edmonton are now that we have returned to full winter conditions. I wondered if this woman was trying to change the weather through a sheer act of will. Bring out the summer bike, and the temperatures would rise accordingly. The very definition of wishful thinking.

This reminded me of what my wife did many years ago. She absolutely hated having white legs and arms, a natural result of being indoors and covered up during the cold months of the year, and at the earliest opportunity, she would bring the lawn chairs onto our back patio and suntan as often as possible in the spring, developing a nice (healthy?) tan base that would last her until the autumn.

But there were times when she was a bit too optimistic. She would see a bright blue sky outside, and the rays streaming into our house were warm and inviting, and then she would tell me and my youngest son to go out and get the deck furniture. We were not foolish enough to question this (since there was still snow on the ground!!), and so we did as she asked. Then, when she put on her tanning outfit, grabbed her phone and headphones, and went out onto the patio, she would immediately see that the weather was far colder outside than she thought and she would immediately retreat back into the house. To her consternation, she would then have to wait for weeks until the weather cooperated enough to allow her to go outside with skin exposed. Mother nature is immune to our entreaties and operates on her own schedule, and she is not to be moved.

Which, I will let you know, is just fine by me. I am now at the start of spring break, and while for most people, this conjures up images of scantily clad young people in Fort Lauderdale and vacations to Maui, Edmonton is covered in snow and entrenched in temperatures that are falling to -15 degrees. Now I enjoy warm weather as much as any other person, and possibly even more than they do, but this extended winter has me smiling.

Why?

We did not get much of a winter this year. Snow did not accumulate until well into December, and during Christmas holidays, it remained dry and cold. It was awful and I had to spend quite a few of those days riding indoors on the stationary bike. In fact, I did not get in as many fat bike rides this winter as I would like.

This late winter blast is giving me a second chance, an opportunity to right this terrible wrong, and to get more fat bike riding in. And let me tell you, the conditions are amazing out there right now. About 10 cm of snow have accumulated on the ground, which means that it is a beautiful white paradise straight out of a Hallmark card and there is plenty of traction, so the riding is really fun.

Spring is about youth and rebirth, and I think I am actually experiencing it. I am riding virgin powder and the process is making me feel young again. Strangely, that works.

Mr. G vs Technology: Volume 1

While the students ushered into my classroom, I erased the whiteboard with the bright blue brush provided by the school. The new brushes were magnetic, which meant that you could simply stick them to the board wherever you wanted. Convenient, I guess, since it freed up the ledge for other useful things like metre sticks, abandoned pencils, and gum wrappers. The brush was a fancy space age design, with crisp lines and biodegradable plastic. Too bad it couldn’t erase a board. Considering how many black streaks were left behind, I could just as easily have used paper towel or one of my shop rags. Progress, my ass!

The bell rang, which meant that break time was over and it was time for physics. I walked over to the door and began to close it, to block out the absolute chaos of sprinting students in the hallway who were screaming obscenities at the top of their lungs. But just before the door closed, fingers from an unseen hand curled around the door like some kind of horror movie.

“Please,” came the frantic voice. “Don’t close the door yet, Mr. G.”

I sighed and opened it back up, sad in the knowledge that any tranquility I might have achieved by closing the door was denied to me. Mark skulked by me, apologizing profusely and thanking me, all in one breath. He was chronically tardy and in serious need of therapy.

“Do you know what time it is, Mr. Prader?” I asked, pointing at the clock above the doorway.

He glanced up and gave me a completely blank look.

“What’s the problem?” I probed.

With a sheepish look, he said, “I cannot read one of those clocks.”

I was aghast. Here was a reasonably intelligent 16 year old boy who was completely ignorant about the function of an analog clock. I was tempted to instruct him right then and there, saying that the little hand was at the 10 and the big hand was at the 5, but today we were wearing pink to help fight bullying in school, and I figured that my actions would be in direct opposition to what the shirt was proclaiming.

“Well, just have a seat and try not to be late again, okay?” I said, all smiles and charms, the great actor on his little classroom stage. Shakespeare would have been proud.

I grabbed my collection of whiteboard markers, all collected in a bundle with an elastic, and turned to the class. “This is a very exciting moment, everyone,” I said. “We are ready to start our study of physics. It is time to understand the very mechanics of the physical universe, from the microscopic to the cosmological.”

I looked around the room, seeking out a smile or a nod or a glimmer in a student’s eyes, but it was an educational apocalypse. None of the students were looking at me at all. About 80% of them were staring into their phones, completely oblivious to the teacher or each other. Some had massive headphones on, large enough to deny students behind them a view of the board, and they were bobbing their heads as if in a trance to some death metal band who was probably screaming out 50 ways to torture and torment a teacher and still get away with it. And there were even a few who wore dark shades, and who were sitting catatonically, staring off into space – they were either dead or under the influence of some serious hallucinogenic drugs, or both.

I slammed my hand down on the demonstration desk in front of me. It was a gentle slam, I assure you. No bones were broken in the process.

“All phones away, headphones off, and all eyes on me, please.”

The groan that erupted from the class was a cross between the sounds of the undead, eager to rend the flesh from my body, and the low frequency rumbles of an earthquake as it shakes apart my school from its very foundations. But it was a reaction, it was a response, which meant that communication was happening and being registered in their video game saturated, sleep deprived adolescent brains.

