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Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Shopping Spree!
Today I visited REI, a fabulous "Outdoor Adventure" supply store in Towson. I had a $100 gift certificate in my pocket...and "Evil Twin Skippy" egging me on at every turn.
Total tab? $420.
For those of you not familiar with REI, it's the type of store that incites needs where, before, there wasn't even an awareness. For example, yes, I knew I would need a good Dry Bag...but I didn't know that shopping for a Dry Bag would be like shopping for sneakers: myriad shapes, sizes, colors, materials and finishes, alternative closing mechanisms, sub-pockets, strap placements, transparent windows (or not)....so, of course, I bought two. And so it went.
Actually, my final haul pretty much mirrors (and almost completes) the supply list of the previous blog entry, even though I got a bit carried away on some unanticipated, irresistable do-dads: the cutest little collapsable anchor you ever saw, for example, and experimental food (globules of electrolytes? Gotta try 'em!), some robust, resilient looking space-age foam for the sliding seat (the package's photo of a car driving over it was compelling, if not alluring), and a pillow. Yes, a pillow, which of course rolls up into its own 'lil nylon bag. Cute.
$420 aside, I should perhaps congratulate myself on some of the things that I didn't buy. I didn't buy, for example, the most comfortable folding chair I have ever been in. It, too, came in its own cute 'lil nylon bag, and I actually had the thing in my cart for about 20 minutes. I had visions of curling up in it after a 40+ mile day, Ian McKewan & a saucy Merlot in hand, the sun still a few fingers above the horizon casting an amber glow across a deserted beach...
"No, Skippy, no. Gotta travel light. Too much clutter in the boat." Out it went.
Mark Twain said, "Confession is good for the soul but bad for the reputation," and I hereby confess that I almost bought an $8.50 clothesline: 15' of line with hearty clothespins attached at regular intervals, residing, of course, in its own cute 'lil nylon bag. It, too, took a turn around the store with me until I came to my senses and considered what a few clothespins (already on the balance sheet) could do on the nylon line I will have with me anyway. Close call.
"Down, Skippy, down."
But I did buy - are you ready? - a cute 'lil nylon bag (blue, with integral cinch-string). Nothing in it...just the bag. I suppose that I had denied myself so many nylon-bagged goodies that a bag, alone, would have to do. $5.99 made the itch go away.
I've been hitting the gym pretty hard this week, making muscles ache that ache when I actually row. I know they can't be exactly the same muscles, but they're in the vicinity, and if their torture serves to wake up their slothful neighbors, so be it. I'll get some rowing in this weekend - I'm anxious to try out the foam and the electrolyte gobules - and I hope to see some fruits from my gym time.
I'll let you know.
Globules. Yum.
Mr. Frei
Total tab? $420.
For those of you not familiar with REI, it's the type of store that incites needs where, before, there wasn't even an awareness. For example, yes, I knew I would need a good Dry Bag...but I didn't know that shopping for a Dry Bag would be like shopping for sneakers: myriad shapes, sizes, colors, materials and finishes, alternative closing mechanisms, sub-pockets, strap placements, transparent windows (or not)....so, of course, I bought two. And so it went.
Actually, my final haul pretty much mirrors (and almost completes) the supply list of the previous blog entry, even though I got a bit carried away on some unanticipated, irresistable do-dads: the cutest little collapsable anchor you ever saw, for example, and experimental food (globules of electrolytes? Gotta try 'em!), some robust, resilient looking space-age foam for the sliding seat (the package's photo of a car driving over it was compelling, if not alluring), and a pillow. Yes, a pillow, which of course rolls up into its own 'lil nylon bag. Cute.
$420 aside, I should perhaps congratulate myself on some of the things that I didn't buy. I didn't buy, for example, the most comfortable folding chair I have ever been in. It, too, came in its own cute 'lil nylon bag, and I actually had the thing in my cart for about 20 minutes. I had visions of curling up in it after a 40+ mile day, Ian McKewan & a saucy Merlot in hand, the sun still a few fingers above the horizon casting an amber glow across a deserted beach...
"No, Skippy, no. Gotta travel light. Too much clutter in the boat." Out it went.
Mark Twain said, "Confession is good for the soul but bad for the reputation," and I hereby confess that I almost bought an $8.50 clothesline: 15' of line with hearty clothespins attached at regular intervals, residing, of course, in its own cute 'lil nylon bag. It, too, took a turn around the store with me until I came to my senses and considered what a few clothespins (already on the balance sheet) could do on the nylon line I will have with me anyway. Close call.
"Down, Skippy, down."
But I did buy - are you ready? - a cute 'lil nylon bag (blue, with integral cinch-string). Nothing in it...just the bag. I suppose that I had denied myself so many nylon-bagged goodies that a bag, alone, would have to do. $5.99 made the itch go away.
I've been hitting the gym pretty hard this week, making muscles ache that ache when I actually row. I know they can't be exactly the same muscles, but they're in the vicinity, and if their torture serves to wake up their slothful neighbors, so be it. I'll get some rowing in this weekend - I'm anxious to try out the foam and the electrolyte gobules - and I hope to see some fruits from my gym time.
I'll let you know.
Globules. Yum.
Mr. Frei
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Pledge Paddle Plaudits
Gentle Readers, we've (you've) paddled past the $8,000 mark ($8213.40, to be exact), and your generosity and and ludicrous confidence in me incite this premature blog entry.
