Electric assist bicycles should be allowed on bicycle trails. Electric assist bicycles should not be allowed on bicycle trails. Another issue to divide folks.
I have seen a mother, with her three year old child on the bicycle, riding with her husband and friends. She was on the family's electric assist Yuba bicycle. It seemed perfectly ok for her to be riding on the trail. She was, to the best of her ability, pedaling for fitness. It was better, for the entire family, to be together while enjoying the benefits of bicycling. If no one had told you, there would be few clues that the bicycle was assisted by a small electric motor. There is very little weight difference with an electric assisted bicycle, so it should not deteriorate the trail any faster than unassisted bicycles.
Government officials in our town have had trouble with motor scooters and mopeds. There have been several very inconsiderate operators of these vehicles. They violate more than a few traffic laws. It would be unfortunate if the electric assist bicycle was lumped with these vehicles and operators; then forced to obtain inspections, operators licenses, and registration plates. Certainly it would be plausible for similar laws, applicable to all of these vehicles, to be created and enforced. Government would easily see it as a source of revenue and might even believe the safety of the community would be improved.
Attitudes and actions of bicycle riders should be considered. Most bicycle trail users I have seen are very aware of others using the trail. Slowing down before passing, announcing their presence, and being generally considerate of others are the common practices. As with any group of people, there will be some who are inconsiderate and abuse those they encounter. It would be unfortunate if the electric assisted bicycle riders were to be penalized because of the actions of a minority.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Agreement Not Necessary
Be sure to listen to the stories people tell. Each considers his or her own story to be interesting. They have lived it and want to tell about it. The feeling I often encounter sounds like this, "Of course my story is the correct one and everyone should be interested in hearing it. I will listen to your story, and find it valuable, only if it agrees with mine." It seems to me that it is important to listen to other individual's stories, but not necessarily agree with them.
We have all had different stories. Some are more similar than others and some are so different they are difficult to understand. I find it hard to understand even so simple a thing as dogs and cats. When a person's story included dogs they will have a different tale than another who lived a cat story. Often these two groups tend to be exclusive. My story is the correct one since I had a cat. The dog story person will argue mine is wrong. Our stories are certainly composed of what we live. We think that if it worked for us, and is working, then it must be the right way to live.
Extreme poverty or continual conflict are stories I read about but have not experienced. It is nearly impossible for me to comprehend wondering where the next meal will come from. I cannot grasp groups of people openly carrying guns in my community. I feel guilty when I realize how fortunate I am to live in a prosperous country with many freedoms. Then I wonder why I was born here, and not where poverty and suffering are the norm. Why has my story developed in its own way?
We have all had different stories. Some are more similar than others and some are so different they are difficult to understand. I find it hard to understand even so simple a thing as dogs and cats. When a person's story included dogs they will have a different tale than another who lived a cat story. Often these two groups tend to be exclusive. My story is the correct one since I had a cat. The dog story person will argue mine is wrong. Our stories are certainly composed of what we live. We think that if it worked for us, and is working, then it must be the right way to live.
Extreme poverty or continual conflict are stories I read about but have not experienced. It is nearly impossible for me to comprehend wondering where the next meal will come from. I cannot grasp groups of people openly carrying guns in my community. I feel guilty when I realize how fortunate I am to live in a prosperous country with many freedoms. Then I wonder why I was born here, and not where poverty and suffering are the norm. Why has my story developed in its own way?
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Light In The Tunnel
Daylight Savings Time. Last weekend we did the old, "Fall back" routine with our clocks. Now it is nearly dark when we get home after a day at work. Two of us decided to ride our Monday evening bicycle ride anyway. "Bring your lights," was the suggestion. The sun was just about to the horizon when we began our journey, so it was darker by the minute.
I don't know why, but it seems to me there is an increased amount of traffic each year when the time changes. This dusky evening was no exception. It felt like there were cars everywhere. One suggestion was that folks have a natural instinct to get home before it is dark. We stayed on streets with less traffic, as much as possible, while we worked our way toward the "Gorge Trail." From this trail we hopped onto an unfinished portion of a trail connecting to the Veterans Memorial Park. That will be nice when it is done. Then, up the hill we stroked and onto the "Cardinal Trail," our local rail trail.
