Letting some of it trickle out while trying to soak it all in

Monday, December 2, 2013

Xgiving

Contagion was a good movie for
Matt Damon 

This was a good week for 
me

Twenty five hours past forty
but they say that long workers exaggerate
on accident, counting time backwards from the end of the week
trying to prove their worthiness. 

And a holiday! One we all get behind
cause Christians and pagans were there from the beginning
Need and bounty twirl on the American beach
sand in the stuffing
and we eat for days what should have been our national bird. 


Monday, November 18, 2013

Gun control and alcohol

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.
The Second Amendment

After one year from the ratification of this article the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors within, the importation thereof into, or the exportation thereof from the United States and all the territory subject to the jurisdiction thereof for beverage purposes is hereby prohibited.

The Eighteenth Amendment

The eighteenth article of amendment to the Constitution of the United States is hereby repealed.

The Twenty-first Amendment

It's been a long time since I posted and November is a good month for controversy, so I thought I'd write about the regulation of guns and alcohol. 

Maybe three years ago, driving home from my dad's house on Christmas Eve, I had a discussion with my brother Tom and his wife Kelsey comparing gun ownership and alcohol use. We never reached a conclusion but it has been on my mind ever since. 

Certain issues seem to preclude rational discussion. I'm not sure what makes an issue untouchable. It doesn't seem to be how personal it is or if the outcome of the discussion has any bearing on your life. I can talk about God, gay marriage, evolution, and President Obama without hesitation across idealogical lines, but something warns me to wait until I know my audience before bringing up climate change, Hillary Clinton, or defunding the military.

Nevertheless, as we drove through slushy Spanish Fork that night, we started talking about the second most inflammatory subject of them all (the first being abortion). As happens in such discussions, we quickly stopped listening to each other and instead focused on feeling outraged and flummoxed by how another thinking being could hold a different opinion on such an obvious issue.

After my turn to talk was over and while pretending to listen, the following thought occurred to me: Why is gun ownership and regulation in its own category in my head? Is it any different from other risky behaviors like alcohol consumption, automobile use, or back-country skiing? The agitated fog that usually surrounds talk of guns started to lift and I saw the issue in a new light. There are risks inherent in gun ownership, as there are with many other behaviors, and regulation should be proportional to that risk.

Seeing a potential path towards mutual understanding, I asked Kelsey what she thought about alcohol consumption (a pastime she enjoys responsibly). She pointed out several benefits associated with alcohol, including social interactions, artisan craftsmanship, and cultural tradition, and implied that the negative impacts are due to irresponsible use, not the substance itself. She insisted that drinking was inherently different than gun ownership, which was intrinsically violent and dangerous. They dropped me off at my mom's house and I slept in the room I grew up in with my wife and two children waiting for Christmas morning.

All of us engage in risky behaviors. However, we tend to overestimate cost and underestimate value when judging other people's risky choices. Smokers and skateboarders are engaging in reckless behavior with high risk and very little benefit (says I the non-smoker and reformed long boarder). Conversely, we see the benefits of our choices more readily than the costs. For example, the dangers inherent to mountain biking and mountaineering are far outweighed by those activities' health, spiritual, and environmental benefits. This gets complicated when you get a big group of people together with different risk tolerances and double standards in perception.

The Abbott family engaging in what is certainly considered by many to be unacceptably risky behavior.

The kids love the wind in their hair though, and you just can't get that with a helmet (unless you are talking about this helmet).

I am not suggesting that there is no collective way to evaluate and mitigate risk. This is one of the major roles of government in any society. The point of most laws is to define the appropriate balance between personal liberty and communal safety when the two are at odds. Statistics, stories, and ideological affiliation all inform our individual and communal assessments, though these factors don't all carry equal weight. What we believe we should believe (based on family and friends) shapes what statistics and stories we seek out and what we accept or reject.

So what about booze and what about guns? How risky are they? I've assembled a variety of gun and alcohol statistics (with a few bike an car stats thrown in for context) based on ostensibly neutral, conservative, and liberal sources. Here is the executive summary (see the spreadsheet in the link above for citations):

Alcohol

  • 221 million Americans (67%) drink alcohol an average of four drinks per week 
  • The American alcohol industry is worth $400 billion 
  • $59.4 billion in annual revenue
  • Money spent by industry lobbying federal politicians in 2013: $15.8 million
  • Alcohol causes 80 - 85 thousand deaths annually in the U.S. 
    • 10,000 from impaired driving
    • 16,000 from liver damage
    • 20,000 from alcohol-related cancers
    • 34,000 from alcohol poisoning, alcohol-related violence, accidents, and other causes
  • Estimated societal cost of death and injury: $223.5 billion ($677 for each U.S. citizen)
  • Death and injury cost percentage of annual revenue: 376% ($223.5/$59.4)
  • 3.6 deaths annually per 100,000 users
  • 3.2% of all deaths in U.S.
Guns
  • 155 million Americans (47%) live in a home with a gun and 108 (33%) own a gun personally
  • The American gun industry is worth $32 billion
  • $6 billion in annual revenue
  • Money spent by industry lobbying federal politicians in 2013: $12.1 million
  • Guns cause 29 - 31 thousand deaths annually in the U.S.
    • 10,000 from homicide (75% of homicides involved handguns)
    • 19,000 from suicide
  • Estimated societal cost of death and injury: $153.3 billion ($465 for each U.S. citizen)
  • Death and injury cost percentage of annual revenue: 2,555% ($153.3/$6)
  • 2.3 deaths annually per 100,000 users
  • 1.2% of all deaths in U.S.

Bikes

  • 99 million Americans (30%) own a bicycle
  • $7.3 billion in annual sales
  • Bikes result in 600-700 deaths annually in the U.S.
  • Estimated societal cost of death and injury: $4 billion ($12 for each U.S. citizen)
  • Death and injury cost percentage of annual revenue: 56% ($4/$7.3)
  • 0.66 deaths annually per 100,000 users
  • 0.03% of all deaths in U.S.