First, for you newbies, some catch-up: the money we raise on this venture goes to the Financial Aid budget of The Boys' Latin School where I teach; many parents make extraordinary familial sacrifices to send their sons to my school, and for those 'on the bubble' of support for their sons' education, this money will come as welcome and much-needed relief. So, thank you! I, of course, have the distinct motivational advantage of having some of these fine fellows in my own classroom; I see their faces, I hear their voices, and I see their commitment (and gratitude for the opportunity). Trust me when I tell you that augmenting the financial aid budget of this (or, frankly, any!) school impacts real people in an enormously tangible way.
Sure, I'd like to get it to the magical $10k - or beyond - and there's still enough time between today and August 5 for that to be a reasonable goal. I must say that while I didn't initially plan this trip to be a fundraising initiative, it sure feels good to see it unfolding. To those of you who are making it happen, again, many thanks!
In my idle time I've been making a provisions / supply / equipment list for the row...and I'm beginning to have concerns about both the space I have available and the unforseen needs that might not be met. I court the prospect of my guideboat looking like a bad out-take from The Beverly Hillbillies but, hey, Jethro Clampett had the mansion...my boat will be my mansion for about two weeks. Here's what's aboard my imagination so far (working from the stern to the bow):
A Dry Bag (a bag that keeps things dry that ought not to get wet) will fit, I hope, under the very small deck over the stern of the boat, out of the sun and water. Contents: a wallet purged of all unnecessary filler, spare batteries, an "In Case I'm Found" letter, spare glasses, a picture of Peg(sigh), essential toiletries, a log/journal book, reserve charts, and an Imaginary Letter of Commendation and Support from the Mayor of Troy to the Mayor of Baltimore.
Moving forward, there's about two feet of easy-access clear space in front of my feet. Here I will tie down a cooler containing the day's primary provisions: ice, a lot of water (maybe a Yoo Hoo or two), and food representing a high protien, high carb diet, (the guys training for an across-the-Atlantic row plan to consume (and burn) better than 10,000 calories each day. I note this with caution, because I'd hate to arive in Baltimore having gained 25 pounds. I could easily do that if left to my own juvenile culinary tendencies.)
On either side of the cooler I will secure other items and devices that will meet my immediate "needs" while underway. I'll want to position my Taskmaster GPS unit within easy sight so I can sustain my desired pace (3.8-4.5 mph). I'll be bringing some sort of radio with which to gather the local flavor of the ports I pass. I'll have a floatable "crash bag" containing flares, a whistle, a navy-surplus signal mirror...probably tied to me during the harriest portions (of the trip, for God's sake. Come on, Gentle Reader. Sheesh.). Bug stuff, sun stuff, and your good will will also be at hand under the gunwales amidship, probably in mesh hanging bags, along with a small "sneak" paddle.
Now, moving towards the bow, you get to me, the propulsion unit. A silly wide-brimmed hat is a mandatory; frankly, sun exposure is a real danger during two weeks on the water, and the hat will be augmented by long-sleeved UV resistant shirts and neck protection. I'll be covered in goop if I'm responsible, and I'll be alternating gloves because the blisters will come regardless of how much preliminary callouse material I'll be able to build up. I'll alternate lightweight running pants with shorts for additional sun protection and, of course, socks with footgear (perhaps) yet-to-be-determined. Say what you will about my boat, I'm not looking too much like Jethro at this point, eh? Sea Urchin comes to mind.
When conditions call for it, I do plan to wear a lightweight CO-2 activated life vest. I'll have to ensure that whetever I wear does not restrict my motion in the act of rowing; 10 (maybe more) hours a day will turn a minor chafe into a real problem.
Continuing towards the bow, past me and the rails of my sliding seat, I will have to contend with a PVC pipe that is strung between the forward set of oarlocks. This pipe supports a lightweight 'pusher' sail that I plan to use to take advantage of quartering or direct tail winds. To be sure, the very act of bringing this will ensure headwinds all the way, but I've been good and I will trust to fate.
Ed Note - A Moral Dilemma: Some, like my very own brother, have opined that bringing this "sail" may compromise the "purity" of "rowing to Baltimore." My only response is that when I see the waterways crowded with other past-middle-age, slightly overweight former sales/marketing types-turned-teachers undertaking this same 450 mile madness without a pusher, I'll relent. In the meantime, paaaleeease, give me a break. It in no way converts my boat into a "sail" boat (no keel, no rudder, no centerboard); and conditions have to be just right for deployment to make sense.
Under this PVC pipe will rest a waterproof "stores" bag containing (only a few) additional items of clothing, a lightweight sleeping bag, spares for the oarlocks and mechanicals (sliding seat and such), lubricant, rain gear, non-perishable food (lotsa beef jerkey), basic meds (a.k.a. Absorbine Junior), duct tape, reading material (ahh...lots of reading material!) and other items commonly associated with a camping experience, like Charmin.
Finally, fully forward at the bow, I'll secure a rolled-up sleeping pad and some netting.
Balancing the boat fore-and-aft is vital for maximum efficiency - and, let's face it, the marginal "propulsive unit" powering this vessel is mindful of the importance of efficiency. For this I plan to utilize several plastic gallon jugs. Filling these jugs with water as necessary and moving them fore and aft will materially effect the trim of the boat, and they are easy to crush and store when not needed.
So that's the plan. I'll take feedback greatfully on what might be obviously left out, and I do plan to weigh the load and, obviously, simulate it when I get into serious water training in July.
My concession to technology and communications will be my cell phone. Peg, Chief Safety Officer, insists upon it, and I can't hope to be able to coordinate a possible mid-journey liason without it. The phone will also enable me to contact her and Kathy for daily updates and highlights which they will enter on this blog in an almost-real-time fashion.