It was nice to have no cars on the trails. We encountered two walkers, one runner, and two other bicyclists. Two deer were about twenty yards away as we came off of the "Gorge Trail." We discussed light systems for bicycles and enjoyed a nearly full moon. I recalled training under moonlight when my children were young. I rode these same trails many days this summer and it was an interesting comparison to ride at night. Night riding required a greater concentration on the trail immediately in front of us. I didn't see as many trees. We were startled to have bats fly right in front of us, nearly striking one rider. Night riding is a different kind of excitement.
When we had turned around and begun our trip home, we passed through an arch of steel fence-like material designed to insure safety of both trail users and cars below. During the day this structure is hardly noticeable. This night our light reflected off of the railings and arch to make it appear as if we were in a tunnel. Our light in the tunnel reminded me we are on a journey. Remembering the expression about the, "light at the end of the tunnel" caused me to think we can see our journey as being a light in the tunnel. We can illuminate those around us as we travel through our lives. I would say we need to bring our lights.
I don't know why, but it seems to me there is an increased amount of traffic each year when the time changes. This dusky evening was no exception. It felt like there were cars everywhere. One suggestion was that folks have a natural instinct to get home before it is dark. We stayed on streets with less traffic, as much as possible, while we worked our way toward the "Gorge Trail." From this trail we hopped onto an unfinished portion of a trail connecting to the Veterans Memorial Park. That will be nice when it is done. Then, up the hill we stroked and onto the "Cardinal Trail," our local rail trail.
It was nice to have no cars on the trails. We encountered two walkers, one runner, and two other bicyclists. Two deer were about twenty yards away as we came off of the "Gorge Trail." We discussed light systems for bicycles and enjoyed a nearly full moon. I recalled training under moonlight when my children were young. I rode these same trails many days this summer and it was an interesting comparison to ride at night. Night riding required a greater concentration on the trail immediately in front of us. I didn't see as many trees. We were startled to have bats fly right in front of us, nearly striking one rider. Night riding is a different kind of excitement.
When we had turned around and begun our trip home, we passed through an arch of steel fence-like material designed to insure safety of both trail users and cars below. During the day this structure is hardly noticeable. This night our light reflected off of the railings and arch to make it appear as if we were in a tunnel. Our light in the tunnel reminded me we are on a journey. Remembering the expression about the, "light at the end of the tunnel" caused me to think we can see our journey as being a light in the tunnel. We can illuminate those around us as we travel through our lives. I would say we need to bring our lights.
Monday, November 7, 2011
In A Life Time
Saturday dad and I cut down one of his Spruce trees. He had a list of what we needed to haul to the tree. All the tools we could possibly need were on the list. After assembling the tools, and loading them into the truck, we drove to the tree.
Our job was to cut the tree and have it fall in an area dad had decided was best. We began by cutting the limbs off of one side of the tree. Since it leaned toward the East, and we wanted it to fall mostly to the West, the eastern limbs were the ones removed. During the process of cutting limbs off, dad wanted to take a load away. This was so that we wouldn't be walking and tripping over them. We loaded as many limbs onto the pickup truck as we could. They were heavy, full of moisture, and long. When it seemed as if the load would fall from the truck if we added another limb, we drove to the brush pile to unload them. Back to the tree we drove.
Having cut and cleared enough limbs, so that we could set our ladder against the trunk, we climbed to fasten a chain around the tree. I estimate our chain was nearly half of the distance from the ground to the top of the tree. A second chain was then fastened to the end of the first. Finally, a towing strap was added to the end of our second chain and fastened to the hook on the front of the pickup truck. This arrangement of chains and strap allowed the truck to be safely away while it put tension on our tree.
Dad announced that I could, "...go ahead and cut your notch." Then he climbed into the truck and proceeded to tension our chain/strap arrangement. A few pulls started the chain saw and I estimated where the cut should be to direction the fall. Carefully cutting the angled notch and knocking out the wedge shapped piece of wood from the opening, I moved around to the other side of the tree. Quickly the saw's sharp chain teeth pulled pieces of wood from the trunk. Just when I was thinking about stopping my saw to get a wedge, the cut began to open up. Simultaneously dad backed the truck away from the tree and I increased my cutting speed. Gently the old tree fell to within inches of where we had planned.
The process from this point on was steady. First cut limbs from the tree. Load the limbs onto the pickup truck. Drive to the pile and unload the limbs. We repeated this proceedure until I'm sure dad was tired of just climbing in and out of the truck. Near the top I cut a Christmas tree sized piece from the trunk of our tree. Clearing the last of the limbs, we began to saw the trunk into firewood sized chunks. During a pause to rest I counted the annual rings. Our tree was at least thirty seven years old. Dad's comment was, "You can grow a tree in a life time."