So, alcohol kills more people (in absolute terms and as percent of all users) and costs the U.S. almost four times its annual revenue in deaths and injuries (if you care about that). Guns kill slightly fewer people (as a percent of all users) but the monetary cost of deaths and injury is over twenty-five times what the industry generates (again, if you care about that). All in all, I was surprised at how similarly dangerous these two Constitutionally-protected activities are.

Two things stood out while compiling these numbers. First there are lots of conflicting and contradictory  estimates on some subjects. For example, estimates of the number of instances guns are used in self defense annually vary from 60,000 to 3.5 million (two orders of magnitude!). The actual number (which still is uncertain) is likely close to 100,000. Second, lobbying by the gun industry more than doubled this year. It has been relatively stable, staying between $4 and $6 million over the past 15 years. This year when it reached more than $12 million. What is going on?

So, what is the point of this post? Am I defending guns, attacking alcohol, or just saying that you are way safer on a bike than you are drinking or owning a gun (way way safer than if you are drinking and owning a gun)? My goals are three-fold. First, point out that gun ownership is a risky behavior, just like many others, and we don't have to not be friends if we don't agree where the line should be drawn between safety and liberty. Second, we should acknowledge the risks that accompany our choices. We tend to downplay the costs of what we want to do and focus on perceived benefits. Third, a lot of our arguments for or against guns and alcohol are kinda non-sensical (dumb). If you are in favor of guns or alcohol, acknowledge that you consider the benefits to outweigh the costs, but don't imply that your behavior doesn't have any costs. I will leave you with a list of good and bad arguments for and against guns and booze (I'm categorizing arguments by logical merit, not by if I agree with them), and a brief statement of my position.

Good argument: There are legitimate uses of guns that can be a positive part of an individual's family's recreation and culture.

Good argument: Responsible consumption of alcohol can be a positive component of an individual or family's recreation and culture.

Bad argument: Chicago and New York have some of the nation's strictest gun laws and they have some of the highest rates of gun violence. Reason: Without a timeline you can't establish causation here. The gun laws are likely a response to a gun violence problem, not the other way around.

Bad argument: More gun control will automatically result in lower gun violence. Reason: Violence in general is complex and there are a lot of guns in the system. Effects of any legislation will have large lags (potentially decades).

Bad argument: Periods with high gun control aren't safer than periods with low gun control. Reason: See answer to previous bad argument.

Bad argument: Guns don't kill people, people kill people. Reason: There is strong evidence linking access to guns with suicide risk and over 230,000 guns are reported stolen each year. As Eddie Izzard says, "The National Rifle Association says, 'Guns don't kill people, people do.' But I think the gun helps, you know?"

Bad argument: We tried banning alcohol once and it didn't work. Reason: During prohibition, deaths due to liver disease decreased by 2/3 (since we don't know the rate of clandestine alcohol consumption during this period, this is the most direct measure of alcohol use available).

Bad argument: An armed society is a polite society. Reason: First off, even if this cliche was coined by one of my favorite authors, Robert Heinlein (in a novel), I'd certainly rather live in an impolite society where I'm less likely to get gunned down by someone who finds my behavior impolite. The idea of increasing politeness by implied threat of killing is as anti-liberty as any tenet I've encountered.

Bad argument: Crime is sky-rocketing and it's so dangerous on the streets that we need guns for self defense. Reason: Crime rates have fallen 30-40% in most areas in the U.S. over the past two decades. It is safer now than ever before.

Bad argument: Gun ownership and number of guns in the U.S. are causing a rise in crime and violence. Reason: See answer for previous bad argument.

OK argument: Medical research suggests some health benefits from moderate alcohol consumption. Reason: There is no way alcohol saves more lives than it takes, but for individuals who are capable of responsible use there are some potential benefits.

OK argument: Guns are used approximately 100,000 times a year in self defense and certainly protect some number of lives and property each year (most of these uses are brandishing not firing of the weapon). Reason: We don't have the data to draw conclusions about whether guns save more lives than they take. Thousands of people die from gun violence yearly and some number are saved by guns.

Bad argument: People can get addicted to anything like exercise or eating. Alcohol is no different than other things. Reason: I personally know dozens of people whose lives or livelihoods have been destroyed by alcohol. I have one friend who exercises too much and a couple who are addicted to World of Warcraft.

So, what would I do with booze and guns if I were king? I would outlaw advertising for alcohol and guns. People can use them if they want, but companies shouldn't be able to push dangerous products (especially not to poor people and children). I would also forbid donations to politicians and political groups. In my opinion it's a strange system of sanctioned bribery dressed up as free speech. Training and licensing should be required for both activities. I would also require all people considering purchasing a semi-truck to watch this advertisement:

What do you think?

Monday, July 15, 2013

Biking the Denali Park Road as a family

On the 5th and 6th of July, Rachel, Ingrid, Henry, our friend Will, and I biked the Denali Park Road from Wonder Lake to the park entrance. It was 86.1 miles and a fair bit of climbing.

With a little wheel removal we were able to get all the bikes on the back and the trailers in the trunk.

You can't drive into the park and the buses only take two bikes each so we reserved two spots on the 11 am camper bus for the Abbotts and one spot on the 2 pm for lonely Will. Luckily kids don't count as real people so park entrance and bus tickets are free! We left the house just after 6 so we would have time to make it through the fire at Skinny's, the construction at Healy, and the backcountry orientation course at Denali.

The buses stop every 45 minutes or so to look at animals or take a rest stop, which is perfect for kid (and dad) attention spans. Here we are at Polychrome Pass.

After we took the previous photo, Ingrid said, 
"OK, now everybody get out of the picture except for me."

Pretty soon we were at Eielson, almost to Wonder Lake. The kids were so good we bought them a puppet Raven and Otter at the gift shop. Ingrid chewed off the Raven's eye in about ten minutes but Folkmanis sent us a replacement and a bonus robin.

Car seats are officially required on the bus and we weren't sure how we were going to get them back to the park entrance. Once on the road we talked with our bus driver Chuck and he offered to take them back for us! He dropped them off right at our car so they were waiting for us when we pedaled up. Serious props for Chuck!

