Fresh Cut Queen Anne's Lace

I enjoy mowing the lawn.  At least I enjoy mowing the lawn when I have the time to do it.  It is a good thing that I find enjoyment in mowing, as I mow between three and four acres.  My lawn mowing has a split personality between the laughable Weed Eater push mower (cost?  $20) used for the fenced dog area and trim work, and my tank-like, aging 61-inch Snapper zero turn.

While I have always enjoyed mowing, I can vividly recall one of my lows when trying to sell my old house was a lawn mowing episode.  I had just mowed the lawn at my current house, then drove to my old house, despite the threat of intense weather.  With less than half of the lawn mowed, torrential rain moved in, drenching me and making mowing more difficult.  This deluge spawned the death of my rickety riding lawn mower, resulting in needing to finish the now sodden mowing with the slightly less rickety push mower.  This was unfortunately at the same time when selling the old house was seemingly futile - being drenched while finishing upkeep was pouring vinegar on the already distasteful.  I finished, but left the for-sale property feeling defeated.
Every problem has a solution and the riding lawn mower was eventually fixed with a very used ignition coil from Ebay.  I gave that rider away with the house when it eventually sold.
I took better care of the lawn at the old house, at least by accepted US standards.  I used selective herbicides and dutifully fertilized a couple times a year.  That house was near a creek, so the "better" care of the lawn may not have been the "better" choice for the overall ecosystem.
In my current house, the only fertilizer is what the dogs contribute and it is far to expansive to pay for even selective use of herbicides.

My neighbor takes his mowing much more seriously than I do.  He mows a similar overall amount to mine and seems to mow a section of his yard every few days.  This approach probably makes sense, but I can't stand having only part of the lawn mowed.  It is likely a character flaw, but when I mow, I wait until it really needs it and mow the whole thing.  This approach is probably more economical as well.

Thankfully, the area where I live is very tolerant of many mowing lifestyles - so the fact that my lawn is sometimes long, sometimes scalped, isn't met with any visible disagreement from my few neighbors.  Since I often mow when parts of the lawn are very long and potentially wet, it can sometimes "frump" - this is the technical word to describe how the lawn mower will push out a big ball of cut grass, rather than evenly discharging the cut grass.

Even with my tepid care of my grass, I do like the way a freshly cut level lawn looks.  And the smell can be intoxicating.  The scent of early spring cut onion grass brings faith that winter is releasing its grip.

By this date (August) in most years, rain is diminished, taking frequency of mowing along with it.  There have been years when I mowed in late summer, not really to cut the grass as much as to knock down the few high spots of weedy grass and to cut down the Chicory and Queen Anne's Lace, which continue to arrogantly grow long after the lawn has given in.
This year (2015), there seems to be no shortage of rain, and consistent rain.  Mowing this year has been a nearly weekly affair.  The consistent rain has also created a constant quaggy area in my yard's low lying area.  I suspect that old drain tile has plugged as well, resulting in my neighbor's run-off nesting in my yard.  I haven't decided yet, if this could be a long term problem or not.

This swampy area, which is impossible to cut, makes me question why I mow at all.  In a suburban area, social pressures push to maintain a certain standard, but my far back yard is a hay field, with corn growing north of me and soybeans to the southwest.  I suppose keeping the grass cut down for the dogs and to keep ticks and insects at bay makes sense, but I could foresee letting the property go wild, just to see what would happen.

But maybe not.  The few nearby vacant houses have turned to mostly stalky weeds, which is unpleasant at best.  Areas which are not routinely mowed, or at least brush hogged, end up getting choked up with invasive plants like trumpet vine (attractive, but hard to get rid of), bush honeysuckle (can make a decent screen, but I'm sure this stuff could take over the whole earth), and morning glory (an evil plant if there ever was one).  The previously mentioned chicory and Queen Anne's Lace, while not native, do at least have some redeemable qualities.
I have planted many trees in one section of the property, with the hope that one day a forest canopy will evolve, meaning mowing will be only a rare spring need.  Realistically this is some way off.  My tree care mirrors my lawn care and as a result I have a large group of sad-looking trees that desperately wish to survive beyond their current height of several inches.  Many have died, been cut down, only to regrow anew from some remaining roots.  The unbelievably strong will to live does not seem to be something possessed only by animals.

Internet searches on the subject show no shortage of sites which suggest the history of lawns go back to elite European estates and lawn care in the United States currently costs billions to maintain.  Many of us in our area of the township have donated parts of our yards to local farmers who cut and bail it for hay.  I've thought about doing this with more of my property, but indiscriminate agricultural cutting may harm my baby trees, which I do have some emotional attachment to despite their lack of care.  I'd also rather not have excessive vehicle pressure over the geothermal or septic system.
I guess I could use some of the property to grow more of my food, but I must be realistic with myself.  As much as I like to plant things like tomatoes or pumpkins, my care of them mirrors my lawn and tree care.  Once summer turns things hot and humid, nurturing plants with activities like weeding, watering and pest control are less alluring.

