Bending Fenders

Sometimes I'm a doofus. And since I spend a fair amount of time driving each day, it only follows that sometimes I'm a doofus while driving.

Right now my work commute takes me through a construction zone on the tollway, and that adds an extra 5-10 minutes each way. But the bigger issue is really that a 65 MPH cruise is now occasionally slowed way down or even stopped, and the potential for an accident involving impatient commuters is much, much higher. Earlier this summer that was me, as I didn't see that traffic was completely stopped at my exit ramp one morning, and skidded into the back of another car at around (I guess) 10 MPH.

My first reaction was anger at myself for being an impatient, unobservant doofus, with some accompanying guilt at having run into someone else. It was a group of four little old Korean ladies heading up to Lake Forest to golf, in a brand-new Lexus SUV. We pulled off to the side of the construction zone and got out, and all confirmed that no one was hurt (thankfully). Their only damage was a scratched bumper cover; I had a dented hood, a bent bumper, and a pushed-in headlight.

We exchanged insurance/license info and called the police. I wasn't enthusiastic about waiting for the police, as I suspected I could get cited for "driving too fast for conditions" or something, but I was at fault, so I was ready to take my lumps. After 10 minutes or so they lost their enthusiasm too, as their tee time loomed closer, so we agreed to just let the insurance companies handle it.

The rest resolved the way it's supposed to, and I had the presence of mind to send flowers and an apology to Mrs. Kim for my doofusness. (Doofushood? Doofiosity?) And I'll be more careful, at least for a little while.

I'm thankful, I suppose, that in 20+ years of commuting I've never had a really bad accident, even if I've had my share of fender benders like my last one:

• Sliding in the snow out into an intersection, getting my front bumper clipped off by another car
• Getting rear-ended in traffic, no noticeable damage
• Getting rear-ended pretty hard, totaling my car, just because it was too old to sensibly repair (but no injuries)
• Getting rear-ended in traffic, no noticeable damage
• Backing into a light pole in a parking lot, requiring repair
• The most recent incident

The common threads seem to be bad conditions (weather, construction) and rush-hour traffic -- not too shocking. So 6 generally minor incidents (3 of them my fault) in 20+ years, driving about 15,000 miles a year -- that doesn't seem too bad, does it? Or is it a sign that I'm too impatient and/or distracted while commuting, and the Big One is coming?

I can sense that impatience sometimes, and remind myself of George Carlin's quote: "Have you ever noticed that anyone driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?" That's especially true in the snow, when the idiots putter down the highway when they should just stay home, and the maniacs zoom by me way too fast. Doesn't everyone know that I'm driving the exact correct speed? At least I think so, in between fender benders...

Pat

Cameroon: Classroom Comedy

I left off the Cameroon story after we completed our French training. From there we trainees went out in pairs to visit volunteers at their sites for a week, and then to Bamenda to learn how to teach.

Recall that our crew was a bunch of recent math or science college grads, with no teaching experience; here we were going to get 5 weeks of training, and then head off to be real teachers at real schools. Yikes!

The first week was the basics: breaking a syllabus down into lessons, creating lesson plans with "behavioral objectives", classroom do's and don'ts, practice lessons and critiques, cultural aspects of Cameroonian education, etc. The joke at the end of the week was, "Well, that's how to teach. We're not sure how Education majors stretch that into 4 years of college..." (Just a joke, of course -- everyone knew how raw we still were.) This all took place while they were setting up the "model school".

I'm not sure how they got students for us to practice on, but it worked -- we accepted around 200 local high school kids for the 4-week summer course, turning quite a few away. (Truth in advertising would have required the ad to say "Math/Science Instruction by Rank Amateurs with Funny Accents! Sometimes a Little Unclear on the Subject Matter!") What was in it for the students? Free additional schooling, in a place where education is pretty highly valued.

The well-established model school program had each of us teaching 2-3 lessons per day, with at least one trainer sitting in the back of the class, taking notes on how we did. We'd review each lesson with the trainer right after, picking up what we'd done well and what needed to be improved. After a week the trainers switched so we could get a different perspective on our work, and after two weeks we switched classrooms and sometimes subjects (within the math and science area).