Four hours was all it took for us to process nearly fourty years of energy and nutriant gathering by a tree. The old Blue Spruce had stood in mom and dad's yard for most of the life of my oldest son. it was a beautiful tree and many eyes enjoyed it. We discovered two Robin nests in the branches. I wondered how many birds lives had been nourished sheltering in the life of this tree? What winds had it heard, and storms endured? I pictured the snow from tens of winters on the tree's branches. How many hundreds or thousands of pounds of snow had our spruce held? And I imagined hot summer days that were just a little cooler because of the shade and energy absorbtion of the tree. Thousands of gallons of water had showered the branches and flowed through the vessels inside.
Now the tree will serve as a home for rabbits and mice as a brush pile. Birds may still alight in branches devoid of needles. Micro organisms, fungus, and bacteria will resolutly consume the accumulated nutrients. It will slowly diminish in size and eventually become dirt.
I wonder too about my role in the process. How soon will I continue the cycle, leaving my life behind?
Our job was to cut the tree and have it fall in an area dad had decided was best. We began by cutting the limbs off of one side of the tree. Since it leaned toward the East, and we wanted it to fall mostly to the West, the eastern limbs were the ones removed. During the process of cutting limbs off, dad wanted to take a load away. This was so that we wouldn't be walking and tripping over them. We loaded as many limbs onto the pickup truck as we could. They were heavy, full of moisture, and long. When it seemed as if the load would fall from the truck if we added another limb, we drove to the brush pile to unload them. Back to the tree we drove.
Having cut and cleared enough limbs, so that we could set our ladder against the trunk, we climbed to fasten a chain around the tree. I estimate our chain was nearly half of the distance from the ground to the top of the tree. A second chain was then fastened to the end of the first. Finally, a towing strap was added to the end of our second chain and fastened to the hook on the front of the pickup truck. This arrangement of chains and strap allowed the truck to be safely away while it put tension on our tree.
Dad announced that I could, "...go ahead and cut your notch." Then he climbed into the truck and proceeded to tension our chain/strap arrangement. A few pulls started the chain saw and I estimated where the cut should be to direction the fall. Carefully cutting the angled notch and knocking out the wedge shapped piece of wood from the opening, I moved around to the other side of the tree. Quickly the saw's sharp chain teeth pulled pieces of wood from the trunk. Just when I was thinking about stopping my saw to get a wedge, the cut began to open up. Simultaneously dad backed the truck away from the tree and I increased my cutting speed. Gently the old tree fell to within inches of where we had planned.
The process from this point on was steady. First cut limbs from the tree. Load the limbs onto the pickup truck. Drive to the pile and unload the limbs. We repeated this proceedure until I'm sure dad was tired of just climbing in and out of the truck. Near the top I cut a Christmas tree sized piece from the trunk of our tree. Clearing the last of the limbs, we began to saw the trunk into firewood sized chunks. During a pause to rest I counted the annual rings. Our tree was at least thirty seven years old. Dad's comment was, "You can grow a tree in a life time."
Four hours was all it took for us to process nearly fourty years of energy and nutriant gathering by a tree. The old Blue Spruce had stood in mom and dad's yard for most of the life of my oldest son. it was a beautiful tree and many eyes enjoyed it. We discovered two Robin nests in the branches. I wondered how many birds lives had been nourished sheltering in the life of this tree? What winds had it heard, and storms endured? I pictured the snow from tens of winters on the tree's branches. How many hundreds or thousands of pounds of snow had our spruce held? And I imagined hot summer days that were just a little cooler because of the shade and energy absorbtion of the tree. Thousands of gallons of water had showered the branches and flowed through the vessels inside.
Now the tree will serve as a home for rabbits and mice as a brush pile. Birds may still alight in branches devoid of needles. Micro organisms, fungus, and bacteria will resolutly consume the accumulated nutrients. It will slowly diminish in size and eventually become dirt.
I wonder too about my role in the process. How soon will I continue the cycle, leaving my life behind?
Friday, November 4, 2011
Sounds of The City
I always enjoy the sounds insects make in the Summer and Fall. There is an increase in the different sounds being made, the urgency of the sounds, and more individuals making them. A lot of the noise seems to be a call. It's as if all are saying, with whatever mechanism works best for them, "Here I am!...Come here!...Where are you?...We're getting closer!" on a warm evening, the insistent repetition is comforting. Insect's calling evokes memories of summers past. The familiarity is wonderful.