Ecologically, a lawn is a pretty dead place unless you include the field mice which make tunnels in the grass in the winter.  Along with the rain, the rabbits seem to be doing quite well this year as well.

Despite the expense and questionable utility, mowing acres of grass serves as a satisfying recreational activity.  As a task which takes little in the way of mental capacity, it is also good thinking time.  And any negative it carries is, frankly, a small price to pay to be away from the concrete jungle of the city or the punky, traffic-infused jungle of the suburbs.
Winter will be here all too soon, bringing with it nostalgia for the past summer's green mowing.

Meteors and Coyotes

The 2015 Perseid Meteor shower occurred this week, with the predicted peak on Thursday morning.
Most of this week has been quiet with clear, cool, cloudless skies.  Mornings are, frankly, one of many great benefits of living in a rural area.  Compared to other places I've lived and many I've visited, things are typically quiet, dark and serene.

I left all the outside lights off as I let the dogs out on Thursday.  I stayed outside several minutes and for part of my morning ritual coffee.  I did see a few short-lived meteors move across the sky.  At the peak, the expected number of sightings was forecast to be in the 50-100 per hour.  This is about 49-99 more than an average morning, but minutes staring up is a long time to wait between meteors, especially since every one will not be seen.  Many will be faint and there is still some light pollution from nearby populated areas and from the few house lights.  Thankfully, nobody nearby had left large flood lights illuminated overnight.

I suppose it was eventful seeing the Perseid Meteor Shower.  But like most astronomical phenomenon, it was a bit anticlimactic.  This is especially so when compared to some historic observations like what is depicted in the wood cut print of the 1799 Leonids.  While accounts from 1799 made it sound impressive, and there was very little light pollution then, it is hard to know if this is a real depiction, or if it contains a bit of historic embellishment.

I've seen a few solar eclipses which are dramatic, the erie light cast by a sun shrowded by the moon on a clear day is something everyone should see at least once.  It is a ways in the future, but I hope to plan to be in totality for the August 21, 2017 solar eclipse that will cross the United States, maybe even at the epicenter in Carbondale, IL or Hopkinsville, KY.  I'd love to plan to see a dramatic meteor shower someday, but luck plays a big part in that ever happening.
Many other stellar occurrences might be rare and of interest to the avid sky-gazer, but planets briefly aligning with stars or objects passing behind the shadow of the moon is interesting only in rarity, not in observation.

The brightest meteor I saw this past week was actually on Tuesday, well before the predicted peak, when I was driving to work.  Headed south, the meteor briefly, but brightly, shot to the north.  It was only chance that I happened to see it and if I hadn't been on my motorcycle, with an unobstructed view up, I likely would not have seen it at all.

One event Wednesday morning was almost more awe-inspiring than the Perseids.  I was letting the dogs in to feed them and two groups of coyotes started howling.  One group to the Northeast began, followed by a group much closer to the Northwest.  This continued for several minutes, as I paused in the cool morning to listen.  The howling, barking and yipping coyotes make is nearly magical.  Thankfully, the beagles are now hard of hearing enough not to have heard (and they probably just wanted inside to their food).  A few years younger, they would have joined in, their canine instincts are not far removed from the cousin coyotes.

While celestial events may often not be all that dramatic, there was one meteor that was unbelievably amazing to observe.  This probably happened somewhere around 1988.  It was in a summer during high school, vacationing with my friend Nathan near Lake Michigan.  In all of our teen-wisdom, we decided to take a canoe out on the lake, very late in the evening.  While in retrospect this was probably not very smart, at the time it seemed perfectly acceptable.  Sitting in the canoe, an unknown distance from shore, a positively radiant meteor shot across the horizon, north to south leaving a brief dim trail it its wake.  Nathan and I were quiet for a few seconds after it, before looking at each other and asking, "Did you see that?"  I don't think the question was as much if the other saw it; it would be impossible not to.  But it was so dramatic that the question was more asking - Was that real?  Sometimes, questionable decisions result in amazing outcomes.

I suppose I'm glad the weather this week was clear and my morning routine has me up early enough to see a few of the Perseids.  It is awesome to think that the light streaking across the sky is a clump of early galactic material from the tail of a comet that elipses around the sun; a reminder how insignificant we are, when we allow ourselves to be.  These clear, cool, quiet mornings should be hallowed for everything they proffer.

Belated Edit (10-22-15):
While not as numerous as the Leonids, the Orionids occurred with a nearly cloudless sky.  On my way to work, an unbelievably bright meteor appeared directly overhead, right out of Orion's belt, and streaked to the south, ending in an bright burst.  Amazing.