It was a humbling experience, both teaching a roomful of eager minds and getting critiqued on everything you did for 40 minutes. A quote from one trainee made the chalkboard in our teachers' lounge: "I just walked into the classroom and everything went blank." I knew that feeling...

And Dan M. came back to the lounge after one lesson with a funny story about himself: He noticed a little chalk mark on his pant leg, and without thinking tried to remove it using the chalkboard eraser, leaving a huge chalk blotch on his dark pants. The students in front chuckled just a little, but these were model students; at a real school he'd have been roasted, even in Cameroon.

(Note that another common embarrassment is referring to your "pants", which in British English means "underpants". You're supposed to say "trousers". Even more mines in the classroom minefield...)

Yet somehow after 4 weeks we felt ready to go do our thing -- ahh, the arrogance of Youth! We'd been matched up with schools in the Northwest and Southwest (English-speaking) provinces based on subject matter need and our own preferences for class level and climate. (The Northwest is elevated and rather cool, believe it or not, and the Southwest is hot and humid.) I wanted to teach "Advanced Level" physics, and that got me assigned to Mamfe in the Southwest, near the Nigerian border.

The final act in Bamenda was our swearing-in ceremony. Technically we weren't U.S. government employees, we were unpaid independent contractors who got some U.S. support, but we still had to take the same civil service oath, swearing to "support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic". It might have seemed a little "establishment" for our somewhat anti-establishment group, but no one had any heartburn over it. Patriots of a different kind, in sandals.

On to Mamfe, my home for the next two years...


Pat

CarlFest 2009

There's nothing like a good surprise party. A few years ago we had a blast with Jim for his 40th birthday, a story I've told many times. I'll tell it here later: Jim's Excellent Vegas Adventure. But this weekend it was Carl's turn for his 40th, so we took him to Joliet, "the Las Vegas of Will County, Illinois."

Cast of characters for CarlFest 2009:

• Carl, the birthday boy
• Jim, Ameen, Shane, and myself -- the Evanston guys
• Jay, an old friend
• Tom, an even older friend and former college roommate at Georgia Tech

Co-conspirators included Carl's wife Evan, his son Jackson, and Jim's wife Leslie.

Although stock-car racing is hugely popular, Carl is one of the few NASCAR fans I personally know -- it's obviously not nearly as popular up north, and his North Carolina upbringing comes into play. (A measure of his authenticity is that he's been to Bristol.) So as we looked around a few months ago for some fun event to surprise him with for his birthday, we saw that a big NASCAR race was being held right here in Chicagoland, and got tickets.

The plan came together slowly but surely via email, barely complicated by the fact that a few of us had never met. As we were almost all Northerner NASCAR neophytes there were a lot of redneck jokes mixed in; a few probably crossed over the line, but Tom was too much the Southern gentleman to say anything. We did recognize we'd be in something of a foreign culture, and our general goal was "Have a lot of fun, but don't do anything that will get our asses kicked." Evan did most of the work, including preparing the tailgating feast for Race Day.

On Saturday Jim enlisted Carl to help him pick up some piece of furniture out in the western burbs; it was a flimsy story, but it still worked. I packed my vehicle with the tailgaiting supplies, collected Shane and Ameen, and then picked up Jay and Tom at O'Hare and headed to our hotel in Naperville (as close as we could get to the track). Jim showed up with Carl, we did the big "Surprise!" thing, dropped our bags in the rooms, and headed down to the Chicagoland Speedway in Joliet.