I'm off to the gym now, lest today's Row Preparation be only a cerebral exercise.
Thanks for moving that Pledge Paddle; tell your friends!!
Floating forward,
Mr. Frei
First, for you newbies, some catch-up: the money we raise on this venture goes to the Financial Aid budget of The Boys' Latin School where I teach; many parents make extraordinary familial sacrifices to send their sons to my school, and for those 'on the bubble' of support for their sons' education, this money will come as welcome and much-needed relief. So, thank you! I, of course, have the distinct motivational advantage of having some of these fine fellows in my own classroom; I see their faces, I hear their voices, and I see their commitment (and gratitude for the opportunity). Trust me when I tell you that augmenting the financial aid budget of this (or, frankly, any!) school impacts real people in an enormously tangible way.
Sure, I'd like to get it to the magical $10k - or beyond - and there's still enough time between today and August 5 for that to be a reasonable goal. I must say that while I didn't initially plan this trip to be a fundraising initiative, it sure feels good to see it unfolding. To those of you who are making it happen, again, many thanks!
In my idle time I've been making a provisions / supply / equipment list for the row...and I'm beginning to have concerns about both the space I have available and the unforseen needs that might not be met. I court the prospect of my guideboat looking like a bad out-take from The Beverly Hillbillies but, hey, Jethro Clampett had the mansion...my boat will be my mansion for about two weeks. Here's what's aboard my imagination so far (working from the stern to the bow):
A Dry Bag (a bag that keeps things dry that ought not to get wet) will fit, I hope, under the very small deck over the stern of the boat, out of the sun and water. Contents: a wallet purged of all unnecessary filler, spare batteries, an "In Case I'm Found" letter, spare glasses, a picture of Peg(sigh), essential toiletries, a log/journal book, reserve charts, and an Imaginary Letter of Commendation and Support from the Mayor of Troy to the Mayor of Baltimore.
Moving forward, there's about two feet of easy-access clear space in front of my feet. Here I will tie down a cooler containing the day's primary provisions: ice, a lot of water (maybe a Yoo Hoo or two), and food representing a high protien, high carb diet, (the guys training for an across-the-Atlantic row plan to consume (and burn) better than 10,000 calories each day. I note this with caution, because I'd hate to arive in Baltimore having gained 25 pounds. I could easily do that if left to my own juvenile culinary tendencies.)
On either side of the cooler I will secure other items and devices that will meet my immediate "needs" while underway. I'll want to position my Taskmaster GPS unit within easy sight so I can sustain my desired pace (3.8-4.5 mph). I'll be bringing some sort of radio with which to gather the local flavor of the ports I pass. I'll have a floatable "crash bag" containing flares, a whistle, a navy-surplus signal mirror...probably tied to me during the harriest portions (of the trip, for God's sake. Come on, Gentle Reader. Sheesh.). Bug stuff, sun stuff, and your good will will also be at hand under the gunwales amidship, probably in mesh hanging bags, along with a small "sneak" paddle.
Now, moving towards the bow, you get to me, the propulsion unit. A silly wide-brimmed hat is a mandatory; frankly, sun exposure is a real danger during two weeks on the water, and the hat will be augmented by long-sleeved UV resistant shirts and neck protection. I'll be covered in goop if I'm responsible, and I'll be alternating gloves because the blisters will come regardless of how much preliminary callouse material I'll be able to build up. I'll alternate lightweight running pants with shorts for additional sun protection and, of course, socks with footgear (perhaps) yet-to-be-determined. Say what you will about my boat, I'm not looking too much like Jethro at this point, eh? Sea Urchin comes to mind.
When conditions call for it, I do plan to wear a lightweight CO-2 activated life vest. I'll have to ensure that whetever I wear does not restrict my motion in the act of rowing; 10 (maybe more) hours a day will turn a minor chafe into a real problem.
Continuing towards the bow, past me and the rails of my sliding seat, I will have to contend with a PVC pipe that is strung between the forward set of oarlocks. This pipe supports a lightweight 'pusher' sail that I plan to use to take advantage of quartering or direct tail winds. To be sure, the very act of bringing this will ensure headwinds all the way, but I've been good and I will trust to fate.
Ed Note - A Moral Dilemma: Some, like my very own brother, have opined that bringing this "sail" may compromise the "purity" of "rowing to Baltimore." My only response is that when I see the waterways crowded with other past-middle-age, slightly overweight former sales/marketing types-turned-teachers undertaking this same 450 mile madness without a pusher, I'll relent. In the meantime, paaaleeease, give me a break. It in no way converts my boat into a "sail" boat (no keel, no rudder, no centerboard); and conditions have to be just right for deployment to make sense.
Under this PVC pipe will rest a waterproof "stores" bag containing (only a few) additional items of clothing, a lightweight sleeping bag, spares for the oarlocks and mechanicals (sliding seat and such), lubricant, rain gear, non-perishable food (lotsa beef jerkey), basic meds (a.k.a. Absorbine Junior), duct tape, reading material (ahh...lots of reading material!) and other items commonly associated with a camping experience, like Charmin.
Finally, fully forward at the bow, I'll secure a rolled-up sleeping pad and some netting.
Balancing the boat fore-and-aft is vital for maximum efficiency - and, let's face it, the marginal "propulsive unit" powering this vessel is mindful of the importance of efficiency. For this I plan to utilize several plastic gallon jugs. Filling these jugs with water as necessary and moving them fore and aft will materially effect the trim of the boat, and they are easy to crush and store when not needed.
So that's the plan. I'll take feedback greatfully on what might be obviously left out, and I do plan to weigh the load and, obviously, simulate it when I get into serious water training in July.