I took out my black marker, which was my favourite colour for making notes, and began to write on the board. I prided myself on my writing. The words were written in a large font, each letter unmistakable, and I wrote the words in a near-perfect horizontal line, which is no easy thing to do. I was known for highly structured notes, beautiful straight lines, and impeccable circles. A teacher could do worse than to have those things mentioned in his epitaph.

“Uh Mr. G?” came a voice from behind me.

I stifled a sigh and turned to face the class, searching out the source of interruption. It was a boy in the very back corner of the room. I had no idea what his name was. I mean, that was what the seating plan was for, right?

“Yes?” I said.

“Are we supposed to be taking notes?” he asked. A few students snickered.

“Well, unless you have a photographic memory, I would highly recommend it,” I responded.

He then dove into his backpack, which was under his desk, and up came his laptop. Other students, inspired by his actions, brought out various kinds of technologies: iPads, chromebooks, and laptops popped up on desks everywhere. It was a veritable plague of computers, the worst kind of virus. And I was the cure.

“What are you guys doing?” I said in exasperation.

“Taking notes, just like you said,” one student said.

“No, no, no,” I said, waving my arms around like I was being attacked by wasps. “Put those vile things away. They will have no place in my physics classroom. This place will be an oasis in the world’s online desert.”

As the devices were being returned to their bags, a groan emanating from them once again, I opened the top drawer of my demonstration desk and brought out a sheaf of papers. I then opened the middle drawer and brought out an assortment of discarded writing utensils, some chewed, others cracked, but they were all still functional. No batteries or recharging required.

“If you need paper and something to write with, please come on up and grab them.”

The walk to the front of the room was a glacier moving down a slope, a sloth climbing a tree, and the drip of frozen molasses. I could see the small hand of the clock moving far too quickly, and the chances of me finishing this lesson dwindling to a Hail Mary pass and a lottery win. But after an epoch, their butts were back in their seats as they pondered how to hold these unfamiliar utensils called pens and pencils, like they were four-dimensional Rubik’s cubes.

Things settled down as I began to write about life-saving topics like mass and inertia and forces. After one board was filled with the wisdom of the ancients, I figured I would take a break and allow the students’ hands to rest before there was any serious cramping. I certainly did not want any complaints from parents, bemoaning the fact that their precious Sally or Johnny-boy was unable to play volleyball because their fingers were fatigued and sore. An unrivalled catastrophe to be sure, and one to avoid at all costs.

So, I wrapped up my markers with the elastic, and then I went to my demo desk and stacked 8 wooden blocks on top of each other. I then grabbed a wooden mallet.

“I am going to strike the bottom block with this mallet. Can you predict what will happen?”

The crickets were particularly loud this time of year, which was strange since it was the middle of winter.

I shrugged and proceeded to smack the bottom block, causing the block to fly off the desk and onto the floor (and fortunately, not into one of the students’ eyes, which would have been a lawsuit and the end of my career), while the rest of the blocks simply fell straight downward and remained stacked on each other.

Satisfied that physics had worked (since we all know the maxim: if it moves, it is biology; if it stinks, it is chemistry; and if it doesn’t work, it is physics), I said to the class, “Okay, I want you to talk to the partner beside you. Explain what just happened, using the ideas of Newton.”

I then went and sat down in my office chair, happy to take a break while the students shared their thoughts about the demonstration. But, after sighing in relaxation’s bliss, I looked up and noticed that none of the students were doing what I asked. Instead, they had gone into their bags and brought their phones out, and they were showing each other the images these instruments contained while talking and laughing animatedly.

“Hey, G. Check out this video.”

Before I could say anything, the student was projecting a video on the wall, using his phone. It was the very same demo, but with more blocks and a much more attractive teacher. And the teacher was in the process of explaining how it all worked.

“No, no, turn that off …” was all I could say, because in an instant, videos started sprouting up on any bare surface on the walls in my classroom until it was looking like some king of modern museum, where all the art pieces have been replaced with digital media.

“Look, someone is doing the demo at the top of a mountain.”

“Hey, check it out. Look what happens to the block when it gets hits in the International Space Station.”

“Dude, check out this cat video!”

Cat video? Okay, things were getting totally out of hand (or paw, as it were).

“Okay class, I appreciate your enthusiasm for the topic. But I need you to put your phones away so that we can continue the lesson.”

Talk about inertia. Once those phones were out, it was almost impossible for them to be put back into their bags. Once a phone is on, it tends to remain on until the battery runs out.

The volume in the room came down to a dull roar, which meant I could move on the the second phase in the lesson. I began to fill up the middle whiteboard with more nuggets of physics knowledge and things were going smoothly.

Until I picked up a faint buzzing near my right ear. Irritated, thinking a mosquito or hornet had entered my classroom, I flicked at it. I was about to write the next sentence when the buzzing returned, and completely fed up, I turned towards the noise and swung hard, making good contact with the little critter.

It careened off my hand and landed on the demonstration table. Without hesitation, I moved to it and slammed the table as hard as I could. When I pulled my hand away, instead of seeing the guts of a tiny creature, I instead saw a smashed blob with wires and components sticking out of it.

“Hey, Mr. G.,” said one of my students. “Sorry about that. That was actually mine and it got a bit too close.”

“What got a bit too close?” I asked, still breathing heavily.

“The drone.”

“What?” I said. “Why did you bring a drone into my classroom?”