At Wonder Lake, waiting for Will and wondering how the kids were going to do.

The mosquitoes were pretty thick in the woods but there was a breeze by the lake. Rachel and I had a "you brought the bug spray right?" discussion while we were packing up but luckily we found a bottle of hippie eucalyptus stuff that got us through. Wonder Lake was the only place with thick bugs! 

Once Will arrived around 7 we loaded the gear into the cargo trailer, the kids into the Chariot, and got on the road. Denali came out and said hi. Here is the family and Will in front of The Great One.

Henry didn't like it when Ingrid would lean on him but Ingrid let him rest his weary head on her shoulder.

Some bikers at Wonder Lake warned us about a juvenile grizzly that had charged them about ten miles out. Will spotted him around mile 7 loping towards the road. After taking this picture Rachel wisely suggested, 
"Isn't it about time to put away the camera and get out the bear spray"? We didn't think he'd seen us and were downwind, so we slowly backed up 100 yards or so and lined up on a little ridge with better visibility. We lost sight of the bear for five tense minutes but knew he was to the north of the road (to our left). As we talked through our bear protocol Will asked,
"So if he does attack, at what point do we abandon the bikes,"? Looking behind me at our trailer full of children I responded with a grim smile,
"For me, I think that's going to be pretty far along." Just then we heard a deep rhythmic "hrumpff hrumpff hrumpff"! off in the bushes to our left. We could see brown fur through the green brush on the roadside but weren't sure how far away he was. A little breeze parted the willows and we saw that he was thirty yards back by a small pond. He'd circled around to get downwind of us and was now sniffing the air and barking in disapproval. He eventually turned away and galloped to  the northwest. We hopped on our bikes and calmly rolled to the east watching over our shoulders for the next few miles.

Most of the backcountry units were already reserved so we camped in unit 35, just 15 miles from Wonder Lake.

To preserve the wilderness experience for bus riders you can't camp within a half mile of the road. We felt like the Von Trapp family Hauling our children across the tundra in the shadow of the mountain, but fleeing bears instead of Nazis.

Like the Von Trapp singers, Ingrid and Henry performed an impressive duet when we woke them up Saturday morning. The Alaska Range was pretty spectacular though:




The hills are alive.

We were on the road by 10 am.

Angry because of the weather by 11.

At Eielson by 12.

And bored of the Denali views by 1.

We'd planned on rain and bugs, but instead got sunburns and breezes.


At Stony Pass Henry needed to fuel up. While he nursed, a bus pulled up and a bunch of Indian tourists and old Canadians took pictures of the hardcore biker-mamma in front of Denali.

From Toklat to Polychrome the wind was mighty. It blew the cover off the Chariot, but Ingrid and Henry just laughed as the dust whipped through their little compartment.


Rachel was out front most of the time, but this old bull startled her and she shouted, "Caribou! What do I do"? Ingrid thought that sounded like a song which she sang for the next forty miles.

It was nice to have Will to haul the gear up the big hills :).

Grinding up the last bump of Polychrome.

The buses started getting thick around 2 pm (all morning was bus free) but they were all respectful and passed slowly.

Will blew by this trucker despite the perilous flames.

Rachel and Will feeling satisfied at the top of Sable Pass. The 17 miles of downhill after Sable were a nice treat after the slow mountain passes we'd gone through.

The pitstops became more frequent after Sanctuary river. 

Henry was starting to look a little bedraggled and ready to head home.

Ingrid still looked fresh and fabulous though in her travel pearls.

They sang us up the surprisingly long pass between Sanctuary and Savage. Henry is singing his "Uh-Oh" song and Ingrid is freestyling on top of that.

Henry cried for the last couple of miles before Savage River.

But was happy after a quick nurse.
The last 13 miles from Savage to the park entrance ended up being the most difficult, despite their being paved. Rachel had bruised her knee on some of the washboard and there turned out to be a considerable amount of up on what I had described as being "totally downhill."

Even though it was only 50 F, between the not pedaling and the exhaustion, Rachel was hypothermic by the time we got to the car at 11 pm. We cranked the heater though and she recovered pretty quickly.

Will magically packed the car, we loaded the kids without waking them up, and we got back to town in time for a shower before his Sunday morning departure.

Thanks to Cody for the bike, Chuck, Martin, and Britta for help with logistics, Henry and Ingrid for being super children, and Rachel and Will for being awesome biker buddies.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Sluice Box 100

"We also found out on Monday that there will be a four wheeler race between checkpoints three and four, but don't worry, we talked to them and they said, 'We run into bikers all the time,'."
                                                                                                        -Ann, SB 100 race organizer

I love the pre-race meeting. Water bottles, nervous smiles, scribbled lists of things still to be set in order before the race. From hairy hippies to straitlaced sergeants, all flavors of white people show up, all very tan, to test their bodies and minds. The reward for their efforts is intangible (besides the attractive yellow tote bag) and inscrutable for many, but to the endurance athlete it's the "why do you do that to yourself" question that defies scruting. If you can, than why not?

Still, that race was something else. Between the smoke, the mosquitoes, and the clover our route traced all over Ester Dome (hereafter referred to as E.D. in honor of all the soft tissue that hill collectively bruised that day) my bitten and beaten body was happy for bed by Saturday night. Here's props to all those who battled on through the night and next day--the real endurance athletes.

A few weeks before the race Amy gave us her old iPhone which had overwintered in a snowbank in her driveway. With a light-red case, some velcro, and epoxy so I could mount it backwards in its holster it made for a right-nice GPS unit. Mounted on my bike's stem it was easily readable and after losing Kevin and Tyson at Ballaine road (five miles into the race) I eased up on my pace and realized it would make for a good video-journal camera too. Here's my first snapshot, shortly after checkpoint one at the Golden Eagle Saloon.
The second time up the hill I remember thinking about the air quality index as I pushed my bike up a 29 degree slope on the backside of the hill, looking across the smoke-filled valley, "Does this count as prolonged exertion"? Luckily just then a porcupine waddled past me up the trail and I figured if he/she was doing it faster than I was, it was probably safe. 