My concession to technology and communications will be my cell phone. Peg, Chief Safety Officer, insists upon it, and I can't hope to be able to coordinate a possible mid-journey liason without it. The phone will also enable me to contact her and Kathy for daily updates and highlights which they will enter on this blog in an almost-real-time fashion.
I'm off to the gym now, lest today's Row Preparation be only a cerebral exercise.
Thanks for moving that Pledge Paddle; tell your friends!!
Floating forward,
Mr. Frei
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Reunited!!
Greetings, Gentle Reader. It's been too long.
Peg and I were at Lake George over the last two days, attending a memorial service for my Aunt Carol who passed away last week. Cousin Chris's eulogy said it perfectly: "a glamourous, generous lady who never asked for anything for herself." Her battle - and the Herculean efforts and love of her care-givers - make my "big row"(and most everything else on our respective to-do lists) trivial affairs indeed, but the silver lining was the gathering of friends and family who had not seen one another in ages... another gift from Carol.
The visit put me on the water today....this morning...in my guideboat, on my favorite "training" ground (Lake George), enabling me to identify the myriad muscles (such as they are) that will have to be isolated and overhauled before August 5. I can feel them as I sit here, whispering, "Al, you rowed only a few miles today...and we're here. We need more."
"Shhsh," I say. "I'll get to you. I have to write first."
"But Al, this is a rowing adventure, not a literary exercise. We'll get you for this. We really will. You'll roll out of the boat in Kingston (50 miles) like a whipped Pillsbury Dough-Boy."
"Shhsh," I say. "No more talk like that. No more, I say. I've got to finish the blog."
And I do. But as I do, they wait, and tomorrow morning when I shuffle down the hall for my shower, their petulent voices will be raised, and I will have to listen.
So...on with the blog.
Rebellious musculature aside, it was a glorious day. I sprayed a little WD 40 on the sliding seat, cleaned the bird ka-ka out of the boat, lubed the oarlocks, and within minutes I was rewarded by the snap of the cherry oars against the supple resistance of the lake water. A word about the cherry oars: most of you who have rowed - as I had prior to my cherry oars - most likely recall the physics of rowing as the isometric exercise of pulling a stiff object through a liquid. A cherry oar, particularly a slender, nine-foot cherry oar, provides a truly organic experience on the power stroke. It flexes under load...more load, a little more flex...and at the end of the pull it returns to its original shape with the hint of a whip...even a snap, if you're pulling hard enough. It's like getting a nice reward, a kind of extra-propulsive "attaboy," at the end of the stroke, and it's simply delightful. That little extra 'snap' on each pull, multiplied by the number of pulls over 450 miles, has got to be good for a few extra miles. I'll certainly have time to create and contemplate the equation during the trip.
I did experience a pang of indecision for a few minutes this morning, however, when my sister invited me to try out her new kayak- one of those long, high-prowed, authentic Eskimos jobs. I was stunned at its speed and comfort and at the way it could track a straight line in a crosswind with the help a a nifty retractable mini-keel. An amazing vessel...but one not in keeping with my journey. It can't haul prodigious quantities of Yoo Hoo, I'd look silly sleeping under it, and it too closely evokes the shape of a seal from below... a major consideration off the coast of New Jersey.
Speaking of sharks, the photo introduced by my former student (see last entry) was, I am sure, submitted in good humor, if not altogether in good taste. He is actually a very fine lad, one who helped me divine the mysteries of grammar in my first year of teaching with a modest shrug or a laconic, dismissive wave, and I am hopeful that the fins spawned from his inventive imagination do not express a lingering animas towards his former student....err, wait.... teacher.
So by 4:00 PM, Peg and I were back on the plane from Albany to Baltimore, sliding down the Hudson at 7 miles per minute. Yes, each of those minutes will be the better part of two hours for me - my lower back and pecs, tonight, say, "Easily, Gentle reader, easily" - and as we banked over NYC to head down the Jersey Shore, Peg leaned across to the window and said, "Hey, isn't that Sandy Hook?" ( Parenthetically, Peg has declared herself "Chief Safety Officer" for this expedition - she'll be the "Houston" to my "We have a problem" - and she has taken a keen interest in learning about the 'points of greatest peril' on my voyage. Sandy Hook is one of them. If there are to be fins, that is where they will be.)
And yes, by golly, it was Sandy Hook; from 26,000 feet, it radiated as a bucolic golden strand lapped by the ruffles of a mill-pond. I patted her hand, we ordered some vodka tonics, and flew on. She's my kind of Chief Safety Officer.
Mom, thanks for the week's rest in a day. Aunt Carol, we'll miss you.
More later this week, Gentle Reader, I promise.
'Snap' those oars!
Mr. Frei
Peg and I were at Lake George over the last two days, attending a memorial service for my Aunt Carol who passed away last week. Cousin Chris's eulogy said it perfectly: "a glamourous, generous lady who never asked for anything for herself." Her battle - and the Herculean efforts and love of her care-givers - make my "big row"(and most everything else on our respective to-do lists) trivial affairs indeed, but the silver lining was the gathering of friends and family who had not seen one another in ages... another gift from Carol.
The visit put me on the water today....this morning...in my guideboat, on my favorite "training" ground (Lake George), enabling me to identify the myriad muscles (such as they are) that will have to be isolated and overhauled before August 5. I can feel them as I sit here, whispering, "Al, you rowed only a few miles today...and we're here. We need more."
"Shhsh," I say. "I'll get to you. I have to write first."