That Lion

"But one thing that never changes from decade to decade, century to century, or millennium to millennium, is the struggle between human beings to convince others to follow their vision of the world." - Mark Matthews

Thanks to one human and one lion, hunting has been in the news at an unprecedented level recently.  The human's name was Walter J Palmer.  As an undomesticated animal, the lion did not recognize any name, Cecil or otherwise.  The question must be asked - What is being saved when the 'wild' that some seem so devoted to includes lions so tame that people try to name them?  Are the whitetail deer so immune to predators that they can be photographed from 10 feet away in Cade's Cove really the outdoor legacy that should be left to future generations?

Since the much publicized events, there have been many attempts to demonize and threaten Mr. Palmer.  There have been a lesser amount of attempts to justify hunting, without justifying Mr. Palmer's immediate actions.
I'm not really sure hunting needs to be justified, and it certainly doesn't need to be justified in the context of Walter Palmer any more than my donation to a charity requires justification after your armed robbery of a convenience store.  They both involve transferring of money, but the former has nothing to do with the latter.

This is not really a discussion about hunting as much as it is a discussion about being human, being civilized, and being in touch with who we are and who we might want to be.
In the dystopian future where we are all wearing the same skin-tight, v-neck jump suit and eating soylent green, hunting may leave the conversation permanently.  Until then, those wishing to demonize all hunting need to see hunting remains a necessary part of life, visceral with parts that are unpleasant, but as important to living history, to real health as calcium is for bones.

Johnny Sain writes one of the few sane articles I've seen on the subject.

Beyond that, what needs to be critically understood, is that hunting is not about killing.  If hunting were only about killing, it would be the most painfully boring pastime ever conceived.  For every 10 bears killed, hundreds of hours are spent in preparation and in search of the right bear.  For every 100 deer killed, thousands and thousands of hours are spent in a tree stand.  For every 1000 ducks shot, hundreds of thousands of hours are spent sitting in a cold duck blind.  Individuals who participate only for the trigger time are quickly disappointed, and usually quit soon after starting.
Hunting is not just one thing, yet it is meat.  It is antlers or horns.  It is watching small animals while waiting for the larger ones.  Eating meat from the hunt brings a satiation that goes beyond ending hunger.  Hunted food creates an intimate connection to survival - a recognition that in order to live, something must die.  Mementos of the experience, the entire hunting experience, may come from taxidermy.  Taxidermy is the ultimate in participatory art.
Hunting is a theology - just as veganism is among a different, but just as ardently presupposed group.
And whether that time hunting is spent alone, or as a communion of like minded people, the time is sacred.  Most of it is quiet time for reflection, a chance to take a step back and look at the world as a whole.  A chance to ponder the reason for life, from beginning, and yes, to its end.
Hunting is not a bygone relic, any more than walking or paddling is merely an ancient curiosity in the age of driving and flying.

A disservice is done when we constantly split ourselves into smaller and smaller warring factions.  There is little delusion that the vegan will sit down with the hunter as the lion has done with the biblical lamb.  But once the vegan starts hurling raw beets at the omnivore and vegetarian for their sins, a line has been crossed into fundamentalist intolerance.

It is unfortunate that this conversation must come from one publicized event.  I doubt many of those hurling threats and vulgar insults at Mr. Palmer will be doing much to really help any lions in another 6 months, let alone 18 months.  I doubt that the politically charged atmosphere and international pressure will do much to alleviate suffering in Africa - zoological or human.  I doubt justice will be served by sending Mr. Palmer to face a level of corruption, notable even in the third world.  And I doubt the media, which is good at sharing the same talking points, whether true or blatantly false, will do much to help a more honest conversation about any of this.

What I don't doubt, is that our survival as a species depends on oxygen, water, and food.  And any discussion about future civility first requires civil discussion.

Hard to Dispose, More Difficult to Discard (Government Doesn't Get It)

I saw a news story a few weeks ago that the City of Cincinnati has set very strict rules about what can be thrown in the garbage, and more importantly, how this garbage must be attractively displayed for pick-up by what must be very discerning Solid Waste Engineers.
Most people will probably try to comply.  But with significant fines for violations, the laws of unintended consequences means that alternate disposal methods are likely.

When I get in the mood to clean and purge, I really get in the mood to clean and purge.  Since moving into this house nearly five years ago, there was quite a bit of electronic paraphernalia that I had never used, and other sundries which were likely never going to be used again.  Having a few hours last weekend, I went through much of this stuff to do a cathartic purge.
I had several storage areas where old computer hardware and software was collected and it was time to get rid of it.  After deciding what to keep and what to get rid of, I had a few piles to throw away, recycle, and unknown.  In the unknown pile were things like my palm pilot - I was unsure if it still had my information on it.  A hammer solved that dilemma, and it went into the trash pile.
I similarly destroyed the dual hard drives in my old desktop computer.  One saw several death blows with a hammer, the other was disassembled and the magnetic platter removed and shattered.
While destroying the hard drives, my memory was brought back (pun intended) to some relatively inexpensive Sun Sparc stations that the federal government was selling about 18 years ago.  These were such a good deal, that the research lab I was working in at the time looked into them.  As government computers, they had to have the hard drives removed which was understandable.  However, the bureaucrats also required the volatile RAM to be removed.  I can only surmise some ignorant government idiot manager was worried that RAM may secretly retain information.  Unfortunately, Sparc-compatible RAM was very expensive and cost nearly as much as the computers were worth.  Our lab chose not to buy these very expensive, cheap computers.