The descent down the backside of E.D. is like a trip back in time to the deep south. The hills rise up around you and suddenly, midst burned out trailers and abandoned pickups, you feel like you are very far from the federal government. The trail was too steep and rutted to build up much speed, which I was learning was par for the course. Brutal climbs followed by downhills too steep to take advantage of. I broke 40 mph a couple times but most of the descents were 15-25 mph. I did catch a dragonfly in my helmet, a karmic mistake that would come back to bite me quite quickly.

At the bottom of the hill I noticed that the sluggish water of Nugget Creek was still muddy from Tyson and Kevin's crossing (not too far behind!) just before my field of vision was obscured by a clumpy mist rising up from the water and descending from the trees. 
The mosquitoes bumped my pace up 2-3 mph on that final ascent of E.D. Every swat I was dragging handfulls of bugs from my backside and shoulders. Luckily, after the first few hundred bites my body stopped protesting. Plumb out of histamine it seemed. This adds a new angle on the perennial would you rather be eaten by a bear or killed by mosquitoes discussion. Little did I know the bugs were planting giant fields of mosquito pimples on the outside flanks of both buttocks and across both shoulder blades--anywhere on my lee side where my clothing touched the skin they lined up and drank deep. After the race Ingrid told my mother in law about the rash and asked her, "do you want to see daddy's rump"? The nails from old bonfires let me know I was getting close to the top of old E.D. for the last time.

Now around 40 miles into the race, my chain was starting to get a little dry. Luckily, Goldstream Swamp was coming up to silence my squeaky drivetrain. A few dunks in the slimy black and my bike sounded like new. The swamp was actually pretty reasonable and only had a few deep holes that required a dismount.

As I rolled into Checkpoint three at Ken Kunkel, I got my happiest surprise of the whole race (I'll tell about the unhappiest surprise later), Rachel, Ingrid, Henry, and even my mother in law Ellen were waiting for me. Ingrid and Rocky lubed my chain, Rachel filled my CamelBack, and Ellen held the baby. Trystan rolled into the checkpoint a few minutes after, but I was relieved to see him so I didn't have to keep guessing where he was. We left the checkpoint and rode most of the way up Murphey Dome together.

By this point my lower back was getting tired and my wrists were sore (thank you E.D.) but I'd only felt a couple light twinges and cramps in my legs. I'd been diligent in eating and had been downing around 800 calories an hour. Here's what I had in my oat bag and top-tube bag:
1. Gummy candies (Sour punch straws, watermelons, and gummy worms) = 640 cal
2. Two cups of pretzels = 300 cal
3. One cup of cashews = 760 cal
4. Four Gu's = 400 cal
5. Five Odwalla energy bars = 1100 cal
6. A handful of Saltstick electrolyte capsules

For drink I had three liters of Cytomax (450 cal) and one bike bottle full of dark Chocolate Ensure (500 delicious easily digestible old-person calories). 

My brakes squealed the whole way down Moose Mountain and I thought about how my bug spray would be gone by the time I got to the slow and swampy Rabbit Trail below. Just as I got to the bottom of the hill I saw a small bottle of bug spray nestled in a clump of grass like a little gift from heaven. After refreshing my chemical defense I headed into the forest.
After the Rabbit Trail, I seriously wondered if I was going to be able to hold my position. I was just over half done with distance but my body was telling me in no unclear terms that I was well over half done with what it would give me that day. The night before I'd only read 2/3 of the way through the course description so I only had the vaguest idea of where the trail went or how much climbing was left. I knew it ended at the Gold Camp by Chatanika Lodge, but I didn't know how many creek crossings and climbs I had left.

For variety Here's a video of Henry the next day doing some head banging.


Luckily the course was merciful and kind for the next 20 miles--almost all the way to the next checkpoint. Almost. Coming up on Pedro Dome I ran out of liquids. I'd gotten used to the aid stations every few miles and hadn't topped off. No problem though, I could see the observation tower and the gently rising road that spiralled to the summit. The trail was steep but manageable and I stayed in the saddle as I broke out of the trees onto the road. But then, after only 100 feet of gentle road an unyielding flour arrow ordered me to the left, straight up the hillside. This was the unhappiest surprise of the race, the hellish Pedro push. It wasn't that long (maybe 1/3 mile) but it was unevenly rutted and mostly unridable (at least with my spindly legs and tenderized soft tissues) and oh so steep. But it was high enough that the bugs weren't that bad and Ben and physician were at the top with grilled cheese sandwiches. So I guess it's kind of like life. It gets worse after it's hard but there's a cheese sandwich waiting for you at the top of the hill. After refilling my CamelBack (now filled with Cytorade or Gatomax) and Ensure bottles I rolled down the hill.

By this point I had given up trying to orient myself and was just looking for pin flags. Down the hill, up the hill, dodge the four wheelers, spit out the dust--I'd do whatever the flour and pin flags told me to. I was proud of my 2007 Felt Virtue two and was surprised to see a moose carcass in the road and then checkpoint 4 near Coffee Dome.
Jay and RJ waved me on and away I sped, feeling good and happy that all my climbs were behind me. Well, after the four mile out and back from Coffee Dome I saw the looming hills between me and the finish and decided it would be fine to finish the race at a modest porcupine pace. But then Trystan came around the corner! He was headed out to Coffee dome so I still had a few miles on him but he was gaining. I forgot my dream of a leisurely ridge roll and stood up to climb the hills ahead.

That ridge was one of the most beautiful sections of trail on the whole course. The smoke had cleared and the high evening sun made the torres and tundra look half Scottish half Martian. Swooping around a hard-packed corner I startled a paddle-antlered bull moose laying in a puddle on the trail. This gives you a good idea of how far behind the leaders I was if a moose had enough time to fall asleep on the trail between us--though I am proud I didn't lose time to Tyson from checkpoint three on.