"But Al, this is a rowing adventure, not a literary exercise. We'll get you for this. We really will. You'll roll out of the boat in Kingston (50 miles) like a whipped Pillsbury Dough-Boy."
"Shhsh," I say. "No more talk like that. No more, I say. I've got to finish the blog."
And I do. But as I do, they wait, and tomorrow morning when I shuffle down the hall for my shower, their petulent voices will be raised, and I will have to listen.
So...on with the blog.
Rebellious musculature aside, it was a glorious day. I sprayed a little WD 40 on the sliding seat, cleaned the bird ka-ka out of the boat, lubed the oarlocks, and within minutes I was rewarded by the snap of the cherry oars against the supple resistance of the lake water. A word about the cherry oars: most of you who have rowed - as I had prior to my cherry oars - most likely recall the physics of rowing as the isometric exercise of pulling a stiff object through a liquid. A cherry oar, particularly a slender, nine-foot cherry oar, provides a truly organic experience on the power stroke. It flexes under load...more load, a little more flex...and at the end of the pull it returns to its original shape with the hint of a whip...even a snap, if you're pulling hard enough. It's like getting a nice reward, a kind of extra-propulsive "attaboy," at the end of the stroke, and it's simply delightful. That little extra 'snap' on each pull, multiplied by the number of pulls over 450 miles, has got to be good for a few extra miles. I'll certainly have time to create and contemplate the equation during the trip.
I did experience a pang of indecision for a few minutes this morning, however, when my sister invited me to try out her new kayak- one of those long, high-prowed, authentic Eskimos jobs. I was stunned at its speed and comfort and at the way it could track a straight line in a crosswind with the help a a nifty retractable mini-keel. An amazing vessel...but one not in keeping with my journey. It can't haul prodigious quantities of Yoo Hoo, I'd look silly sleeping under it, and it too closely evokes the shape of a seal from below... a major consideration off the coast of New Jersey.
Speaking of sharks, the photo introduced by my former student (see last entry) was, I am sure, submitted in good humor, if not altogether in good taste. He is actually a very fine lad, one who helped me divine the mysteries of grammar in my first year of teaching with a modest shrug or a laconic, dismissive wave, and I am hopeful that the fins spawned from his inventive imagination do not express a lingering animas towards his former student....err, wait.... teacher.
So by 4:00 PM, Peg and I were back on the plane from Albany to Baltimore, sliding down the Hudson at 7 miles per minute. Yes, each of those minutes will be the better part of two hours for me - my lower back and pecs, tonight, say, "Easily, Gentle reader, easily" - and as we banked over NYC to head down the Jersey Shore, Peg leaned across to the window and said, "Hey, isn't that Sandy Hook?" ( Parenthetically, Peg has declared herself "Chief Safety Officer" for this expedition - she'll be the "Houston" to my "We have a problem" - and she has taken a keen interest in learning about the 'points of greatest peril' on my voyage. Sandy Hook is one of them. If there are to be fins, that is where they will be.)
And yes, by golly, it was Sandy Hook; from 26,000 feet, it radiated as a bucolic golden strand lapped by the ruffles of a mill-pond. I patted her hand, we ordered some vodka tonics, and flew on. She's my kind of Chief Safety Officer.
Mom, thanks for the week's rest in a day. Aunt Carol, we'll miss you.
More later this week, Gentle Reader, I promise.
'Snap' those oars!
Mr. Frei
Thursday, June 15, 2006
UH-OH (This comment deserved its own entry!)
O Captain! My Captain!
I attached an interpetational photo for you to ponder.... An old Steven Spielberg film inspired me (not E.T).I'm back in Ballmer - doin' the whole job-hunting thing and trying to get settled in. I just read your lastest blog entry, and I have to say, it was both flattering and unsettling to see my name in such a world-famous publication. Name a time and place and I'll cruise on up in my dad's ornithologically-tattooed Camry. ... I must go; the dinner bell beckons.
Sincerely,
A Gentle Reader (a.k.a Steve Sclar, a former student of Mr. Frei's)
P.S. Captain, I do not recommend that you explore Canto 193 of Walt's Leaves of Grass
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
The Big Muddy
Greetings, Gentle Reader,
If Kathy can work her Blogmistress Magic, you will (soon) see photos attached to this entry of our recent visit to Cape May, NJ. I stood on the beach looking across the Delaware "River" towards Delaware...and no Delaware. It's a big river. The waves lapping the beach had a certain "Yoo Hoo" patina, and the confluence of the Delaware and the Atlantic is roiling water indeed. Roiling Yoo Hoo; an eighth grader's dream, a rowers nightmare.
I walked up the beach (upstream) about a mile to the jetty at the end of the canal from which I will be emerging as I make my turn for home, and conditions looked a bit better. Had I been rowing that day, I would have had a two foot chop and a quartering tailwind...manageable, I think, and of course I will be aided - should I make it that far - by 300 miles of judgement and experience under my (hopefully shrinking) belt.
This will be a learning experience.
Cape May is a cute - albeit expensive - little town. Parking meters line every street and spin like slot machines. The hospitality industry is manned by high-cheekboned eastern European servers with lilting accents and enchanting interpretations of the specials of the day. The town is bisected by a canal that was intended to shield shipping from marauding U-boats during WW II, and there are prominent artifacts from this conflict on the beach; an impressive concrete gun emplacement breaks the waves just off the town, and the skyline further upstream is dominated by a futuristic concrete spotting tower ( a "fire control" outpost) that would make a killer condo. It will be a nice place for a rest-day, and I know people there with showers.