In my piles of electronic stuff to get rid of were two CRT monitors.  These went along with my older desktop computer.  I really don't see value in a desktop computer anymore as I don't play computer games.  I used to be an avid gamer, but like a quantum switch, one day I couldn't take it anymore and stopped, nearly overnight.
I also had several computer games to get rid of.  Some of these go back to Windows 3.1 days (Sam n' Max Hit the Road).  There is minimal value of these on Ebay, and I'm not sure that a disadvantaged kid somewhere will have his life improved by a good copy of Outlaws (circa 1998), so these were discarded.  As so much of my life was spent playing Doom II, Quake, Quake II and Unreal, I kept these - likely to be discarded at some future purge...

Which brings me back to my CRT computer monitors and what is the "right thing" to do with them.  There is a very limited market for reuse as monitors.  The world is now flat.  The CRT market is probably on the same scale as reuse for artistic purposes.  While creative, I'm not sure how many monitor fish tanks the world really needs.
The best option for these monitors was to recycle them appropriately.  I went to the county's website to see what options are available.  There were several listed options for computer monitors, even specifically denoting CRT monitors.  Sadly, the website is, at best, very out of date.  After traipsing around with two heavy monitors, nobody would take them for recycling, despite my willingness to also accompany them by a nominal fee to dispose of them properly.  One place listed on the county website, which may have been where I dropped off an old TV a few years ago, was apparently not quite as conscientious as they claimed to be...

After trying to do "the right thing," for quite some time, I was frustrated.  I (thankfully) do not live under the authoritative regime of Cincinnati.  I called my local refuse company and they said they will happily take and landfill CRT monitors and televisions.  I won't know until I get my next solid waste disposal bill whether this option came with a charge for it, but the nice woman I talked to on the phone said that if there wasn't very much trash and they weren't that big, the monitors would be picked up for free.  I'm often surprised at the mountains of trash some people leave out on garbage day; at my house, I usually have one very nearly empty, skinny, plastic garbage can.  The cost for this seems ridiculous compared to my neighbor's piles, as the garbage company charges a set fee per week per house.  I guess being able to throw away mountains comes at a cost.

I really don't feel too good about landfilling two old, working computer monitors.  But my options were limited.  I could:
a)  put it in the basement where it will be harder and more expensive to throw away some time in the future.
b)  continue to drive these monitors all over the world trying to find somewhere to take them, while realizing they still may never be taken care of appropriately.
c)  legally dispose of them in the landfill thanks to the benevolence of the solid waste company that serves my rural township.

I suppose there is also a d) option.  I could, under the dark cover of night, throw them into an adhoc dump.  There is a ravine created by a small creek about two miles from where I live.  Jack-wad disgusting people dump all manner of stuff there.  About a year ago, the county government cleaned it all up and put a sign telling people not to recreate the pile of garbage (with apologies to Arlo Guthrie), but it is growing once again.
I never even thought of choosing this option, but this WILL BE  the result of Cincinnati's new Draconian garbage policy.  Nearly all people want to do the right thing, but every barrier put in front of the right thing will lower the relative energy needed for people to do the wrong thing.  When it is easier and cheaper to risk dumping that old ratty couch behind an abandoned building, it will happen.  It is sad that high and mighty city government, such as Cincinnati City Council, is too blind to see this irrefutable law of unintended consequences.

I remember when I got my first really big CRT computer monitor.  I had just built my computer system after researching and buying all individual components.  It was a dual boot system - OS/2 and Windows NT - I guess I was really a glutton for punishment then.  I spent countless hours staring at that monitor while I played Quake II and Unreal.  That first large monitor died many years ago and was recycled at a time when it was relatively easy to do so.
Now, I can't imagine ever buying another CRT screen.  My personal laptop is an old derided netbook, but it is small, robust and does everything I need.

The two monitors will likely live on under a mountain of garbage.  If there is any solace in this poor, but legal, option, it is only that they may be resurrected one day when we turn to mining landfills for the materials they contain in a future post-apocalypse.  And maybe that future will look just like Quake II.