The kid smiled. “Instead of taking notes, I thought I would get my drone to video the lesson. Then, I could watch it later.”

I was speechless for a moment. “I have all kinds of issues with that. First, I am quite sure that it is illegal to record my lesson without my knowledge. Second, there is no way in hell that you will be watching that video later, especially when YouTube and TikTok have so many more that are way more interesting. Stop fooling yourself.”

The kid looked crestfallen. “Yes, Mr. G.”

I felt a bit bad about this, since she was a really good kid. “No worries. No harm done. I am just sad that I destroyed your drone. They cannot be cheap.”

“Actually, no, they are pretty cheap. In fact, I have 5 other drones in the classroom right now, working in sync to get the best possible angles to the lesson.”

“What?” I said incredulously. “Well, call them back in, or however you say it. My classroom is a no fly zone. The only thing that should be flying through the air is my marker when it runs out of ink.”

And with that, I took my fading green pen and threw it across the room and it went straight into the garbage. I was the Jordan of marker basketball. One student gave me a golf clap …. otherwise, nothing.

Sighing, I turned to my third and last whiteboard and proceeded to finish up the lesson. The writing was crisp, the lines were straight, and the diagrams were works of multicoloured art. But I was tired and I did not have the energy to appreciate my accomplishments.

I wrote the homework in the only blank section of the whiteboards, and then I returned to my office chair. I then placed my head down on my desk, wondering how I was going to make it through the school year. I was an analog teacher in a digital world, and I was losing the battle.

As I rested, waiting for the clock to signal the end of the class, the students completely ignored the homework that was assigned. Instead, they brought out their phones and aimed them directly at me. My 30 years of teaching would now be reduced to a meme of a grey haired instructor sleeping in his classroom. #physics from A’s to ZZZZZ

Two deadly cycling sins

It has now been a full couple of weeks since I have ridden my bike outside. I have been convalescing as my lower back regains its strength. Progress is steady and in fact, I am contemplating riding outside tomorrow. I am cautiously optimistic.

But the gist of this blog is to identify two unforeseen consequences of being grounded for a couple of weeks. I knew that I would feel a bit depressed, and I knew that I would miss the bike terribly. But who knew that I would become a fat apathetic slob.

Everyone knows that exercise gets the blood flowing and with the surge of endorphins that comes along with it, the person experiences a high for the rest of the day. Since I have been denied my commute, I have suffered a terrible withdrawal from these good natural drugs. I am surprised that my hands are not shaking and that I not in a detox centre, strapped to a bed as I suffer through the cold sweats.

Instead, I am sitting comfortably on the couch downstairs at 8 p.m., ready to watch TV for the night, and I am confronted with an absolute feast. Ordinarily, I restrict myself to a peanut butter and honey sandwich and one (and only one) Lindor chocolate. But since I have been in a bit of depression, and my wife is well aware of this, these restrictions have been eradicated and my plate overfloweth. In addition to the above items, my nighttime diet has included a couple fistfuls of popcorn, a mandarin orange, and if I have been a good boy, then I get an ice cream sandwich.

This usually puts me at risk of my GERD acting up, the acid bursting through my sphincter (I love using that word!) and erupting into my esophagus and wreaking havoc, but this has not happened. And so I have seen this as a green light and I am now eating twice as much food as I usually do at night, on a regular basis. It really does make me feel better while eating it – so I guess I am a depressed eater – but as we all know, when this excess continues for too long, then the body begins to be affected.

I can feel my waistline expanding from the gluttony, and this is starting to make me feel worse. I have biked all year long, exercising intensely for much of it, and I have earned a lean athletic body. It just does not seem fair that a couple of weeks of respite (no matter how misdirected) could nullify all of the positive effects of sustained biking. My pants are a little tighter, I can feel a bit of a bulge when I lean over on the stationary bike, and my mood is becoming more depressed. This is just not fair!!!

But in addition to this, I have been really, really tired in the evenings. Despite not riding to and from school, and despite having a student teacher doing half of my classes, I come home at the end of the day like I had just completed a marathon. After supper and some recreation on the iPad, I turn into a zombie and I am in desperate need of a nap. And after the nap is done, I wake up exhausted and it takes me like 15 minutes to recover and be able to rise from my Ikea chair.

But the thing is, I don’t really recover from the nap. The tiredness is so deepset that I am completely unable to do any tasks afterward. I usually write my blog in the early evening, fresh from my nap, but lately I have absolutely no energy to do it. Last night, I turned on my computer at 7 p.m. and then I spent 10 full minutes simply staring at the screen, doing absolutely nothing. I didn’t even have the energy to click on WordPress. It has gotten so bad that I have resorted to writing my blogs at my place of work. I am not kidding. I am in fact writing this blog at school right now, during one of my spares.

I am stricken by sloth and I don’t even recognize myself as a result. I typically identify myself as a hard worker and usually tireless. I have been compared to a greyhound dog, fast and with great endurance, but lately, this dog is suffering from arthritis and is sleeping all day in its dog bed! It turns out that part of the reason for my eternal energy is because I bike and exercise regularly. But when those are taken away, I become apathetic and listless and I begin to despise myself.

I really need to get back on that bike. I need to be cleansed from these two deadly sins of gluttony and sloth, and this will only happen by being bathed in the sweat that comes from extended cycling.