Seeing the Delaware River has sobered me to the challenge that it will represent. It's about a seventy mile pull upstream to the C&D Canal, and I think my primary incentive at the poignant moment when I clear the jetty will be the fact that I will have come so far...and only 1/3 of the journey will remain.
Gentle Readers, I'm stunned by how few of you have entered the sweepstakes for guessing the moment of my arrival. I mean, four entrants? Come on. Really. Is it possible that only four of you believe that I will indeed nudge something in the Inner Harbor? Happily, no one has entered the sweeps with the canny judgement that I'll pull up in Ossning, NY, wimpering, "No mas." C'mon, put in a guess...even if it's Kingston...Ossning...Cape May...or even Charm City itself. "Four entrants" suggests a 25% chance regardless of judgement...and I'd like to get a thermometer test of the public sentiment of my prospects. Take a shot, will you?
We are officially over the $7,000 with Trish's gracious lump-sum payment. If this keeps up, the Delaware will look a little less fearsome in August. I, and the boys, thank you!!!
More later.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Something Different
Forgive me tonight, Gentle Reader.
Sure, I know, this is supposed to be a blog about the mental, physical, and emotional trevails of a slightly overweight, past-middle-age, former marketing-type-turned-English-teacher as he prepares for a ludicrously long row from Troy, NY, to Baltimore over a two-to-three week period and finds that he is now additionally incented by the prospect of raising money -possibly a lot of money- for financial aid at his school.
(And that, dear students, is an unwieldy - but nonetheless workable - run-on sentence. If I had the loathesome red pen in my hand, I'd mark it so.)
But not tonight. No, tonight I'd like to wax nostalgic for a bit. You see, today we graduated said students - all sixty six of them - and even though this is my fourth graduation ceremony and I kind of knew what was coming, I'm struck by the wave of emotion(s) I felt as I saw those young men walk out for the last time.
Sure, they're "only" eighth graders, but eighth graders present themselves in ways that are, I think, unique. They are, in many ways, still kids. This is part of the charm of working with them, and the most exciting aspect of the challenge. They're wrestling with ideas like accountability and responsibility, they feel the tugs between adolesence and emerging adulthood, they have to consciously address what is truly right and what's just "acceptable" (or at least not "wrong"), and they are still in the process of learning how to be kind to one another without 'conditions' or 'cool-ness' muddying things up.
But the fact is that over these past few months where current events and the contemporary culture give me little grounds for optimism, I see in these kids a real sense of renewal and hope. The other side of the "kids" I said goodbye to today is their capacity to be accountable and responsible...to know "right" in a secular or spiritual way, and to be kind to one another because of an emerging intuition that communities just work better for all of us when we are.
Today I had the good fortune of being able to address them and their parents as we sent them off. I employed some lame metaphor about snowflakes and snowballs (text available upon request...but really, why would you?)...and since this is a rowing blog and I'm on a metaphorical roll, another comes to mind. These guys are in the relatively early days of their own "big row." While they have a sense of the progress that they can make and maybe even an idea of a (however temporarily identified) destination, the early days of their row are teaching them that it doesn't come effortlessly, or without some discomfort, or even without real risk. They're also discovering that it's something they have to do on their own, even if they do have a support team, and yet the journey can have its magical moments every bit as fulfillng as the prospect of arriving at a destination.
So we rowed out of the gym today together, me looking back at how much I enjoyed my year with them, already missing them and the delightfully unpredictable and varigated routine they presented to me each day, and they looking forward to summer and beyond.
Sheeesh. I'm welling up - I really kinda am - but it's a gratifying kind of welling up. More like a good meat loaf than take-out Chinese.
Ready to get back to The Big Row? I bet you are. Just be grateful that you didn't have to sit through snowflakes and snowballs this morning.
Tomorrow Peg and I begin a weekend at Cape May, NJ., a strategically important
port-of-call on my trip, should I get that far. It's at the extreme southern end of the Jersey Shore, better than 2/3 of the way home. I know people there. They have showers and soft beds and maybe the addresses of legitimate massage parlours. Cape May is also at the mouth of the Delaware River, 70 mile south of (and usually downwind and definitely downstream from) the C&D Canal, my portal to the Upper Chesapeake and home. I'll be needing the curative effects of sleep, food, a soak, and maybe a rub if I'm to make the turn. In no small measure, Cape May represents the beginning of the end of my voyage. It will be an interesting reconnaisance.
Let's move that Pledge Paddle to $10k, 'K?
Latah!!
Mr. Frei
Sure, I know, this is supposed to be a blog about the mental, physical, and emotional trevails of a slightly overweight, past-middle-age, former marketing-type-turned-English-teacher as he prepares for a ludicrously long row from Troy, NY, to Baltimore over a two-to-three week period and finds that he is now additionally incented by the prospect of raising money -possibly a lot of money- for financial aid at his school.
(And that, dear students, is an unwieldy - but nonetheless workable - run-on sentence. If I had the loathesome red pen in my hand, I'd mark it so.)
But not tonight. No, tonight I'd like to wax nostalgic for a bit. You see, today we graduated said students - all sixty six of them - and even though this is my fourth graduation ceremony and I kind of knew what was coming, I'm struck by the wave of emotion(s) I felt as I saw those young men walk out for the last time.
Sure, they're "only" eighth graders, but eighth graders present themselves in ways that are, I think, unique. They are, in many ways, still kids. This is part of the charm of working with them, and the most exciting aspect of the challenge. They're wrestling with ideas like accountability and responsibility, they feel the tugs between adolesence and emerging adulthood, they have to consciously address what is truly right and what's just "acceptable" (or at least not "wrong"), and they are still in the process of learning how to be kind to one another without 'conditions' or 'cool-ness' muddying things up.