So, looking over my shoulder ever few minutes for the Trystanator, I finished off the course, squealing down another screaming descent and rolling up to the F.E. Gold Camp. Kevin and Tyson were there relaxing, enjoying some soda and hot dogs. Ann and the crew were there with clappers and bells (those guys are awesome) and Rachel and the kids surprised me again by showing up. Everybody made fun of my extensive salt marks (you could have seasoned a week of dinners with my jersey crust) and one by one we headed home, not sure of what we'd just done but glad it was done. 

Looking back a few days post-race, I do believe that's the hardest race I've ever done. Harder than the White Mountains 100, Susitna 100, and maybe even a hair harder than the Lotoja (my first road race a 212 mile climb across Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming in one day). It was the combination of climbs too steep to power up (>95% of the course was rideable, but a lot of the climbs were granny gear), descents too bumpy to fly down, and then the giant gross elevation gain. The website says the SB 100 has 12,000 feet of climbing but if you add up the altitude gain of the individual segments on the website you get 15,000. That is based on the coarse digital elevation maps available for Alaska and my GPS (aka Amy's pink iPhone) logged just over 20,000. It certainly felt more like 20k than 12k.

In any case, thanks to Endurance North and all the volunteers. You put on truly awesome events that are fun, competitive, well run, and dang hard. I've done other races which didn't have the sort of planning yours do and it makes a heck of a lot of difference (pardon my language in the last two sentences).

To complete my vanity, here's different angle of me riding from the NewsMiner. Notice my oat bag (just a CiloGear wand pocket velcroed to the handlebars) and trusty Virtue 2:

Prolonged exertion.This means any outdoor activity that you’ll be doing intermittently for several hours and that makes you breathe slightly harder than normal. A good example of this is working in the yard for part of a day. When air quality is unhealthy, you can protect your health by reducing how much time you spend on this type of activity. 

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

If you don't walk as most people do

Waiting on the Supreme Court decision on gay marriage has got me thinking about how my membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has influenced my opinions on the matter. I grew up Mormon in the most Mormon county in the most Mormon state in the U.S., though my experiences in "Happy Valley" were more varied than you might expect.


I went to high school and on a mission with the son of the single largest donor to Yes on 8, Alan Ashton, co-founder of WordPerfect, who single handedly gave a million dollars to the California proposition to ban gay marriage. Every Halloween we would trick-or-treat Bruce Bastian, the other co-founder of WordPerfect, who is openly gay and gave a million dollars to No on 8 (and who also handed out king-size candy bars). My mission president Kevin Hamilton, now a general authority, was the LDS public affairs director in California during Prop. 8 and wrote the unofficial response to criticism of Mormon activism on the issue (called colloquially the Hamilton Letter). I've attended church with Mitch Mayne, the openly gay executive secretary in my cousin's ward in San Francisco. My uncle John was gay and died of AIDs. I participated in Boy Scouts as a youth and currently serve as a scoutmaster in Fairbanks where several boys in our stake have come out over the last few years. Finally the LDS church's position on homosexuality, summarized in the quasi-canonized The Family: A Proclamation to the World was central to my father leaving the church when I was 13.


When I was in San Francisco last December for a science conference I met up with my first and longest friend (coincidentally also the child of a WordPerfect executive) and a conversation we had changed the way I view Mormonism and homosexuality. Nora and I have known each other since we were three. She left the church when her parents divorced soon after mine did, and several years later discovered that she was lesbian. She now feels that the church is a patriarchal and homophobic institution unwieldy to social reason and change, which of course gives us plenty to talk about as I am a fully practicing and believing Mormon. We were talking about the overall effect of Mormon teachings on its adherents' views towards homosexuality. Do church teachings and culture result in a net increase or decrease in peace, love, tolerance, and acceptance of gays and lesbians. Going into that conversation I think we both assumed that the answer was no. 

We started talking statistics and soon found that they was shockingly little data on LGBT social and mental well-being (the Wikipedia article on Lord Voldemort is three times as long as the article on LGBT suicide). While it is broadly held that suicide among LGBT youth is shockingly common (several times the national average ) there is no data suggesting that gay Mormon youth are more likely to attempt suicide than gay non-Mormon youths (Mitch Mayne has a thoughtful article on the subject of Mormon gay suicide). After twenty minutes or so of discussing generalities we started talking about individuals, particularly me. I am a Mormon, but I feel no separation from or judgement of my gay and lesbian friends. Is my acceptance of gays and lesbians in spite of or because of my interactions with the church? That's when one of my favorite church children's songs came into my mind, I'll walk with you:


If you don’t walk as most people do, Some people walk away from you, But I won’t! I won’t!
If you don’t talk as most people do, Some people talk and laugh at you, But I won’t! I won’t!
I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you. That’s how I’ll show my love for you.

Five years old, I remembered sitting in my tiny orange primary chair singing that song and feeling resonance and rightness course through my body (feelings that I now recognize as The Spirit or Holy Ghost). I committed to befriend not bully those who are different. I didn't know at the time that the song was written by Carol Lynn Pearson, about her husband who left her for a man and who she took back and cared for as he died of AIDS. I do now and understand more why its message had such a profound impact. That divine truth of non-judgmental kindness towards all was reinforced by hundreds of Sunday school lessons, discussions on campouts, and interviews with leaders. That is not just a tertiary plot that you can find if you look for it in scripture, that is the theme of the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the central point of the Book of Mormon.



The teachings I received in Sunday school and since encouraged me to be more peaceful and accepting. I believe that children exposed to such teachings are less likely to bully, mock, or denigrate gay or lesbian classmates, or anyone who differs, by choice, environment, or genetic disposition. I was taught that acting on homosexual feelings was sinful, though it wasn't emphasized as more grievous than other sexual transgression (such as heterosexual sex outside of marriage), and the distinction was always made that homosexual feelings or orientation were not sin, only following those feelings.

I am not saying that the influence of the church is wholly positive and uplifting towards gays and lesbians. Mormonism consists of the doctrine (principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ found in the Bible, Book of Mormon, and other scripture), church institutions (leaders, organizations, programs), and Mormon culture (predominant attitudes of members, physical community, and personalities). There are clearly large failings in church institutions and culture, though thankfully efforts are being made to welcome gay and lesbians within and outside the church as evidenced by the recent launch of www.mormonsandgays.org. I do believe, however that several aspects of church operations and culture have long encouraged broader thinking, acceptance, and love.