MGB Rod Bearings and Toyota Spark Plugs (why doing vehicle service myself is preferable)

I normally do most of my own vehicle service.  There are some things I don't do because they require special tools or are frankly to much of a pain to do.
There were several recalls for my 2009 Toyota Tacoma that I hadn't bothered to do.  There was also an extended warranty on the truck's headlight lenses which the vehicle showed poster child issues of.

This warranty was going to expire in November, so it was a good time to get it done while I was thinking about it and before December rolls around and I kick myself for not getting it done.
I'm relatively busy at the moment, so I decided to do other maintenance at the same time:  spark plugs, coolant change, oil change, etc.  These are things I would normally do myself, but it just made sense to do them all at once (and despite the county's suggestion that coolant can be recycled, there is no one willing to take this, and I hate disposing it locally).

After the truck was done, I drove home and popped the hood open.  The three bolts that hold the air cleaner "connector" to the top of the engine were missing.  I don't mind using the Toyota dealer for service, but since there is a slight price premium when taking it there, there is an absolute expectation that work be done 100% correctly.  While the air connector bolts are probably not the three most critical bolts on the vehicle, not having them there is completely unacceptable and it makes me question the competence of all the work done.  It was late Saturday, too late to do anything about it, my frustration must wait until Monday.

The oil pressure on my 1972 MGB has slowly been dropping with general engine wear over the years.  The vehicle isn't in the danger area yet and there was  no rattling or rod knocking, etc.  There was around 25 pounds at idle and at speed oil pressure was 60 pounds on a good day, but sometimes 50 when really warm.
This is really a case where "a stitch in time saves nine" and rod bearings with the engine in the car is not too heinously difficult, if a bit messy.
I dropped the oil pan and was pleasantly happy with what I found.  In the bottom of the oil pan, there was a bit of gasket material (pretty common) but only a trace of sludgey goo.  When I was working as a mechanic at a British car shop, it wasn't uncommon to drop an oil pan and find an inch of thick grey sludge, suggesting much in the way of metal erosion and general contamination.
Pulling the rod caps revealed 0.010 over rod bearings with just a taste of copper showing on three of the four top bearings.  This is "good" engine wear and suggests no significant issues, especially since the rod journals looked nearly perfect.

The oil pump looked quite bad with clearances well in excess of what should be expected.  I almost suspect that on a previous rebuild/repair, the oil pump was not replaced or rebuilt.  I ordered most parts from Moss Motors, with an oil pump rebuild kit from Engel Imports.  I've read various reports on the quality of the new oil pumps, but replacing the guts almost always works satisfactorily.  I actually had a new oil pump of unknown origin which I decided not to use - due to the unknown origin part.
Since I think engine work must be done with scrupulously clean parts, I was scouring the oil pan when I noticed the pan was cracked.  This explains at least part of the reason why the car leaked so much oil; it is British, so some leaking just serves as rust proofing.  I'm actually surprised it wasn't leaking more with the crack in the pan.  Ebay to the rescue, I was able to find a good pan at a fair price, although it was mislabeled on Ebay, saying it was an 18G pan, which would have had 19 mounting bolts instead of the 18GB-on 18 bolts.

It has been a few years since I've been waist deep in an engine, so I was extra careful reassembling everything.  But everything went together well and it was only a short time until I refilled the engine with oil, pulled the spark plugs out and spun the engine over to get oil pressure prior to starting it.
Once oil pressure was achieved, I started the engine.  Happily, but with a twinge of worry, the oil pressure topped out near 100 pounds - a bit more than I would have wanted.  I let the car idle before driving it, and as the oil heated, the pressure dropped, but not by much.
I had all sorts of conspiracy theories as to why the oil pressure was so high, but Occam's razor suggests the simplest explanation is almost always right.  I had previously (maybe a year ago?) installed Moss' "uprated" oil pressure relief valve (329-235) to help push the lowering pressure up.  With fresh rod bearings and, more critically, a rebuilt oil pump, this might have been too much.
I removed the oil pressure relief valve and removed the shim.  Installing this valve, especially with the uprated spring, is a bitch with the engine in the car, but after a little cursing I got it back in.  The oil pressure is still a bit high, but now at an acceptable level.  I'll need to drive the car for a couple hundred miles first, but I may replace the oil pressure relief spring with the standard one in the future.

On the Monday after my Toyota Tacoma service, I got an automated email from the dealership service supervisor that he expects 100% satisfaction and to email him if I wasn't 100% satisfied.  I don't expect he really wants any emails, but I let him know, in very polite terms, I was displeased.  I never heard back from him.
I returned to the Toyota dealership after work and showed where the three bolts were missing.  The first reaction of the service writer, and it was the wrong reaction, was, "We weren't even anywhere near there."  When I pointed out the spark plugs were directly underneath the bolts, she just made a funny face and got the mechanic.  The mechanic looked at it, walked back to his bench and said something about rusty bolts but replaced the three prodigal fasteners.
I would have preferred if the service writer would have looked at the missing bolts, looked back at me and said, "We screwed up."  But I guess this is too hard to admit even a minor mistake.