Bike in my shoes

Recently I suffered a back injury, and it took a full week for me to start showing signs of recovery. Today, I was given a clean bill of health (from my wife) and I was given the okay to ride the stationary bike. This has been such an exciting reunion for me that I wanted you to share it with me. So, if you have a few hours to spare, put on your Lycra shorts, strap on your cycling shoes, and join me.

After doing schoolwork until 10 a.m., I promptly turn off the computer and race upstairs (well, more an enthusiastic jog, since my back is in a tender stage of healing) to get my stuff. I then return to my downstairs office and approach the stationary bike that I have neglected for such a long time (well, about a week, but who’s counting). It is a Lemond stationary bike, and I purchased it because it used a simple leather pad for resistance (as opposed to magnets) and it had no computer, which I figured would make it easier for me to do maintenance on it in the future. My reasoning proved sound, since I have owned this thing for many years now, and all I have had to replace is the bottom bracket (under warranty).

What is particularly awesome about my office – apart from the fact that I store many of my bikes in it, which makes for beautiful and functional art – is that it has a chest high ledge that runs around two walls of the room. The stationary bike is placed at the for corner of my office, where both ledges converge, and so there are many locations for me to place the key things I need for a long ride. I place my water bottle, two small towels (for sweat), a banana and a peanut butter and honey sandwich on the ledge to my right, and then I turn on the lamp and the small fan that are nestled right in the corner.

My cycling shoes are located in a different corner of my office, right in front of my main bookshelf. I got these shoes when I did some work on a guy’s bike – a really huge guy, by the way, who looked like he could arm curl me and his bike at the same time – and he told me that he happened to have some ancient (think, 1990’s) top-of-the-line Specialized mountain bike shoes. He wasn’t using them anymore and he wondered if I would be interested in having them. The odds were against us having the same size of feet, but miraculously, we did. So, I bought them off of him for what amounted to $20, and given that they were as good as new, it was an amazing deal!

Putting these shoes on takes a bit of effort. They have Velcro straps on the outside, which are easy enough, but the interior of the shoe is covered in a socklike membrane. I have to grip the protruding edge of this sleeve with both hands, and then slide my foot into its gullet until the foot is fully encapsulated. The sleeve has its own laces, which when pulled (using a unique drawstring) cause the membrane to snug right up to the ankle for a secure fit. Then, and only then, are the Velcro straps affixed and the shoes ready to go. Honestly, the shoes are kind of overkill for a stationary bike ride, since they would be more at home on the gravel or on singletrack, but they are so aggressive and are coloured a sexy black with red highlights, so they put me in the right mood for a sufferfest.

I then return to the bike and do some preride lubing. The leather resistance pad in the stationary bike cannot be allowed to dry out, and so at the beginning of each ride, I add a few drops of 3-in-1 oil to the heavy metal flywheel. It feels like I am giving a libation to the cycling gods, praying for a smooth ride. And so far, it has been successful, since the bike has remained in good shape and served me well.

Finally, with all my rituals completed, I finally mount the bike and place my iPad on the two narrow central bars, which form a nice base of support for the device (which was another reason that I bought it). The bars are actually supposed to be used so a rider can assume the aerodynamic position one would use when riding a triathlon bike or doing a time trial, but at my age and with my stiff joints, I do not have the flexibility to assume that position comfortably. So, instead, I use it as a platform for my iPad, and it provides an ideal height and angle for me to see the screen clearly while I am pedalling.

Even though my rides are usually between 2.5 and 3 hours long, I like to set the iPad timer in 1 hour installments. In this way, whenever the beeper sounds, it means it is time for me to eat some food. The banana is eaten after the first hour, and the sandwich is eaten after the second hour. This actually replicates what I do when I go for a road ride, and I know from experience that you do not want to mess with the eating routine. Once you find one that works well with the body, providing sufficient energy and not causing any kind of gastrointestinal distress, then you should stick with it and never deviate from it.

I start pedaling lightly, and while doing so, I select my music for the ride. In the past, I would usually choose some kind of EDM music, since it is rhythmical and upbeat and it encouraged me to keep pushing those pedals when my legs start to feel it. But lately, I have been listening religiously to the same few albums during my stationary rides. I start with “Dinosaur” from Theory of a Deadman, and then it is “So Much (for) Stardust” by Fall Out Boy, and finally, “It is the End of the World But It’s a Beautiful Day” by Thirty Seconds to Mars. I usually love to have variety when I am riding, but for some reason, I keep listening to these three albums first, and always in this particular order. It has come to the point that whenever I hear any songs from these albums elsewhere, I keep feeling like I should be riding my stationary bike. It is amazing how connected music is to our memories – much like the smell of baking from a person’s childhood, I guess.

With my headphones plugged in and the music pumping, it is time to keep my brain active during the ride. I know that many people who ride the stationary bike need to watch videos, whether it might be YouTube videos of other people riding or the Zwift cycling simulations, where you can watch a virtual bike respond to what you are doing on your bike as you navigate a virtual road course. But for me, I need to read magazines. It turns out that when I read articles, not only am I getting educated and having my mind opened up to new ideas, I also get fully into the zone and lose track of the pain that I am going through during the ride. I get into a kind of educated flow state, where my mind is completely absorbed by the text and pictures that the iPad brilliantly illustrates for me.