First, while the church can seem ideologically homogeneous from the outside, my experience has been that it provides a precious forum for meaningful interactions with people more different from yourself than you would have almost anywhere else. We seek out like-minded friends and we work with people in our same socio-economic bracket (plus open conversation and exchange of values is unfortunately frowned upon in some professional circles). Church is where I sit between professors, plumbers, high school teachers, free spirits from deep in the boreal forest, unemployed, doctors, and basketball players. Church is when I can openly discuss my civil and spiritual values with those brothers and sisters. Being involved in each others' lives makes us less likely to hate and fear. This diversity of opinion is evidence in the multitude of views held by gay and straight members of the church on homosexuality. I have gay friends still active in the church and fully supporting the church’s positions, still active in the church but holding that the church is mistaken on this issue, not active in the church but still believing in the restored gospel as taught by the church, not active in the church and not believing it is true. I have straight friends in all of those same categories. Many believe the church will eventually accept gay marriage and many do not, but interacting with the other side makes you less likely to assume someone is an idiot for thinking differently than you.

Along a similar vein, it is difficult to serve an LDS mission and not return with a broader and humbler worldview. As a missionary you serve so intensely and care so deeply for all the people in your area, not just those who are or may become members of the church. That love fosters empathy, tolerance, and respect. There are certainly a few snide, proud, or mean-spirited missionaries but the majority I have met and served with are wide-eyed and sincere.

Last, from church headquarters to the deacon's quorum at Salcha Branch, the church operates in councils. Decisions are made and goals are set by groups of people in open discussion. The process of counseling with other members of the church tempers and moderates views. The network of councils and committees in the church creates a safety network to temper the extreme views of any one participant. Bad decisions are still made and insensitive policies put forth, but I have seen surprising wisdom, patience, and love come from the councils I have interacted with.

Nora didn't agree with many of my positions, but she listened and I listened to hers. I have several friends whose experiences are very different than mine, who feel that the institutions of the church treated them severely and abusively. My experiences don’t invalidate theirs. Every ward (congregation) is different and even within the same ward, individual background and temperament will elicit different behavior from the involved parties. But my experience isn't invalidated either. I simply put my thesis and experience forward, that the church has influenced me and many others to be more loving, accepting, and non-judgmental.

As far as the supreme court ruling is concerned, I do not believe there are constitutional grounds to deny gay couples the right to marry and I hope they so rule. I don't believe that allowing same-sex couples to marry is a threat to heterosexual marriage or that it will increase the incidence of homosexuality. The civil rights associated with marriage should be available to all couples, following the equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. I don't think that people who hope for the opposite ruling are evil, homophobic, or uninformed. Any effort to portray a viewpoint in such a way to prevent or discourage someone holding a different viewpoint to engage with or listen to that viewpoint is a misguided effort. We should all do more listening and less judging.

We Mormons have our own history with "non-traditional" marriage. In the late 19th century the church's practice of polygamy was the national scandal. Acts of congress and appeals to the constitution ensued, very similar to those of the current struggle with gay marriage. We believed then that consensual sexual and marital practices, however nonconforming or imaginative, were protected by the First Amendment. Some of the Mormon reticence towards allowing civil same-sex marriage may be rooted in lessons learned or scars from the tumultuous battle and defeat with the federal government over plural marriage rights. In any case, I believe the ending of Mormon polygamy was inspired (along with being politically expedient) and am grateful it ended in 1890. The point is, whether one considers the practice of homosexuality immoral or no, I have not yet heard a cogent constitutional argument justifying why same-sex couples shouldn't be able to marry.

On the question of gay couples adopting children, I think there are legitimate questions to be raised about optimum environments for children. While these questions aren't necessarily any more complex than eligibility criteria adoption agencies wrestle with currently in regards to selecting heterosexual couples for adoption, much of the research on gay parents is politically charged (on both sides) and there is much we still don't know. Elder Oaks (one of the 12 apostles) brought up this question in a respectful way in last year's October Conference when he quoted a New York Times article (Gay Parents and the Marriage Debate) about how we do not yet know the implications of same-sex parents for adopted children, that this is a social experiment. We are talking about redefining human institutions that have been in place for many millennia and caution is merited.

I'm reminded of Nephi’s interview with an angel in 1 Nephi chapter 11When the angel asks him "Knowest thou the condescension of God?" Nephi responds, "I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things." I think this is one of our doctrines we most often set aside, focusing on how much we know. We identify ourselves as the church with answers, and while we do have detailed explanations for many of life’s puzzles, we should never forget that we are to live by faith (not knowledge) in a world of uncertainty. This scripture has certainly comforted me as I have struggled with the Church’s position towards gay marriage and homosexuality in general. I do not know how this issue will eventually be sorted, whether the church will one day acknowledge and accept homosexual marriage or not. I do however know that God loves all his children, LGBT and even me. I learned that in Sunday school.

Monday, June 24, 2013

The cost of living

March 2007
“Free Paper!”
“He’s not a very good salesman,” I mutter to myself. “He didn’t even look at me.” As I pass, an article about Utah groundwater disputes catches my attention; I’ve always had a soft spot for aquifers. Despite the risk of smashing a passer-by with my protrusive, stuffed-to-capacity, daypack, I whirl around in the crowded hallway to face the Salt Lake Tribune subscription pusher.
            He is perched on a long-legged stool, hunkered over dual stacks of his “free” newspapers like a fisherman hovering above his hook. Now wanting the paper’s weather report, I interrupt his sermon on the excellent annual rates “offered exclusively to USU students.”
            “Do you deliver to PO boxes?”
            “We can deliver to your house or apartment.” Classic sales-speak: never admit that you can’t do something, just answer a new question that you can say yes to.
            “I only have a PO box here in the TSC. I live outside.”
            “Well . . .” I can almost hear him wince as he realizes that the Trib isn’t able to deal with this particular contingency and that I am going to get away with a free paper (as offered) but no subscription. “. . . OK then, have a nice day.”
            I thank him politely and spin back into the flow of students with my paper, eager to catch up on the “Western Water War.”