I've got a few tens of miles on the MGB at this point.  I won't claim success yet - it is always possible a piece of dirt will end up being in the wrong place or a bearing will spin (or something), but several hours of time and a very messy oily garage floor gives the engine on the MGB a new lease on life.  I did notice that the oil cooler lines have some suspicious cracks in them, along with minor weeping of oil.  This is not due to the recent work, but more likely is exasperated by the higher oil pressure.  I suspect the oil lines are original to the car, and I'll be happily replacing the 40-something year old lines shortly, before an extended test drive is in order.  There is no reason to do this much work to an engine, only to have it undone by an exploding oil line.

One of the Rules of Life is "If you are very concerned with how something is going to be done, do it yourself."  Doing the engine work on the MGB was fun.  There is always a risk something inadvertent may go wrong.  Yet, I'm quite certain that everything was done well and there are not three bolts missing on the top of the MGB engine.

At least my shiny new Tacoma headlights are nice...

Not a Drop, Day 1826

I've thought a lot about whether I should even write this and, subsequently, a lot about this disjointed, non sequitur blog in general.  I've pondered what five years means, and what five years does not mean.  I've ruminated how unscripted events could have come together to reach 1826 days after day 1 with a different outcome and the possibility I could have been in a different place.
Perhaps, I should be thinking about the future.

"It is difficult to live in the present, ridiculous to live in the future, and impossible to live in the past." - Jim Bishop

I've been reading about various individuals' experiences in quitting drinking.  These weren't the writings in some of the excellent books on the subject like Neil Steinberg's Drunkard.  These are the average Jane and Joe writing about quitting drinking or cutting back.   
I'm not sure it is healthy to perpetually (or for years) write about the topic.  If it remains something constantly at the forefront, then the "new normal" won't ever have been achieved - and I believe strongly that a new normal is required.  Years writing about one subject also seems painfully trite.  To be fair, years writing about anything and everything might seem almost manic.  If nothing else, writing about anything and everything is a good way to remain contentedly anonymous.  Anonymity is highly underrated.
I'll separate the experience from quitting from what is written as a "how-to."  The change can be difficult, so no fault for attempts to help.  But, any one way to stop will likely only work for a very small amount of people.  Lay-person or even uninformed expert advice runs the risk of being unhelpful.  Some would almost be funny if they were simultaneously so dangerous.

The 2-year milestone seems almost delusionally real.  2012 in general was an odd year.  The old house had sold the previous fall;  the new house was still new enough that it was a natural euphoria, although that exhilaration was tempering.  The four worst months of my career had been survived - "efficiency experts" are the two most terrifying words in the corporate language.
But, reaching two years felt real, maybe not as normal as I wanted it to then, but real enough.

One writer talked about a milestone I hadn't ever previously thought about.  She wrote about approaching a point where more of her life was spent not drinking, than drinking.  I'm not really sure where that mark would be for me, since I'm not really sure where to start the time zero point.  After the first time I drank, it was a looooonnnnggggg time before I could even smell booze again without getting queezy.  That evocative saccharin scent of schnapps probably remains to this day.  Some rough estimations suggest I'm probably near the half-way point as well.  It was interesting to contemplate the half life as a milestone.  It was also a little depressing, so much of that time was spent in infancy through childhood.

I didn't think much about the 3-year time point.  Year 3 was a phantasmagoria, everyone takes a twisted contorted path to where they are, but where we are is just another stop in twisted contorted path to where we will be.
The lessons from year 3 demonstrated that even though more of life was under control, much of it remained unchained.

There were several people writing about the slip-ups as much as any successes, or about xx drinks as a positive (implying less than normal).  There is empathy in reading these; because there has to be.  A few of these alternate between brief periods of well-written prose discussing the repeated early efforts of quitting, with long periods without postings.  The saddest blogs are the ones that start out sincere and intense, but are very brief.  The end writes a final assumed chapter of failure.

Reaching 4 years was as much about the break I took from the online writing for other writing I wanted to do.  This points to the ongoing normalcy of not drinking.  Which leads to this 5-year posting; very possibly my last dedicated to the subject.
The last year has become normal in a way I previously would have had a hard time imagining.

One other writer calculates the time regained by not drinking.  The amount of time was pretty fantastic in his/her case (I couldn't tell from the blog which sex the author was).  In my own case, the number may be surprising only in the aggregate of five years.  I still squander much of that time in front of the TV, but enough of it is spent doing things that are fulfilling in a very real sense.