I always read a science magazine first. The articles are more scholarly, which one might argue does not capture the imagination as much and allow for a perfect mental flow state, but since it is early on in the ride, I am not as much in need of being distracted. No pain has developed yet, and so it feels like I am simply reading in my Ikea chair – just in a more upright position and with my legs constantly moving. New Scientist is my favourite science magazine, since they include many articles that are related to physics, which is my passion area and it is what I teach in school. (Funnily enough, my mind has come to associate New Scientist with the album Dinosaur, since it is always playing while I read this magazine. And it gets especially ironic when I am reading an article about dinosaurs.)

When the first hour of riding is up, I am just finishing up the New Scientist magazine, reading the comic that is always located on its last page, when the beeper goes off. I ease off the tension by twisting the knob between my legs (yes, it writes as awkward as it sounds). I then sit upward, taking my hands off the bars, and I eat the banana. Bananas are high in potassium and if modern research still bears this out, it helps prevent cramping – not as much of an issue on the stationary bike, but super valuable when I am going on a long road ride in the middle of the summer. It is also a soft food, which means it digests very quickly.

I have always found it strange that cyclists can get away with eating while they are in the middle of a long bike ride. I was taught right from when I was a little brat that I was not to run around while I ate my lunch, but instead, I had to sit at the table. Otherwise, I would have a stomach ache, and considering that my young body was particularly prone to sharp stomach pains (I even had to go the hospital a couple of times to have it treated), this was a warning that I took seriously. But for some reason, when I am on a bike, I can be a complete rebel and I can shove food in my mouth even when my legs are screaming and I am panting from the exertion. And somehow, miraculously, no stomach ache appears and I can continue to torture my body for many additional hours. Yay?

With the banana finished, I return to my iPad, start up my next hour on the timer, and open up a new magazine. My body is starting to feel the exertion now, and it will only get worse as the minutes pass by. So, I need a magazine that can both inspire me and that can take my mind away from the developing agony in my legs. That means it is time for the cycling magazine.

If I am lucky, the Canadian Cycling Magazine will be available. This magazine is packed full of cycling porn, showing the sexiest of bikes and the best of Canadian riders, which gets my heart racing and has me wanting to ride as hard as possible. But it also is filled with sage training advice, excellent humour-based articles, technical critiques of bikes and associated equipment, and fascinating stories of wondrous bike trips around Canada, and sometimes the world. Every page is one to savour, and I read every word and analyze every picture like it is some holy text, showing me the way to cycling paradise.

But if this publication is not available, since it comes only every two months, then there is Cycling Weekly that hails from Britain, and Bicycling from the U.S. And if I am desperate, I will seek out a mountain bike magazine, but those tend to be far more product and glitz and less story. I am so thankful for the Libby app, which gives me quick access to magazines from the public library and satisfies my desperate need for literature to while away the hours on the stationary bike.

Before I know it, the beeper sounds again to signal that I have completed 2 hours of my ride and it is time for my next meal. From a small plastic bag, I extract my favourite food of all: the simple but magical peanut butter and honey sandwich. It is packed with natural sugars, to give me a quick hit of energy and propel me through the last stage of the ride. But it also has plenty of protein, which is needed by my exercise-damaged leg muscles and which will sustain me for my prolonged exertion. And it tastes so good!!! I am transported to a gustatory nirvana and as I savour its inimitable flavour, I cherish each deep breath I am taking and I am thankful for just being alive. Yes, that is how much I enjoy eating my sandwich? Isn’t it the same for you when you eat your favourite food?

Then it is time for the final phase of my stationary journey (a strange oxymoron). I set the clock for 30 minutes, or if I am feeling energetic and motivated, I will do another hour. Things now get a bit more serious, since I will be taxing my body to its limits. I read any magazine that is available now, and I do my best to become fully invested in its passages, but the painful sensations are beginning to encroach and make themselves known.

My seat bones begin to get sore, and when the burning begins to take away from my performance, I stand up on the pedals and do a couple of minutes of high intensity interval work. It is good for my legs to shake them up a bit, and it is certainly a different way to tax my cardiovascular system (not to mention training me for the steep hills I will be seeing in the spring and summer when I go for my mountain bike rides), but most importantly, it is a blessed relief for my buttocks. My legs might start burning in this new position, and my breathing rate might elevate until I am gasping, but it still feels like a bit of a break, since my seat bones have stopped screaming at me. When I return to the seat, I feel refreshed and ready for the upcoming challenges.

As time goes by, I stand up on the pedals at a greater and greater frequency. And while I am bouncing back and forth, mashing those pedals and keeping my simulated momentum alive, I tend to look at the painting that is in front of me and on my left. It is a picture of cyclists racing in a pack, and the word “PERSEVERANCE” is written on it in big letters. Underneath this word is the phrase “It is to the one who endures that that the final victory comes.” It is the perfect image and motivational speech all wrapped up in one painting, and it keeps me straining and striving for the remaining interminable minutes.

And then it is done. The blessed beeping sounds and I smile in the knowledge that I have finished my training for the day. I turn down the tension and I lightly spin the pedals, anticipating the lunch that is soon to come and the wonderful rest that will follow. The meal and the relaxation will be all the more sweet since they have been earned from my few hours of masochistic training.

Well, thank you dear reader for joining me. I am usually a solitary rider, more comfortable setting my own pace and choosing my own path, but it has been nice to have someone with me this time. Who knows? Maybe I will see you out on the road or on the trail sometime this year and we can do this again. Until then, keep on biking!!