But the fact is that over these past few months where current events and the contemporary culture give me little grounds for optimism, I see in these kids a real sense of renewal and hope. The other side of the "kids" I said goodbye to today is their capacity to be accountable and responsible...to know "right" in a secular or spiritual way, and to be kind to one another because of an emerging intuition that communities just work better for all of us when we are.
Today I had the good fortune of being able to address them and their parents as we sent them off. I employed some lame metaphor about snowflakes and snowballs (text available upon request...but really, why would you?)...and since this is a rowing blog and I'm on a metaphorical roll, another comes to mind. These guys are in the relatively early days of their own "big row." While they have a sense of the progress that they can make and maybe even an idea of a (however temporarily identified) destination, the early days of their row are teaching them that it doesn't come effortlessly, or without some discomfort, or even without real risk. They're also discovering that it's something they have to do on their own, even if they do have a support team, and yet the journey can have its magical moments every bit as fulfillng as the prospect of arriving at a destination.
So we rowed out of the gym today together, me looking back at how much I enjoyed my year with them, already missing them and the delightfully unpredictable and varigated routine they presented to me each day, and they looking forward to summer and beyond.
Sheeesh. I'm welling up - I really kinda am - but it's a gratifying kind of welling up. More like a good meat loaf than take-out Chinese.
Ready to get back to The Big Row? I bet you are. Just be grateful that you didn't have to sit through snowflakes and snowballs this morning.
Tomorrow Peg and I begin a weekend at Cape May, NJ., a strategically important
port-of-call on my trip, should I get that far. It's at the extreme southern end of the Jersey Shore, better than 2/3 of the way home. I know people there. They have showers and soft beds and maybe the addresses of legitimate massage parlours. Cape May is also at the mouth of the Delaware River, 70 mile south of (and usually downwind and definitely downstream from) the C&D Canal, my portal to the Upper Chesapeake and home. I'll be needing the curative effects of sleep, food, a soak, and maybe a rub if I'm to make the turn. In no small measure, Cape May represents the beginning of the end of my voyage. It will be an interesting reconnaisance.
Let's move that Pledge Paddle to $10k, 'K?
Latah!!
Mr. Frei
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Two months from tonight....
Greetings, Gentle Reader.
Yes, two months from tonight I will have gorged on birthday cake - and, God willing and the creek don't rise, creamed potatos - in my final 'training meal' before my August 5 AM departure. It's not exactly the picture of Rocky downing the blended raw eggs, but it's my picture, and I'm going with it.
Before we start tonight's blog, let's attend to a few housekeeping duties, shan't we?
First, I see that Blogmistress Kathy, after extensive and arcane consultation with my beloved Peg, has offered a medium by which those of you whose "screens don't look right" may attend to them via a double click. Let's be clear...she's the Webmistress, I'm the hapless rower. I have no idea what could be wrong with your screen - if anything - except that if you don't get the natty pictures, the fascinating links, the motivational Pledge Paddle Meter and such at the top of your screen, apparently something is "wrong" with your screen, and it can be "adjusted." Give it a shot. As Nerissa says in The Merchant of Venice, "It will be worth the pains." I, for one, still count the garage door opener as the leading edge of technology, so I simply wish you luck.
Second, my sense is that newer subscribers to the blog might not have the time or appetite to scroll back to the genesis of this adventure....so here is a clarification: this "pledge" thing is about raising money for financial aid for deserving young men at Boys' Latin, where I teach. It strikes me as a most worthy cause - these are great kids, and their parents make significant sacrifices to place them in my and my colleagues' classrooms - so that's what the fundraising is about, 'K?
Third, a philosophical question: What if you tune in to the Blog regularly and have not yet pledged? Are you morally compromised?
I, for one, send NPR a little bit each year because they periodically remind me, in a graceful way, that I'm essentially stealing services if I don't. Far be it from me to equate this tome with the national forum that is NPR, and I'm the last one to suggest that you are being entertained for free if you have not yet pledged. Frankly, it would be madness to suggest that any of this is entertaining in the least. And, yes, I have said (often) that the genesis of this venture was the journey, not the fundraising. But, philosophically speaking, you know who you are. :)
OK, enough housekeeping. Here's the sad confession: Tonight's epiphany is sparked by tonight's edition of Spike TV's "Most Amazing Videos."
I was catching up on the paper while it was on in the background...and I ashamed to say that I was sucked in. (A raised copy of The New York Times can well mask alternative banal persuits.) Mostly, I was sucked in by the delightful and breathtaking stupidity of it all. To wit: A guy tried to do a "loop" off a ramp on his motorcycle, came off the bike at the top of the loop, fell fairly gracefully to the gound...only to be crushed by the bike falling out of the sky. Another fellow on a bicycle was towed down a street at breakneck speed with the intention of letting go of the rope, hitting an enormous ramp, and landing on the roof of a three-story building. (The answer is "no.") The creme de la creme of this series were the four "rodeo clowns" sitting at a table playing poker in a bull ring; the bull was released into the ring, it charged the clowns with not a jot of hesitation, and several were badly injured. Were they suprised that this would happen? I don't get it. I mean, I thought the rodeo clown's stock-in-trade was his mobility, his cunning, his intimate, practiced knowlege of his adversary's tendencies. It seems to me that a rodeo clown gives these assets away when he's sitting in a plastic chair at a plastic table playing poker - or even pretending to play poker - with three other rodeo clowns.