The Speedway was packed with 75,000 people for the "LifeLock 400" race, part of the "Sprint Cup" series. It was a spectacle, in the best and worst senses of the word. Some pre-race observations:

• A lot of people have a lot of tattoos.
• A lot of people own pickup trucks.
• There seems to be a code of politeness among NASCAR fans -- it was a family-friendly event all the way, more than a Cubs game (and way more than a Bears game.)
• People are really loyal to their favorite drivers. Many tailgaiters flew flags way up high with their drivers' numbers on them; everyone was wearing a shirt with racing team info, and often a hat, too. I'm sure I'll remember for a while that Jimmie Johnson is #48, Tony Stewart #14, Jeff Gordon #24, Dale Earnhardt Jr. #88, etc.
• Anticipating this, Evan made t-shirts up for us with #40, with a cool "Carl Jr." logo and a slogan from the Blues Brothers: "Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration, Don't Fail Us Now..." The sponsor logos on the sleeve included Geritol, Levitra, Life Alert ("I've fallen and I can't get up"), AARP, and Fixodent. Since there's currently no driver #40, we were asked at least a half-dozen times: "Who's 40?" We got to say "He is!", and got a lot of laughs from folks.

It was a beautiful summer afternoon for a cookout, we had plenty of food and beer, and a great time. At around 6:30pm we headed to the track for the 7:00pm race start.

The stands were nothing special -- just aluminum benches, and port-a-potties below instead of real bathrooms. Apparently the big NASCAR bucks haven't extended to the Chicagoland Speedway.

The race itself was fun. It was painfully loud -- we came prepared with earplugs, as did many (but not all) folks. Others had radio headsets they could use to talk to each other, which you could rent just for the race. The inability to communicate during the race was a bit of a downer for our group, but we managed through with some good pantomimes. (The hand-tipping gesture for "Want another beer?" is universal.)

The lean young guy in a tank top in front of us looked about 20, had a buzz cut, and an Arabic tattoo on the back of his neck -- I'd have bet he hadn't been back from Iraq for long. In fact, I'm sure you'd find a lot more young veterans at a stock-car race than another sporting event. A generational thing, and a regional one.

400 miles on the 1-1/2 mile track is 267 laps; each lap took about 30 seconds, so the whole race was just over a couple of hours. (Do the math: about 180 MPH.) You can see the whole track from the stands, and the pit row is right in front of you. Most pit stops were the 10-second variety you'd expect; when you saw someone taking a lot longer you knew there was something wrong.

The old man (50!) Mark Martin led most of the race and won in the end. The woman next to us in the #5 t-shirt was beside herself with joy, and bubbled to one of us, "I've been a Mark Martin fan since 1994!" Good for her!

We avoided the giant traffic jam afterwards by tailgaiting some more until it cleared, as there were still ribs and brats left to cook. We finally packed up and left, got back to the hotel about 1am and crashed, exhausted but satisfied.

The next day started slowly, but was still fun and relaxing, with lots of retelling of the previous day's events -- no more details necessary. We were happy to have given Carl a special 40th birthday, and to have made some memories together we'll have for a long time.

I guess my closing thought is that a NASCAR race is a fun, interesting experience, and should be on everyone's "Do it once" list, although maybe not on your "Do it twice" list. And for goodness' sake, throw a surprise party for someone every now and then...

Pat

Haircuts

Old joke:
Q. "What's the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut?"
A. "Two weeks."


I never heard that from my Dad, but he used to cut our hair up until the age of 10 or so. It was stressful all the way around, as he always cut it shorter than we wanted, and we whined as much as we could without getting swatted. (The electric razor didn't lend itself to stylish cuts, at least in the hands of an amateur.) On the occasions when we did go to the barber we asked for a "Princeton" -- do haircuts have names anymore?


Eventually Dad gave up, to everyone's relief. Thereafter I didn't have any special loyalty to a barber or a style, although I did let it get a little long in the late '70's. Whether at home or away at college I'd find a place that did an OK job, and go back every 8 weeks or so. I never liked a cut right after, but it was always fine 2 weeks later.


Cameroon was a little trickier, but a few female Peace Corps volunteers got reputations as decent haircutters, and they'd be pressed into service every few months when folks got together. Again, if you had reasonably low expectations you were fine.


In 20+ years back here in Chicago I've generally had two barbers: Ruffulo's, in the Lake Forest train station (close to work), and Rachel. Rach actually liked doing it for a while, as it gave her a chance to do something less boring with my hair, but she got pretty tired of it. If I sensed I was in for a long negotiation to get it cut at home I'd just go to Ruffulo's.