Critical absence

It was a disaster of the greatest magnitude.

After lunch, I was getting my classroom desk organized when I noticed that something was missing. To my utter horror, I realized that my attendance seating plans were absent.

These critical pieces of paper had the names of all the students who attend my classes, and they also identify where the students sit in the room. This system is a vital part of my teaching process, since it streamlines the attendance process. Instead of calling out their names and waiting for them to respond, which can take up precious minutes (especially when the other students begin to talk, requiring me to shout the names repeatedly), I merely have to check which desks are missing students and after cross-referencing with my seating plans, I can quickly identify who is absent. And what makes it particularly efficient is that I can do this process while they are working on a problem or discussing an issue, which means that no time is lost at all.

And it was missing from my desk!

As quick as a flicked switch, I went from namaste peace to apocalyptic panic. I searched every nook and cranny of my desk, leaving no stapler unturned, and I rifled through every folder and drawer. But it was nowhere to be found.

I raced over to my other filing cabinet and I got out my magnifying glass, peering into every crevice and investigating every file that came my way. Nothing.

Then, with all self-respect lost (maybe it was located in the same location as my seating plans), I then rummaged through the garbage can, scanning all pieces of paper – after scraping off banana peels and other organic material, of course. But to my shock, it was nowhere to be found.

I was an absolute wreck by this time. I wanted to call in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (admittedly, I had to look this up – it is the Canadian version of the FBI), the local police, the RCMP, the firefighters, and my school administration. I wanted to demand a forensic analysis of my classroom scene, where they could gather fingerprints and identify any foreign substances that might suggest a possible perpetrator. I was aware that my own personal investigation likely tampered with much of the evidence, but there was still hope, right?

In the end, I was completely unsuccessful in my search and I had to go home in failure. It is a wonder that I got any sleep that night, so terrible was this educational tragedy.

When I returned to school, I had renewed optimism and I was bursting with energy. I also had new ideas. There was one place I did not check. I had a box at the back of the room which contained any old assignments that students did not yet pick up. I had remembered that I had in fact deposited some homework into that box the day before, so there was a good chance.

When I opened that box and analyzed the first few documents, I finally discovered it. The seating plans!!!! Right there, nestled amongst many other papers, safely ensconced, was my Holy Grail.

I could have screamed out in delight!! It was the greatest moment of my life – well, apart from getting married, having children, riding my bikes … okay, it was in the top 100 anyways.

I brought it back to my desk, apologizing to it for my neglect and for indifferently tossing it into the unwanted bin. I vowed that I would be much more vigilant, treating it with the respect that it deserves. My mind was certainly absent, causing this unfortunate crisis, but this seating plan is my most cherished present.

Hooked

Due to an injury to my back, I was forced to forego my bike ride and instead be driven to work. While I appreciate my wife’s willingness to chauffeur me, and as much as I enjoy our conversation on the journey, I discovered that this change of commute vehicle had a dramatic impact on my teaching.

In short, I was grumpy.

I like to think of myself as a pretty happy guy, and one who genuinely loves his profession. But on this morning, there was a dark cloud perpetually hanging over my head. When colleagues and students walked by me and offered me a good morning, my reply was a noncommittal grunt and possibly a glare. I was offended by their sunshiny demeanour, and the more they smiled, the more I wanted to punch them in the face.

Who was this mean-spirited individual? Was I possessed by a malcontent demon or the spirit of a vengeful former student? It would be convenient to blame this on some paranormal phenomenon, but the truth of the matter was that I was not in need of an exorcism, but rather, I was desperately in need of exercise.

The bike ride in to work is a great 40+ minute workout, and despite the fact that it can be demanding at times, I arrive at the school filled with endorphins. This supercharges my machine and as I realized this morning, I am highly dependent on this. It turns out that this infusion of natural dopamine fills me with life and light and energy and enthusiasm, and when I am denied it, I am sad and angry and listless and apathetic.

This back has to heal up soon. I am honestly a bit worried that if I have to be driven to work for much longer, I will snap at one of my students and do irreparable damage to my career.

I am dependent on the euphoria inducing substances that arise from the daily exertion that only my bike ride can offer. They are nothing short of performance enhancing drugs, and much like Lance, I am more than happy to have my daily dose to ensure a masterful performance in the classroom.

Depression revision

Recently, a colleague of mine mentioned to the science department that he admired my relentless pursuit of teaching perfection, as evinced by my neverending tendencies to modify (and hopefully upgrade) my practices. The description is most apt. Even though I have taught for well over 25 years, my pedagogy continues to evolve – sometimes in small, subtle ways, but all too often, the changes are radical and wholesale.

For most of my career, I have believed that this stubborn unwillingness to remain steadfast was due to two things: a sincere desire to teach my students in the best way possible, and a strong genetic predisposition towards workaholicism. But this weekend, I have come across a third reason, that relates much more to my mental health.

On Saturday morning, as I was preparing for my fat bike ride, I reached down to pick up my cycling shorts from the floor and I felt a serious twinge in my lower back. I shouted out my anger at this unfortunate development, since the conditions outside were absolutely perfect and I would be missing out on biking heaven. And for a few minutes, I deluded myself with the idea that these were momentary pains and that I could somehow walk them off in our basement area. But such was not to be. The pain not only persisted, but it actually elevated over time and it was quite clear that my riding was done for the weekend.