             In an effort to expose myself to the natural world, I live without walls, outside in the elements. Our beliefs are shaped by what we experience and by the eyes through which we see those experiences. After having lived a specific event, we incorporate it into our ideology with comparisons and liaisons, boxes and bridges. We think: “good” or “bad,” “possible” or “inapplicable.” These labels and groupings allow us to interpret the world around us. They also can trap us if we don’t methodically challenge the assumptions and lenses the world around us offers.
In the fall of 2003, due to increased costs of living, particularly of the non-monetary sort, I decided to live outdoors. I wanted to explore, to see and better understand my conditioning and true dependencies. I wanted to hear the deer tiptoe down the limestone scree each evening. My skin wanted to touch the night air. I wanted to know what I really needed and what I had just been taught to need.
College students are generally curious and sociable. In most conversations the question eventually comes up, “and you Ben, where do you live?” After admitting that I “camp-out,” as levelheadedly as I can manage, the person I’m speaking with goes all squinty-eyed, leans back and suspiciously contests my claim. “Nuh-uh.” I try not to justify myself, instead relying on the silence to assert, in effect “I can’t prove it to you, but yes, I really do live outside.” Once my credibility is established, cascade of incredulous inquiries ensues. I’m always grateful for these impromptu interrogators. Indeed, their questions reveal what amenities, habits, and behaviors they consider to be the most indispensable.

“Where do you Shower?”
“. . . three, four, five” I count the liquid hand-soap dispenser pumps. “Just enough for a good washing.” My bare feet squeak on the tiled floor as I slide past the toilet stalls to the tan, utilitarian shower room. Carefully cupping the gelatinous detergent in my left hand and sheltering it behind my back, I pull the unwieldy faucet and twist it all the way to the “H.” The pad of early morning joggers percolates into the acoustically sensitive room from the indoor track, mingling with a wetly whistled version of “Born on the Bayou.” I cock my head to listen for the 6:30 wave of ROTC students. They always go straight for the toilets. Using a urinal isn’t, in itself, inconsiderate, but the flush chokes the usually robust shower-stream to a pitiful trickle, which is tepid and inconvenient. Grateful for my solitude, I lather the rich, pink hand-soap into my drenched hair. The shampoo industry is a crock.
Bathing is an important behavior socially, hygienically, and psychologically. Since it requires a highly specialized, even sophisticated dwelling, it was one of the first issues I had to deal with in order to move outside. For $30.00 a semester you can rent a brown 10” by 24” locker in the Field House. Though designed to hold a towel and running shorts, it also fits books, shaving cream, a helmet, biking shoes and a full wardrobe of clothes. One day, on the way to the laundromat my friend Tommy told me, “You have fewer clothes than my 5 year old has socks.”  The Field House fee also gives you access to a fresh, white towel. Once soiled, you simply toss it into an oversized, wheeled hamper near the building’s north entrance and a friendly, but professional, staff member hands you a new one.
A communal shower eliminates my dependence on a personally-owned facility. It also connects me to an unlikely, but delightful social network.
There is an odd camaraderie between users of the shower-room. We see a lot of each other but not very often. Most people go there once a day to lift weights, play basketball or take a physical education course. Because the Field House serves as my shower room and storage unit I go there considerably more frequently. Whenever I want to go on a bike-ride or read from “Eco-Economy” for my Watershed Science class, I have to pop into that steamy, tiled changing room. The inordinate amount of time I spend there usually goes unnoticed since none of the other “tenants” linger long enough to realize how consistently I’m there. This phenomenon of anonymity, combined with the fact that people are much less inquisitive when they’re naked, accounts for why I haven’t once been asked why I have so much crap crammed into that high aluminum box in the wall.

 “Where do you sleep?”
The crunch of tennis shoes on gravel wrenches me from sleep. Hoping I’m far enough off the trail not to be seen, I sink into my mummy-bag and try to blend into the underbrush. Something smashes into my foot.
“Ooof! What the . . .? Ah!”
The footsteps, initially sluggish, now sprint off into the early morning mist.
“They should hire me to rouse students every morning on their way to class; I bet that would vastly improve participation in early-morning courses,” I chuckle to myself, though I’m actually as worried as the poor girl who stepped on me. I quickly roll up my gear, in case she returns, and briskly walk to the Field House where my hot, dry towel awaits.
It takes me just over three minutes to unfold my red tarp, unroll my orange, self-inflating pad, and extract my blue and black sleeping bag from its tight compression sack. As far as “housekeeping” convenience goes, this lifestyle is pretty well unparalleled. Where security is concerned, however, things aren’t quiet as sure. After a few weeks “in the open” you build up a repertoire of camping nooks with little-to-no risk of discovery or harassment. There’s a great alcove just south of the Fine-Arts building, and an extensive patch of trees and shrubbery west of the Institute complex. Even when sleeping on campus I rarely worry about someone seeing me. The main danger of detection comes from the ruckus I make rolling up in the morning. Zippers, tarps and valves buzz, crinkle and hiss unless packed painfully slow. This caution used to retard my routine but I’ve learned that an explosive burst from the bushes draws less attention. Once in the open I take my time drying and packing my gear in the hot Utah sun.

“Where do you go during the day?”
The moisture from my damp sleeping bag humidifies the bright corner on the second floor of the Merrill-Cazier Library. Grateful for the wide windows, I lean back in the richly upholstered chair, cracking my back over its back. Cracker crumbs, dislodged from my mustache, fall to the floor where my gear lies steaming in the sun. Students, scattered along the handsome wooden study-stations type studiously, apparently indifferent of my unorthodox use of the public space we share.
            The library, Student Center, Fine Arts Building and Natural Resources Building are my most frequent haunts. In their halls, classrooms and student lounges, I do homework, eat, socialize and play. My access to these areas, assured by my status as a student, provides me with space, heat, water, toilets and internet access. While it’s nice to never need to clean the bathroom, it’s also humbling to have no control over the space you inhabit.
Outside, I don’t experience the same uneasiness concerning property rights. I’m most comfortable in the canyons or hills. We attempt to divide natural resources and fence off parcels of wilderness, but the nature of Nature eludes ownership altogether. We all have equal rights in the landscape to which we belong.

