A unit of mechanical work

This morning, I got up at 5:30, ate breakfast, and then went with K to a garage in north-downtown Phoenix. We met up with a small group of other people, arranged things just so, and then climbed on to our waiting beasts: eight ergometers, those indoor rowing machines that most rowers view with a particular horror. We set our computers for 42,195 m, or 26.2 miles, the same distance as a running marathon. We started up a movie on the TV, dimmed the lights, and began to row.

Three hours and various minutes later, we finished. As one of the marathoners noted, probably most of the rest of humanity would figure us insane to devote so much time and energy for the sole purpose of seeing how fast we can go over that incredible distance, on a stationary machine, no less. Most of the rest of humanity is probably right.

And yet--I had to give myself the option to opt-out by completing only a half marathon, given the questionable state of my health. But did I stop at 21,097 m? Of course not. After I made it that far, how could I not carry on and complete the full distance? So I did. Besides, given the various endurance activities I've pursued, I have to say that long-distance running was the stupidest. It's nice to have that perspective. I'm just not built to run, so it's foolish and hard on my body to expend so much effort trying.

What's even more incredible is that I managed to go faster than I did last year. Granted, it was by a mere two minutes (3 hours, 21 minutes, 40.9 seconds), but as last year's on-the-water marathon showed, those slight differences may be all the edge one needs. I'd credit my improvement to all of the bicycling that I have been doing.

For some perspective in a slightly more comprehensible unit, that's 2381 calories expended, or 173 watts.

Anyway, now I am tired, to put it mildly, so my bed and I are going to spend some quality time together.

Knowledge, danger, power, heritage

As I continue to read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I'm struck by my ignorance about the seasonality of local produce here. Reading about Kingsolver's decisions about when to plant and when to harvest different types of fruits and vegetables makes me want to assemble a gardener's almanac, except there's one small problem: growing seasons are quite different out here in the desert.

The summer is often slower because it's too hot to grow many things, but aside from that simple statement I'm still having a hard time determining what's best when. Participating in the area CSA is helping with that, but I think it's going to take a full year of participation for me to gain a full appreciation of how things work.

All I know is, when I went to the grocery store this afternoon, all that I could see in the produce section were food-miles and food-miles: pale tomatoes in the organic produce section, avocados from who-knows-where (in all likelihood, California, where most of our produce originates, and not such a long distance from us as from folks in Virginia), all sorts of greens and exotic mushrooms, and strawberries and rhubarb suggestively paired together. I'd feel like a fool if I bought strawberries right now--I doubt they taste much like the real thing, as it's way too late in the year for them in the parts of the country I'm familiar with. And yet I did buy kale and cauliflower, foods that I'd guess are well out of season around here (I should note that I missed our CSA pick-up this week, an unfortunate oversight). But it's hard to make simple menu-planning decisions without some basic knowledge of what I should be eating.

I'm grateful for every small bit of the food-growing knowledge my parents (and especially mother) have managed to pass on to us kids. As we've gotten older, the family back yard has been renovated into a lush vegetable garden, and my mother has managed to squeeze in two apple trees, blueberry bushes and strawberry plants in a narrow side-yard. All this, plus a row of tall evergreens along the driveway that provide shade and some protection from the busy street. Though sytharin's boss on the organic farm kept on telling her, "You don't know ____? You're never going to be a farmer," I think we've started out with at least a bit more knowledge than the average American.

I also keep on thinking about the farm where my mom grew up. My mom's family primarily refers to it as a chicken farm (with some dairy, too, I believe), and yet my grandfather's equally lush and productive vegetable garden is a testament to the fact that it was far more than that. I shouldn't fail to mention his dahlias, either. Only now do I fully appreciate their exquisite beauty and variety.

As time has passed, my grandfather has sold off portions of his land--it is now seen as valuable for McMansions for people willing to commute the hour or longer into the Seattle area. But some vestiges of the original remain, particularly the large, salmon-colored Chicken House (barn) full of all sorts of exciting farm implements and other relics, and a small pasture out behind the barn.

When my mom and her brothers and sisters grew up, they spread out into the world, landing as close by as Seattle (my mom) and as far away as Saudi Arabia (uncle), to pursue their own careers and lifestyles. So I'm left to wonder--when writers talk about the loss of the small family farm, do they think of families like mine? If our farm was lost, how did this happen, and why? Is there some part of it that could be carried on in the family (if it's merely dormant and not lost), or is that unrealistic at this point? What will happen to this part of my heritage? I'm tied to that place in the shadow of Mt. Rainier, just as I'm tied, however faintly, to the life of a cowboy and a grandmother in a small town in a valley in Montana. There's a danger to disconnection from these places, a homelessness that is visible in my confusion in the grocery store.