It's a classic barbershop, and the old guy, Lou (Ruffulo?) has been there forever. He's from Italy, and still has a strong accent. He'll ask, "So -- how you like?", and you'll describe what you want, and sometimes he'll say, "Ah, OK -- businessman haircut," and off he goes, and it turns out just fine. From my office I can leave at lunchtime, get a haircut and grab a carryout sandwich from somewhere, and get back in an hour.


The one concession I've made to age is having it left a little longer on top, where it's not quite as thick as it once was...


This past year I've picked up the family tradition and started cutting Conor's and Emmet's hair at home. (At a cookout a few weeks ago I found out there are a couple of other dads who still cut their boys' hair -- I thought I was the only one.) I have a similar kit to the one my Dad had, but it has various plastic clip-on guides that control how short the electric razor cuts. Unfortunately they only go from "short" to "really really short", limiting my tonsorial range.


Emmet seems to like the typical short razor cut, so he's easy. Conor wants it as long as possible -- a year ago I'd have ignored him and just given him a buzz cut, but I've been trying to accomodate. I find I have to use scissors instead of the razor, and go every 4-6 weeks instead of 8, but we seem to have found a happy medium of longer, reasonably neat hair. And I'm getting better at it, if I do say so myself. (I hope Conor would agree, but I'm not sure.)


How long will we keep doing this? I don't know -- if at some point they want to go to a real barber for a real haircut, and it seems important to them, I don't think I'll stand on stubbornness. But for now it's nice that we've worked it out among us, with compromise and adjusted expectations. After all, if it's a bad one, then in two weeks...


Pat

Biking: Like a Kid

Like every other suburban American boy back around 1970, my first bike was a Schwinn Stingray. Rob's was red, mine was green, and Ed's was blue, and we rode them all the time.

Besides transportation the Stingrays provided entertainment, and many tests of skill: you had to learn to ride with no hands, of course, and to skid, and to do a decent wheelie. We invented all sorts of bike games of speed/ agility/ creativity to while away the summer hours -- one involved going as slowly as you could around our neighbor's driveway, at times balancing on your bike at almost a dead stop.

With the banana seat you could give someone else a ride, too. And Mom would send us on simple errands, from a pretty early age.

Rob and I both graduated to 10-speeds the same Christmas, a few years later. We were living in West Chester, Pennsylvania (outside of Philadelphia) at the time, and I seem to recall having to pony up half of the $160 purchase price. Now our range was really expanded -- to school, to church, to every friend's house, to the pool in the summer, and to the Exton Mall.

Ahh, the mall -- Utopia for a kid in junior high, especially with a couple of bucks in his pocket. Fast food everywhere, the "Time Out" arcade, and Spencer's Gifts, with its funny (and sometimes naughty) inventory of junk. But in hindsight the best part was the freedom: to go wherever, with whomever, and do whatever, as long as you were home for dinner.

To get to the mall from our house you had to go down the hill on Ship Road. It was huge -- from the top you'd shift into 10th gear, stand up and pedal hard, and in a few seconds you were going so fast you couldn't drive the pedals any more. You'd tuck into a crouch and coast all the way down, going 30 mph? 35? We timed the mall trip once, and it took 12 minutes to get there and 30 minutes home. (You'd grind your way back up the hill in 1st or 2nd gear, and sometimes just have to walk your bike up.)

A few years later and biking became second-class transportation -- kid stuff, when you could be driving. But I didn't have a car, so it was usually better than walking. I commuted to a couple of summer jobs on that same 10-speed.

The bike has generally been a toy since then, taken out a few times a year for fun. My current one I bought when I lived in Chicago, 17 (yikes!) years ago. It serves me just fine, and I certainly haven't used it enough to justify anything newer or fancier.

I've been getting out for long rides on weekend mornings this summer, well before the kids are awake, and I'm really enjoying it. Heading north from Evanston you can pick up a couple of different bike paths, or just stay on the scenic north suburban streets. I did a 30-mile ride this way a couple of weeks ago (to Lake Forest and back), which was pushing it for me, but I survived.