This really bummed me out. I had just hurt my back a couple of weeks before, and I was just starting to enjoy the feeling of good health. My core workouts were going well, and I was feeling quite strong. It just seemed so unfair that all of core work could be rendered futile by such a simple act as picking up my shorts from the floor. I could feel my mood spiraling downward fast. Depression was imminent.

Now, I have battled with depression for much of my adult life, so I am no stranger to my dark side. It was especially prominent in my life during the turbulent times of post-secondary. When I felt particularly down, I eagerly sought out any and all ways to make me feel better. I exercised like a madman, hoping that the endorphins would flood my system and wash away all traces of my depression. I read my favourite fantasy novels and movies, immersing myself in the remarkable experiences of others and vicariously experiencing a life of determination and ultimate glory. And all the while, I would listen to music that spoke to my dark mood, which usually meant a huge dose of Sarah McLaughlin.

And sure enough, I did these same things during this weekend, and they had some positive effect. But in the end, they were not successful in shaking me out of my depressed state. There is one key thing that they lack, one vital ingredient that is essential for true restoration of a positive spirit: hope.

So where did I get this most elusive of qualities? Strangely, it came from doing schoolwork on my computer. Strange, eh? But this statement must be qualified, for it was not just any kind of schoolwork.

Earlier in the weekend, I had been creating assignments, labs, and exams during my free time in the early morning hours. But when my depression hit, I abandoned all of those projects without a second thought. It was inconceivable to work on them when I was in such a sorry mental state.

Instead, I looked for a project that would inject hope into my life, and it turns out that this was provided nicely by tackling areas of my teaching practice that had failed this past semester. My mind naturally navigated itself towards my educational weaknesses, and it eagerly tackled the problems, striving to find solutions to them. And after many short walks away from my computer, required to keep my back from becoming totally seized up and in agony, I had some eureka moments that led to key pedagogical changes, changes that could transform the educational experience for my students and lead them to greater levels of success.

With those discoveries firmly entrenched in my mind, my eyes blazed in the light of positivity and optimism and I proceeded to revolutionize my lessons and resources, to make them more in accordance with this new philosophy. I have been at it ever since, spending a full two days modifying so much of my material and being delighted with the results. In effect, I cannot wait to teach this stuff again next year, because I am absolutely sure that it will lead to the best results I have ever achieved as a teacher.

Interestingly, despite the incessant pain in my lumbar region and my tragic lack of mobility, I have been very excited this weekend. And this positive mood has spilled over into my home, allowing me to be a better husband and father than would be the case if I was mired within the sloughs of despond. By solving problems in my teaching life, I became more at peace with the rest of my life. I have no answers to my weak lower back, but somehow, by taking charge of my educational issues, I did not feel helpless and hopeless.

And so, after reflecting upon this in my Ikea chair, I can safely conclude that many of the revisions I have made over my teaching career have been the result of a pursuit of hope. When students have performed poorly on my assessments or my lessons have had absolutely no impact, I have dived deeply into my teaching practice and looked for ways to improve, mostly because this would prevent me from going through a depression and allow me to be a more inspirational, encouraging teacher to my students.

And the persistence of these behaviours subtly indicates that depression is everpresent in my life, living just under the surface of my conscious thought. It is a shark lurking under the dark waters of my soul, just waiting for me to weaken and to surrender to the insistent pull of life’s gravity.

I wonder if my educational revisionist practices are recognized as legitimate solutions to avoid depression. All I know is that they truly work for me, and there are absolutely no drugs involved (well, apart from muscle relaxants, but they have no mood altering properties, as far as I know). If you happen to be a teacher, and especially one who often descends to the darkest of places when the classroom seems so bleak, then you might consider trying this alternative therapy.

Gifted?

At the end of one of my classes, a student came to my desk and gave me a gift. It was a relatively large rectangular box, beautifully wrapped in decorative paper of a distinctly Asian style. It was a gift to thank me for writing a reference letter, she explained, and it was from her culture.

I was overjoyed to receive such a gift, and after thanking her, I couldn’t wait to bring it home. My wife is Asian and she loves gifts, and I knew that bringing this to her would brighten her day.

The box did not add too much weight to my backpack, and so the bike ride home was a good one. It helped that the day had warmed up to a balmy 4 degrees, and that there was only a trace of wind. The roads and paths had most of the snow scraped from them, and so I was able to ride my hybrid bike today, which made for a fast and nearly effortless ride.

When I got home and my wife opened the door, she gave me a wonderful cup of hot chocolate and I returned the favour by showing her my gift. She shouted in delight and immediately took it from my hands and rushed upstairs to open it. I smiled at her response, and then I sampled the paradise of hot chocolate with whipped cream on the top.

As I sat on the cushioned stool we have in the foyer, I could hear her oohing and aahing as she beheld the Asian artistry of the packaging. She then went to get her phone, and immediately translated the text on the packaging (thank you, Google translate!). I had thought it was a box of chocolates, since that is a common teacher gift, but it turned out that it was a stationery set.

My hot chocolate was done, and I began the process of transferring all of my cycling gear to the basement area. While I did so, my wife removed the packaging and opened up the box. She was so excited about the contents that she immediately came downstairs to show me. Inside the box were 4 items, each decorated in gold and red, a clear celebration of Chinese New Year in my eyes. The items were a small book to write in, 2 beautiful bookmarks, and what appeared to be a pen.

