The Captain’s Log

Two things for me to ponder today:

Thing one: When you go to the automatic car wash, are you paying to have your car washed, or are you paying to have your car made clean? The reason I ask is because the automatic car wash in the booming metropolis of Brattleboro, VT, can’t seem to clean the very back of my 1998 Subaru Legacy Wagon. I’ve tried the five dollar wash. Today I got crazy and tried the nine dollar wash. Gotta say there’s more dirt missing, but the car ain’t clean. I think I’m back to two buckets and a brush in the driveway. It’s like a dishwasher that only cleans clean dishes, but that’s another rant.

Thing two: I’m still deep in the sustainability story I’m writing for the alumni magazine I publish. What is the endpoint of sustainability? I’m guessing finite number of humans digesting the environment at a rate that allows it to recover ad infinitum. So what if this is actually heaven and we’re supposed to sort out immortality, accidental death notwithstanding, and live here in this earthly plane for ever and ever? I can hear you all shaking your heads. But if we could find a cure for death by aging, wouldn’t we eventually figure out how to beat all the pain and suffering that leads us to believe there’s got to be a better place beyond? I mean, what if we found a cure for getting lemon juice in paper cuts? What if blackboards were outlawed so nobody could scrape their finger nails on them? Fartless beans? High-fiber roast beef? I guess I’ll keep mulling that one for the nonce.

Thing Three (I lied): Why, when you’re playing monopoly with the requisite random dice rolls, do you always seem to land on the same spaces lap after lap? Poor Emily got trounced last night because she kept rolling 10s and 12s and landing on the Water Works. I had both utilities, so it cost her $100-$120 each time (10x the dice roll). Meanwhile, I kept landing on Baltic Ave, which Emily owned, and having to pay a paltry $6 rent. What if randomness has a pattern? What if the end point of entropy is organization of some sort? If I spread all the toys out on the floor of our apartment, will they migrate to some pattern more compact than even distribution? Maybe they have a natural home and I should let the Feng do its Shui.

I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Bye now.

I’ve been writing a story about sustainability for the alumni magazine this week and it’s taken me some interesting places. I started rooting around to find out what the word actually means and how it came to be part of the current buzz. Seems there’s a bunch of scientific folks out there who believe we can moderate our behavior enough to change the weather back to the way it’s supposed to be and ensure the future of our species.

Meanwhile, there’s a bunch of religious folks who believe the Book of Revelation will come to pass, as written, some time in our not-to-distant future. CNN-Time did a poll in 2002 that revealed 59% of America shares this belief. A somewhat less reliable source claims 44% of America believe it’s going to happen within the next 50 years.
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I drove around Lake Spofford today. Lake Spofford is a smallish lake lined with houses and camps just off Route 9 between Brattleboro, VT and Keene, NH. I drove around it because Steve used to run there in the morning, or so the obituary said. The last time he did it was December 28th. He collapsed in the shower right after and couldn’t be revived. The memorial service is tomorrow.

Steve Brehm was 42 years old and, judging from the distance around the lake–maybe five or six miles–still in pretty good shape. I knew him as an aspiring triathlete with a knack for road bike time trialing. For what seemed like eons, the 15km Route 30 Thurday Night Time Trial record stood at 21:04, set by some Texan name Stan Blanton on his way home from Nationals in New Hampshire one year. In them days we time trialed with our mitts on the “hooks” or drop part of our handlebars, as all good roadies should. Only sailors, Nancy boys and triathletes used them goofy time trial bars that rest your elbows on top of the handlebar and point your hands out in front like a downhill skier. Anyway, we worked for years to topple that record. I got down to 21:28 one year, and that was it for me. Getting into the “21 Club” was a badge of honor. I can’t remember if Ed Pavelka nipped the record finally at 21:03, or whether Steve just blew it out of the box one evening with a 20 and change. Then he got the goofy handlebars and chewed the record back, if memory serves, to 19:46. I’m not sure if the record stands, since the list isn’t on the Putney Bicycle Club website anymore and the time trial seems to have gone the way of toe clips, rim cement, friction shifters and, well, Steve.
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