And all of this noise keeps getting louder, longer, and more frantic as the weather cools. That is, it gets more intense, until the first frost. Then, suddenly, almost all of the sounds stop. Only a few, quieter, cooler, subdued sounding insects continue the orchestration. It is a sad time to hear the last remaining music makers trying to accomplish their purpose. One can almost hear the beginning of a cold winter wind in the near silence.
While napping, on my screened porch the other evening, I was awakened by howling of coyotes. At first I thought someone was fighting in a nearby home. My mind was trying to interpret a seldom heard sound. I tried to discern words of anger being shouted. Then I realized what I was really hearing. There was no mistaking the sorrowful wailing of the pack. Perhaps they were morning the warmth gone. Not having heard them very often, I was not familiar with what they were trying to communicate. Was there a, "Come here." in their voices? Or, were they just fussing among themselves? Whatever the conversation, it was nice to be able to hear it.
There are sounds so subtle I cannot hear them. The rabbit hopping about my yard, a skunk slowly turning over bits of sod, and the raccoons scurrying from the sewer grate to the neighbor's bushes are all those soft sounds. I would listen if I could find the volume control. As it is, seeing supplants the missed sounds.
Soon the wind will remove most of the leaves from the trees. It is harder to listen to cold winds. They seem to be foretelling weather that will come. Knocking the leaves off of trees is forceful. Strength in the wind will push snowflakes and rains in the near future. I tend to ignore the wind sounds.
And all of this noise keeps getting louder, longer, and more frantic as the weather cools. That is, it gets more intense, until the first frost. Then, suddenly, almost all of the sounds stop. Only a few, quieter, cooler, subdued sounding insects continue the orchestration. It is a sad time to hear the last remaining music makers trying to accomplish their purpose. One can almost hear the beginning of a cold winter wind in the near silence.
While napping, on my screened porch the other evening, I was awakened by howling of coyotes. At first I thought someone was fighting in a nearby home. My mind was trying to interpret a seldom heard sound. I tried to discern words of anger being shouted. Then I realized what I was really hearing. There was no mistaking the sorrowful wailing of the pack. Perhaps they were morning the warmth gone. Not having heard them very often, I was not familiar with what they were trying to communicate. Was there a, "Come here." in their voices? Or, were they just fussing among themselves? Whatever the conversation, it was nice to be able to hear it.
There are sounds so subtle I cannot hear them. The rabbit hopping about my yard, a skunk slowly turning over bits of sod, and the raccoons scurrying from the sewer grate to the neighbor's bushes are all those soft sounds. I would listen if I could find the volume control. As it is, seeing supplants the missed sounds.
Soon the wind will remove most of the leaves from the trees. It is harder to listen to cold winds. They seem to be foretelling weather that will come. Knocking the leaves off of trees is forceful. Strength in the wind will push snowflakes and rains in the near future. I tend to ignore the wind sounds.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Rocks And Hard Places
I was watching a waterfall and noticed piles of rocks at the base of the falls. These rocks didn't appear to move. Rather, the water was splashed by them as it fell. But, they weren't always so solid. At one time the rocks fell from the land the water was rushing over. Then the small particles of sand and silt were washed away. The pebbles and small stones were moved downstream by the fast waters. Only the unmovable rocks remained. I'm sure they still move a small amount from time to time. The falling water is relentless in its pressure. It is such a slow movement that it probably cannot be seen while watching.
The thought came into my mind that I am like the rocks. There are a number of superfluous parts of my life that have been "washed" away. The small things, little irritants, that used to concern me, are no longer present. I am looking at my life to find what the rocks are. What has fallen from what was once a firm part of my life, yet remains? Are there things that I cling to so forcefully that they cannot be moved? One of the most important questions that arose was, "What is pushing on my rocks, like the water over a falls?
The thought came into my mind that I am like the rocks. There are a number of superfluous parts of my life that have been "washed" away. The small things, little irritants, that used to concern me, are no longer present. I am looking at my life to find what the rocks are. What has fallen from what was once a firm part of my life, yet remains? Are there things that I cling to so forcefully that they cannot be moved? One of the most important questions that arose was, "What is pushing on my rocks, like the water over a falls?
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