When my wife brought the pen out, she tried to depress the top, hoping it was a button that would reveal the stylus. But nothing happened. So, she began to twist it, but in the process, she only managed to dismantle it …and with all the pieces in front of her, there was still no clear evidence of a pen nib.

Then the investigation truly began. She took the pen upstairs, and while I began to eat my dinner, she and my youngest son attempted to solve this most challenging puzzle. But no matter what they tried, the secrets of this pen were not to be revealed. My wife began to cycle between utter frustration and bullish determination, while my son tried his best to wrestle the pen from her grasp so that he could try out his ideas. It was passed between them, back and forth like a hot potato, but no matter what they tried, the pen’s inner workings remained a mystery.

Until my wife decided to do something decidedly charged with testosterone. She pulled both ends with great strength, and sure enough, the pen’s two halves came apart and her suspicions were confirmed. It was a simple fountain pen.

She came to me in triumph, showing me this beautiful writing utensil that was generously given to me by one of my students. I thanked her for solving the mystery, and for the wonderful entertainment that I received watching the process.

Now I am left with a quality writing instrument and blank paper. What will I write? Can I conjure forth ideas that are worthy of this stationery set? This gift comes with a challenge, and I wonder if I am gifted enough to prove myself worthy of it.

A Phil-proof routine

It is the plight of a bike commuter in the winter that there are at least 20 different items that need to be prepared in the morning before the bike can be ridden. And although I have done this for such a long time now, I still find that I tend to forget key items.

This forgetfulness is a real pain in the butt, since I am usually fully dressed … boots and all … when I discover it. Then, I am left with the choice: do I tromp through the house in my boots and risk dirtying up the floor, or do I call to my wife and ask her to help me out? (Notice that one of the options is not to take off the boots. Once they are on, nothing could compel me to take them off again!) Nine times out of ten it is the latter option, which must be absolutely exasperating for my wife. I am sure she is wondering how I could forget something when I perform these tasks day in and day out, for months on end.

I would like to blame it on my inflated intelligence. You know, like I am the absent-minded professor whose mind is so consumed by high-level problems that there is simply no room for such mundane things like making sure I bring my glove liners. But alas, I am just an average man with average intelligence (on good days), and my mind is actually fully focussed on the task at hand. I really am trying to remember all of the little details required for my commute, and when I forget one of them, I sadly have no excuse.

So, after suffering such mental lapses multiple times, I decided that I needed to come up with routines that are Phil-proof, sequences of action that flow logically and that would make it impossible for me to forget something.

The first routine is done in the bedroom. It is vital that I pack all of the clothing I will need for work and for my morning workout, because once I get to the school, I will never be able to come back and grab something. So, I have adopted the head and shoulders, knees and toes routine. No, I am serious. I point both fingers at my head, and then I work my way downward, making sure that I remember my work shirt, my underwear, and my socks. (I keep the pants at work, where they remain until the end of the year.) Then, I go back up to my head and work down again, but this time for my workout stuff. I visualize my workout shirt, my underwear, my socks, and a towel (yes, the towel does not relate to a body part, so it is the most likely to be forgotten). These are all then stored within a plastic bag and brought down to the front door, ready to be stored within my backpack.

The second routine occurs in the basement region of our house, where my bike shop and office happen to be. In my bike shop, I purposefully circumnavigate the room in a counterclockwise direction from the door and make sure I grab all the items in the order that I see them. On the hangers above the washer and dryer, I grab my winter cycling pants, my cycling shorts, my winter coat, and my neck gaiter. Then, I take the skull cap that is hanging from my vice, I take the glove liners hanging outside my glove box, and I pick up the cycling glasses that are on my shop desk. Then, I take my helmet and backpack down from the wall hooks, I grab my boots from the floor near the furnace, and finally, I bring down my mitts from the hooks behind the door. This is a complete counterclockwise sweep, and at the end of it, I need only grab my bike from the bike office and I am ready to go.

It is a bit shameful that I need to do such foolish routines in the morning, but in total honesty, it is a big relief to fall back on this. I find myself much more confident and relaxed when I have these procedures in place, procedures that do not rely on my faulty mind for their success.

Phil-proof, right?

Well, not so much. Although such routines have improved my success rate appreciably, they are as of yet not perfect. Every once in a while, I will still manage to screw it all up. How? Well, the method requires that I scrupulously examine each part of the bike shop as I move around in a counterclockwise direction, but there are times when I will do it mindlessly, and as such, I might completely glance over the glove box or the backpack storage area. Then, once again, I will be fully dressed for my ride and I will realize that I am gloveless and backpack-less. It is demoralizing!!!

But let’s face it. It is the best solution for my particular problem, and when I fail (which I will inevitably do), I can only resolve to do a better job on the next day and pay closer attention to the process. And really, what else can we ask of ourselves but to try to do better tomorrow?

Just like there is no bike lock that is truly invulnerable to thieves, there is no routine that I could develop that would be entirely Phil-proof, impervious to my periodically thoughtless nature. Well, except for one. If I gave this task to my wife, she would remember everything … every single time. But considering that she already does almost everything for me already, I think it is important that I continue to strive to do this alone. And be prepared to eat humble pie that next time I have to call her to grab the plastic bag that, although is properly filled with my work and gym clothes, is still sitting beside the bed, forgotten by me as I left the bedroom. I can already see her at the top of the stairs, shaking her head. Sorry, honey.