Some have opined that my row is not unlike these kinds of courtships with danger...albeit mine will take place in very, very slow motion and will lack Spike's cinematic appeal. Other, kinder people have encouraged me in a reasonable and responsible way. To quote Mel Brooks as "The Two Thousand Year Old Man, "I don't want to get in the middle of that one." Suffice to say that considered risks for ambitious ends are the spice of life, nes pah?
Otherwise, the weekend has been nice. Baltimore was simply beautiful this weekend, I got a haircut, I've started to grade my students' Final Exams (another slowly unfolding tragedy, or the confirmation of blossoming minds? Too soon to tell...), perused my charts for several hours, etc. etc. All in all, a nice weekend.
Gentle Reader, I find myself tempted to riff on current and cosmic affairs in this blog; Iraq, Iran, teaching and learning, civility, Regi's Tater Tots (their newest appetizer, dappled with a delicate cheese, resting amid hearty nuggets of maple smoked bacon, all sailing in a secret sauce), but I will await the response of my readers to see if they would prefer that I largly stick to my knitting which, for this blog, is the row.
Let me know, will you?
Row your boat well this week,
Mr. Frei
(And, Steve, if you don't come to visit after you get back from school, I'll be very unhappy.)
Yes, two months from tonight I will have gorged on birthday cake - and, God willing and the creek don't rise, creamed potatos - in my final 'training meal' before my August 5 AM departure. It's not exactly the picture of Rocky downing the blended raw eggs, but it's my picture, and I'm going with it.
Before we start tonight's blog, let's attend to a few housekeeping duties, shan't we?
First, I see that Blogmistress Kathy, after extensive and arcane consultation with my beloved Peg, has offered a medium by which those of you whose "screens don't look right" may attend to them via a double click. Let's be clear...she's the Webmistress, I'm the hapless rower. I have no idea what could be wrong with your screen - if anything - except that if you don't get the natty pictures, the fascinating links, the motivational Pledge Paddle Meter and such at the top of your screen, apparently something is "wrong" with your screen, and it can be "adjusted." Give it a shot. As Nerissa says in The Merchant of Venice, "It will be worth the pains." I, for one, still count the garage door opener as the leading edge of technology, so I simply wish you luck.
Second, my sense is that newer subscribers to the blog might not have the time or appetite to scroll back to the genesis of this adventure....so here is a clarification: this "pledge" thing is about raising money for financial aid for deserving young men at Boys' Latin, where I teach. It strikes me as a most worthy cause - these are great kids, and their parents make significant sacrifices to place them in my and my colleagues' classrooms - so that's what the fundraising is about, 'K?
Third, a philosophical question: What if you tune in to the Blog regularly and have not yet pledged? Are you morally compromised?
I, for one, send NPR a little bit each year because they periodically remind me, in a graceful way, that I'm essentially stealing services if I don't. Far be it from me to equate this tome with the national forum that is NPR, and I'm the last one to suggest that you are being entertained for free if you have not yet pledged. Frankly, it would be madness to suggest that any of this is entertaining in the least. And, yes, I have said (often) that the genesis of this venture was the journey, not the fundraising. But, philosophically speaking, you know who you are. :)
OK, enough housekeeping. Here's the sad confession: Tonight's epiphany is sparked by tonight's edition of Spike TV's "Most Amazing Videos."
I was catching up on the paper while it was on in the background...and I ashamed to say that I was sucked in. (A raised copy of The New York Times can well mask alternative banal persuits.) Mostly, I was sucked in by the delightful and breathtaking stupidity of it all. To wit: A guy tried to do a "loop" off a ramp on his motorcycle, came off the bike at the top of the loop, fell fairly gracefully to the gound...only to be crushed by the bike falling out of the sky. Another fellow on a bicycle was towed down a street at breakneck speed with the intention of letting go of the rope, hitting an enormous ramp, and landing on the roof of a three-story building. (The answer is "no.") The creme de la creme of this series were the four "rodeo clowns" sitting at a table playing poker in a bull ring; the bull was released into the ring, it charged the clowns with not a jot of hesitation, and several were badly injured. Were they suprised that this would happen? I don't get it. I mean, I thought the rodeo clown's stock-in-trade was his mobility, his cunning, his intimate, practiced knowlege of his adversary's tendencies. It seems to me that a rodeo clown gives these assets away when he's sitting in a plastic chair at a plastic table playing poker - or even pretending to play poker - with three other rodeo clowns.
Some have opined that my row is not unlike these kinds of courtships with danger...albeit mine will take place in very, very slow motion and will lack Spike's cinematic appeal. Other, kinder people have encouraged me in a reasonable and responsible way. To quote Mel Brooks as "The Two Thousand Year Old Man, "I don't want to get in the middle of that one." Suffice to say that considered risks for ambitious ends are the spice of life, nes pah?
Otherwise, the weekend has been nice. Baltimore was simply beautiful this weekend, I got a haircut, I've started to grade my students' Final Exams (another slowly unfolding tragedy, or the confirmation of blossoming minds? Too soon to tell...), perused my charts for several hours, etc. etc. All in all, a nice weekend.
Gentle Reader, I find myself tempted to riff on current and cosmic affairs in this blog; Iraq, Iran, teaching and learning, civility, Regi's Tater Tots (their newest appetizer, dappled with a delicate cheese, resting amid hearty nuggets of maple smoked bacon, all sailing in a secret sauce), but I will await the response of my readers to see if they would prefer that I largly stick to my knitting which, for this blog, is the row.
Let me know, will you?
Row your boat well this week,
Mr. Frei
(And, Steve, if you don't come to visit after you get back from school, I'll be very unhappy.)