I've been putting fingers to keyboard, thoughts to digits, over the last few weeks as I knew this 5-year milestone was imminent.  In that same time, my Father died.  This was not unexpected as he was diagnosed with what almost assuredly was a terminal illness early in the year.  But it was unexpected as the end seemed to come very quickly; maybe it always does.  I can't image going through the emotional roller coaster of my Dad's passing with the mental distention of alcohol hanging over me.
Over the last several months, I got to know my dad in way that I hadn't previously.  I believe he would have said the same about me.  I don't know if we become omniscient in death.  But if we do, then I am slightly comforted in knowing that I am more honestly the person he knew.

There are still times I miss it a little bit but in the same way as I miss lots of things that are gone forever.
"Once you experience nostalgia, the thing you are nostalgic about is long dead." - Jen
Alcohol is the great equalizer for introverts in an extroverted world.  Where the last five years has brought me to is caring much less about that extroverted world.

Quitting drinking has enabled so many of the other positive changes over the past years that any negatives seem more and more like unnecessary footnotes:
I have never, ever - even once - woken up on a Saturday morning and wished I had a hangover!  Never...
I already touched on the time I've taken back by stopping, but the positive repercussions of this shouldn't be understated.  Time is one of the few fixed commodities in life.  I don't know if I'll die tomorrow or 60 years from now, but my time on the earth is absolutely fixed.  This has become unquestionably personal recently.
Much like time, the amount of money I would have spent on various consumable bottled liquids is quite real.  On the small scale this isn't much, but aggregated over five years (and more in the future) it amounts to real money.  Add in occasional questionable purchases from Amazon or Ebay after drinking and the number gets frighteningly larger.
I'm writing more, even self-published my book.  Yeah, it was excessively simple and one chapter is even about a guy who quits drinking.  But, this is just one example (of many) of something which probably never would have happened without the changes over the last five years.
Once I unlearned some of my bad habits, my time away from work is infinitely better.  No more do I look forward to vacation as a time to cope and unwind.  Yet, I probably need vacation more now than ever; I crave it because it is now my own time.  It doesn't belong to something else altogether.

I look forward to mornings now.  I like waking early and having time, sometimes just minutes and other times hours, quiet contemplative time to stand back and look at everything with some clarity.  Early morning with a book is better than late night with a glass.

Arbitary though it may be, five years does seem like a milestone.  As a reminder of all the changes over the last five years, I got a tattoo of a broken bottle.  Unlearning the habit of booze was only one slow, deliberate life change, but it was an enabling change.  The permanence of the tattoo has significance.  There is also significance in the placement on my upper arm where few others will ever see it (you'll never see me in a wife-beater and I'm not a lay-around-the-beach kind of person).

When Steve was giving me the tattoo, we were talking about why I made the design that I did and he asked me if I had quit drinking.  After responding positively, he paused and looked up at me, "How do you sleep at night?"
"Much better ... much better."

The bottles continue breaking.

A Return to Bicycling, Part 2

I wake up to a cool, humid morning.  The moon must be out since I can see outside quite well and there are no street lights anywhere near my house.  But, the low fog is so thick, I can't even see as far as the road.
After morning coffee and a bit of surfing and writing online, I head out on the bicycle for a morning ride.  Normally, I walk one of the dogs on Sunday mornings.  This morning just feels right for a bike ride, with almost no wind, and cool, dense air.
The fog has mostly burned off by the time I leave, but it is still chilly as I pedal south, away from home.  It is obviously going to be a hot and humid day, but the forecast isn't calling for immediate heat and the wind hasn't gone beyond a light breeze yet.  Traffic is negligible and the few Sunday-morning cars on the road are courteous, if at least not actively trying to kill me on the quiet roads.

I continue south for just under 10 miles.  My route gives a mix of hills and flat land before descending into the valley of a large stream that feeds into a river further on.  This turns to a long slow uphill section, heading in a more north-westerly direction, following the stream.  The cool wind is just starting and at my back now that I am headed in a more northerly direction.  The deep shadows in the low lying areas are exquisite.  Everything is so still that I can hear the water running under bridges that cover creeks and streams.  Briefly turning onto a state highway leads to one of my favorite hilly roads in the area.  It is steep, narrow, and twisty, but almost desolate and the road name seems to ring from American ghost folklore.

Back into the flat land, the wind is picking up and it is now getting hotter and more humid.  But, with wind at my back I continue on at a good clip.  The dangerous dogs must be in their cages as I pedal uneasily past the farm that is somewhat run down.  In what feels like too short of time I am nearly home, pedaling up the final big hill that many months ago seemed almost painful.

To say that this ride was near bike nirvana, would be an understatement.  The right combination of mood, weather, circumstance in the rural Midwest.

_____________________________________________________________________________

It wasn't on the ride described above, but on June 9, 2015, I passed 1000 bike miles since I bought my Trek DS 8.3 in October 2014.  To put this in perspective, that 51,000+ Calories burned is approximately the caloric equivalent of about 30 1.5-quart containers of ice cream.
I don't know if 1000 miles in eight months (at least three of those have limited riding due to weather) is a lot and I don't really care.  I have thoroughly enjoyed the time spent bike riding and the contrast it brings to dog walking.