“What about when it gets cold?”
An unidentified liquid, most likely drool or dew, oozes across my clammy cheek and drips onto my synthetic sleeping bag where it freezes. I can’t feel my nose. My hands won’t close the zipper on my coat. Morning moisture flakes and falls from my frosty bike to the icy ground as I hurriedly secure my bulging backpack in the basket.
I have a sleeping bag rated to zero degrees Fahrenheit. I was unaware, however, when I purchased the inexpensive sack, that this is a “survival rating.” When supplemented by an emergency blanket, a good pad, and every article of clothing I own, my “High Mountain” bag keeps me from freezing to death. On really cold nights I sleep on a ventilation grate. Every morning I’m temporarily deafened by the rumbling, but the warmth is worth it. There are advantages to cold spells. I can be sure that no one has visited my “campsite”—the snow keeps track for me. Also, around the 15th of September the mosquitoes, ants, and spiders stop trying to sleep with me. On the subject of intimacy, living outdoors I’m connected to the earth’s circadian rhythms and aware of its moods, patterns, and changes. The weather controls my life more than the typical collegiate.

What do you eat?”
“Ding, Ding, Ding,” the cheerful microwave chime calls me from the corner of the Student Center “Hub.” I hurry over and peer through the dim window to see if my meal is ready. Slurping the instant potatoes (watered down into a drinkable soup) from my “Rubbermaid” lidded bowl, I smile. That bowl’s the best $2.39 I’ve ever spent. It has survived countless nukings.
With 23,000 undergraduates currently enrolled at Utah State, there is a free dinner, lunch, or opening social almost every day. With selective attention to the events calendar, and by getting on a half-dozen club e-mailing lists, you can count on at least 2,500 calories a day. I supplement my scavenged diet with “Quaker Instant Oatmeal” packets, dehydrated potatoes and rice, and an occasional loaf from the “Wonder-Bread” outlet’s dumpster down on First West. My eating expenses are almost zero but my food intake is largely determined by chance and luck.

“What do your parents think about it?”
“Have a good semester and be safe honey.” My short, brown-haired mother ushered me out the door, unperturbed and confidently unconcerned about my decision to camp here and there.
 “Serious students need a place to study and stack their books. You’re going to expend all your energy on subsisting,” my father fretted when I proposed the idea to him (a few days before heading up to school). Despite his apprehensions he drove me up to Logan my first semester outside. I assured him that it wasn’t financial or social constraints causing me to camp out. I buttered him up a little, reasoning that I’d be able to give more time to my studies since I wouldn’t be so immersed in the dorm social scene. The jury’s still out as to whether my decent grades are due to my alternative lifestyle or just a healthy fear of losing my tuition waiver, but this explanation seemed to calm my father. Subsequently, he has become a great supporter and chronicler of my experiment.

“How do you date?”
“Should we meet at your place or at mine?”
“I’ll come by at 8:30 OK?” I respond quickly, without hesitation, grateful she had posed the question that way.
“OK, what’s your number?”
“Uh,” This time I stall, looking upward for inspiration. “E-mail is the best way to get a hold of me. Send me a message if you can’t make it, alright?”
“Sounds good. Are you driving or me?”
“How bout we walk?”
“Uh, sure. OK see ya!”
The puzzled girl I just asked out waves politely as she steps through the library doors. I turn back my to research. It will be easier to explain once we’re actually on the date. 
With no house, car, phone, roommates, or consistent venue for socializing, I encounter a selective slice of the student population. These challenges haven’t seriously impeded my social success, however. My camping out is often considered novel and interesting. My homelessness isn’t ultimately motivated by a desire to pick up on women, but my occasional attempts at drawing their attention are helped more than inhibited by this peculiarity.

“Why do you do it?”
The buzz and snap of my bike’s tires heightens as I pick up momentum on the old banked hill, just west of campus. My shoulders shudder involuntarily, not from the cold, but from a jubilant impulse issuing from every corner of my body. I hoot and then yelp, unable to contain the surge of compact speed and hearty simplicity the early morning trip to the laundromat infuses me with. Distributed between my backpack and my bike-basket, I’m carrying everything I own.
I camp out because I feel invigorated by the whiff and bite of winter wind; because it minimizes my ecological footprint; because I feel more aware of what is necessary and what is expendable; because I don’t need an alarm clock or vacuum cleaner. There is something primal and earthy about the daily necessities of rolling up camp, finding places to stay dry, and having to expend energy to assure myself a consistent caloric intake. When the sun hangs low over the Wellsvilles around 5:00 pm, or when the temperature plummets unexpectedly, I often feel an intimate communion with the hundreds of thousands of other human beings who live, or have lived, from day to day, between buildings and beside trees. It’s a curious sensation and surprisingly appropriate to life.

Living outside has afforded me a delicious sensation of communion with nature, freedom and mobility. Freedom isn’t, however, inversely proportional to dependence. Those who own or use more than I do aren’t necessarily enslaved by their possessions. Nonetheless our ability to live deliberately is compromised when we are ignorant of the fact that our so-called “dependencies” are often imposed by others’ preferences and traditions. The longer I live under the liquid moon the more I’m convinced that exposure to night air teaches us our true context and place in the world. The more aware we are of what we truly need to be happy, the more we can serve those around us—the more we can relish the ironies and idiosyncrasies of this lopsided and unlikely existence. With new experience comes exciting detachment—new perspective that permits us to see our worlds from the outside. So I’m willing to live without.

To hear the wind through the trees
I took down my four walls
and stepped quietly into the moonlight
to the sound of snowfalls.

Ben Abbott, November First 2006