Heading south there's a trail along McCormick Boulevard, next to the canal, which takes you through the narrow sculpture park all the way to Devon Avenue in Chicago. With a short jog east and south you pick up the trail on the east side of the canal, and it takes you through Chicago city parkland all the way down to Lawrence. I haven't yet taken Lawrence east to Lake Michigan, where the lakefront trail then goes right downtown -- maybe this weekend.

For me the suburban ride north is beautiful and the Chicago ride south is exciting, the way most things Chicago are to a suburbanite. I don't think I'm exactly hooked on biking, in the obsessive-compulsive way my family tends to do things, but it's a nice composite of exercise, sightseeing, and fresh air. I'll mind the cars, and maybe see you out there?

Pat

Instant Karma

Sometimes things happen for obvious reasons, and other times for no reason at all. I'm not sure about this next one...


About 15 years ago we were at a summer Sunday afternoon get-together at my folks' place in Mundelein: Rach and I, my brother Ed, my sister Maura, and Maura's then-boyfriend Steve. Ed and I went out front to play softball catch in the street -- we were both on (different) softball teams at the time.


Steve was not our favorite among Maura's series of boyfriends. (That spot is reserved for her final boyfriend, now husband of 8 years or so, Dan.) Steve was fussy -- fussy about his hair, but especially fussy about his car. He had just bought a BMW M5: red, a few years old, in pristine condition. He would sit around and read the owner's manual for hours, to understand and commit to memory every feature of his new treasure. (In hindsight: What a twit!)


Ed threw one pop fly to me that came a little close to Steve's car, parked on the street in front of the house, and we both laughed a little at what could have happened. Then it got to be a game, as Ed threw nothing but pop flies, many of them over Steve's hood or windshield, that took me great acrobatic effort to catch before they hit his car. Steve came out onto the front porch at one point and saw what was going on, and was dying to say something, but couldn't quite decide what.


(I suppose it's bad enough when you're dating to have to deal with a girl's protective father, let alone her protective, sometimes reckless older brothers...)


Ed then uncorked his highest, deepest throw yet, but it got away from him a little. It sailed over Steve's BMW, past where I could reach...and came right down on Ed's own car, parked behind. It cracked his windshield. There wasn't really anything to say, so he just shook his head ruefully, and we went inside for dinner. I don't recall any reaction from Steve, but I can imagine what he was thinking.


So Steve got tormented, but his car wasn't touched at all; Ed got a healthy serving of instant karma for his pop fly throwing; and I got away scot-free, it seems, even though I was a willing co-tormentor. What can all of this possibly mean?


Pat

Biking: Public Service Announcement

I've been out riding my bike more, now that the weather's decent. Biking always reminds me of being a kid, probably because I rode so much back then. The thrill of going kinda fast, the freedom, the fresh air -- will I always feel 12 years old on a bike?

My neighbor Greg was in a bike accident two weekends ago. He was crossing a busy street (McCormick Boulevard) with the light, and either a) a car crept into the crosswalk in front of him, or b) he actually ran the red light. He's not sure, as the next thing he remembered was being in the ambulance and heading to the hospital.

He wound up with a concussion and a black eye, and spent a night in the hospital, but he's doing OK. Three other important details/thoughts:

• Greg's a responsible guy -- but accidents do happen. And some kids (e.g. mine) are known to be just a little less responsible.
• His helmet was really dented. Imagine if he hadn't been wearing one...
• He happened to have his wallet with him, so they were able to call his wife and have her come to the hospital. Do you carry any ID when you bike? Do your kids?

As follow-up, in addition to giving the kids a little lecture about bike safety, I labeled each of their helmets with their names and with my cell phone number. That way (assuming they're wearing them, which they'd better be) if anything bad happened I'd find out right away. I labeled my own helmet, too, with our home phone number.

I'll share some happy biking thoughts, probably next week, but wanted to get this message out there as summer arrives. Have the bike safety talk with your kids, make sure they've got some type of ID and wear their helmets, and follow the same advice yourself. Thanks.

Pat