My first rides on the bike were a significant contrast to the more quiet contemplative time spent dog walking.  As riding, especially the more physically demanding parts, became less mental effort, the contrast is somewhat less as I've been able to think less about what I'm doing (dealing with wind, hills, route) and more on just thinking ... or not.

There have been a few challenges to overcome.  I have had a couple times where I got a few miles away from home and realized that for one reason or another, I just wasn't in the right frame of mind for the physical exertion of pedaling.  When this has happened, I keep going for a while and just cut the ride shorter than originally planned.  Sometimes I realize I don't want to push myself with any of the larger hills, but luckily the area where I live has areas that are largely flat if that is what I decide I want to do.
There have been a few close encounters with dogs.  The worst was early in my biking time when I thought I could outrun a group of about five large dogs.  I ended up hitting one and have no idea how I didn't have a catastrophic crash.  I did rip some hair from the black beast with my front tire, and I learned a critical lesson; I do not believe the dog learned anything.  Since then, yelling and sometimes slowing (or even stopping) generally ends things quickly with the various dogs I come across.  Barring that, I can always decide to carry a pocket .380 - but I really don't see it coming to that.
Since I live and ride my bike in a rural area, I have not-infrequent run-ins with unpleasant or impatient drivers.  I do try to get over as much as I safely can to allow passing and will even motion drivers around when I know they can't see well.  Still, the jack-wad in the crappy red truck driving up behind me and blaring the horn has made a pretty clear statement about himself.
As an avid motorcyclist and burgeoning bicyclist, I was wondering on the risks of biking vs. motorcycling.  There are lots of pretty outlandish claims of bike vs. bike safety, but my own digging into the numbers shows that on a per-mile bases, motorcycling is probably about 2-4 times more dangerous than bicycling.   My seat of the pants experience doesn't quite agree with this as there seems to be more nervous moments on the pedal bike, but the relatively slow speed of the bike is where its safety lies vs. the much higher speed of the motorcycle - even with great protective equipment.
I do think that the rural area where I live and subsequently ride my bike is far more dangerous than the average suburban or even urban environment.  Most cars are traveling at a high rate of speed and the lack of other traffic breeds a little bit of driver complacency.  I haven't bought any lights or similar to increase conspicuousness, but I do try to position myself to be noticed and - yes - even use hand signals to communicate intentions.  And, actual close calls with cars have been quite rare.

When I'm bicycling, my pedal time seems to be most limited by comfort due to the seat.  Given the range of seats available and the large volume written about seats and comfort, this seems to be a problem with lots of imperfect solutions.  I can usually ride for about 1.5 hours before the seat starts telling me I'll be happier off of the bike.  My local bike shop offers a computer mapping service with various seats, and I'm thinking of investing in this.  It seems to be a more data-driven approach rather than simply trying various seats.

Even with the risks and the unresolved issue of seat comfort, I am still amazed at how much I enjoy bike riding.  If someone would have told me, even a year ago, how much I'd enjoy this, the response would have been between laughter and ridicule.  I like planning my routes and heading out after a day at work.  I enjoy the same, but for longer periods of time on the weekends.  My bike riding has taken me into and through areas and down roads around where I live that I have never been to before.  Before starting to bike, I would never have known that there are two covered bridges within 15 miles of my house, along with countless historic and interesting abandoned buildings.
Going downhill is still somewhat boring, and uphill is getting easier (usually).  The wind can be more punishing as it can be relentless and hurts more than it helps unless it is coming from approximately a 90-degree cone behind.

I'm still using Mapometer to plan my routes and still recording them on Google's My Tracks.  It is a bit of a battery hog, but does a good job of recording time, distance, vertical profile, etc.  I enjoy heading out on a ride knowing I'll cover lots of ground and maybe see interesting things along the way.  I like coming home afterwards, with sore legs and looking forward to a cool drink from the fridge. 

And, I think my bike riding has even made me appreciate the slower paced dog walks even more.

I'm not sure what the long-term plan is for bike riding.  I haven't done any dirt riding and I don't really plan on it right now.  My hybrid bike is definitely slower than a dedicated street bike.  On two occasions, riders on road bikes have passed me at a very improbable speed making me feel like a big fat kid on a plastic Big Wheel.  Still, I'm in this for the personal enjoyment and exercise, not really for speed.  Many of the rural roads I ride are paved in name only, or "Indiana-paved," so the suspension and disk brakes on the DS 8.3 are appreciated.

The near-perfect ride described at the beginning of this post resonated through that day.  Much like with my dog-walking, experiences like that will keep me returning to the pedals, anticipating through planning, enjoying the fresh air and exercise during the ride, and relishing both mental and physical health effects as a result.

Pedal-On!