A Well-Oiled Machine, Or Somewhere in the Middle

If it wasn't clear before, it's clear now: I have no idea what I'm doing.  

If my incompetence wasn't clear after my whole "flat tire debacle" in the Tahoe City Xterra Triathlon in June, it's impossible to deny after Saturday.  

Tracy and I were on our typical Saturday trail ride - Fairfax, Marin County, Mt. Tam loop.  We love this ride.  In fact, we are so fond of this ride that it's pretty much the only one we do.  Last year, we bought a book on mountain biking in Northern California.  This Fairfax trail is one of the first we read about.  We've done others, but we always come crawling back home to Tam. It has everything you want in a ride: solid climbs, thrilling descents, breathtaking views, changing landscape, friendly riders, plenty of sun.  It's perfect.  But I digress.

It's about 4:30 pm when we unload the bikes from our new bike rack, gear up, and hop on the saddle.  We're like cooped up pups breaking free and chasing down the tennis ball in the park.  By the end of the week, we need this.  We hit the trail and start our climb.  As the incline increases, I'm forced to adjust gears to ease up the resistance.  This is standard procedure.  But as the hill steepens, something starts happening.  

"Clunk, chink, chank! Ggggrrr... Ka Clunk, Ka Chook, Chink!" 

What is going on?!  Coming from my pedals is the sound of mini fireworks exploding.  With each pedal stroke, the crackle of a small explosion follows.  Oh this is horrible.  This is... This is... just horrible.  

It's my chain.  It's hiccuping every other time I pedal. It's more frustrating than a scratched CD skipping every 5 seconds.  Each time it hiccups it feels like the floor is coming out from under me. 

It's my chain.  It's drier than the Prohibition.  A cactus has received more love and affection than my bike chain.  And now, it's protesting.  It doesn't want to ride today.  I understand.  Why should it?  I have abused and neglected it.  I have failed to supervise.  Failed to set up proper and timely services.  If my bike was appointed an attorney in bicycle welfare proceedings, my bike would be removed from my custody immediately, with all parental rights terminated.  It would be in a new home, with a new caregiver - one that would provide for all of it's needs.  This all dawns on me as Tracy and I are only ten minutes into our ride.  We realize there's no way I can continue.  My chain is in desperate need of oil.  And neither of us have any.  I dribble some water on it from my bottle.  This just seems to make things worse.  The grinding sounds even louder.  We decide to turn around.  That's it.  Ride's over.  

I'm fuming as we sail back down the hill.  45-min drive for nothing.  But Tracy's not as pessimistic.  She seems to think that someone back in the parking lot might have some oil.  Right.  

We're back in the parking lot in just a few minutes.  Before I can unclench my jaw, Tracy is a few cars down approaching a plumb middle-aged man in a Chelsea Futbol jersey.  He's getting out of his minivan.  He already has his helmet on.  It makes him look like a six-foot mushroom with an overgrown stem (his body).  Oh, God.  That guy?  Really?  You think that guy is going to have some spare oil?  That guy?!  The only way that guy could help us out is if we were in a crisis where the solution involved needing to find the nearest pub or brawtwurst.   

I can hear the guy say something as he opens the back of the van.  His Irish accent confirms my hunch regarding his pub-finding abilities.  But before I can bask in my stereotype victory, I hear Tracy saying, "Oh! Thank you so much!"  She skips over to me with a poised, self-satisfied smirk across her face, can-o-oil in hand.  I lift my jaw off the ground.  

Five minutes later, my chain is greased up and ready to ride.  Wow.  

I'd like to say that the rest of the ride was perfect and hiccup free.  But it wasn't.  My chain still rebelled a few times.  But I was able to get through the ride.  That's all that I needed.  My mind swirled for the next two hours on the trail.  

When it comes to mountain biking, I'm somewhere in the middle.  On the sliding scale of mountain bike obsession/interest - where on one extreme is the obsessed triathlete-bike-mechanic-devotee, and on the other is the person who owns a bike and rides a few times a year - I'm right in the middle.  If anything I probably tilt more toward the less obsessed side of the scale.   And that's not because I don't love it.  I do.  Mountain biking is one of my favorite things in the world.  But what keeps me from tilting toward the totally obsessed side of the scale is my total lack of care of my bike - and lack of interest in bike care.  I wish this weren't so.  I wish I looked at my bike as something worthy of my time and care.  I wish I was fascinated by it's mechanics, it's function.  I want to be!  I've read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance!  I want to relish in the spiritual bliss of man's two-way relationship with technology, our symbiotic relationship with machines!  But I'm not there yet.  And this chain incident, the flat tire incident, it all shines a spotlight on this.  

There's an insecurity when you're somewhere in the middle.  I can't brush off my ignorance as a dabbler can.  It's harder to be humble about my lack of knowledge.  It's complicated.  When I don't really care about something, or don't spend much time doing it, then it's easier to ask for help, it's easier to laugh at yourself.  Your fumbles during your first few weeks of a new job are excusable, but those same mistakes two years later aren't.  You don't take yourself seriously when you're a novice or newbie - your ignorance is expected.  But when you spend every weekend doing something - when you've completed triathlons riding on that something! - and yet you really know nothing about what you're doing, well, it's hard to swallow.  Because you know that you should know what, in fact, you do not know. And to compensate for being in this middle zone, there's this part of me that wanted to shout at the Irish guy, "I've done two triathlons!"  But I didn't.  Thankfully.  

But the other extreme is scary too.  It's intimidating.  You know, the extreme cyclists you see on the weekends and early morning weekdays.  The full spandexed, the full-body shaved, the totally obsessed.  The one's that size up your bike and calves simultaneously as they ride past.  They make me nervous.  It's not easy to tap into this world.  I've walked into bike shops where I've felt more unsure about myself than a high-school freshman at a dance.  I've felt more comfortable discussing car problems with a mechanic.  It's intimidating.  There's so much I don't know.  There's so much to learn.  

Why haven't I taken the time to learn about my bike and to care for it properly?  I've treated my bike as if it were a pair of running shoes, throwing it in the closet the minute I get home, not looking for it until it's time to ride.  How can I expect it to perform when called upon, despite it not receiving necessary nourishment? It's not right.  

This negligence runs counter to most aspects of my life.  Of recent, it runs counter to my new project - barefoot running. [I plan on writing about my humbling, excruciating and exciting transition to running in Vibram FiveFinger barefoot shoes in my next post].   

The most compelling idea behind barefoot running is it's natural connectedness to our bodies (our machines).  We've evolved over thousands and thousands of years.  We've done so well in the evolutionary game because we ran - and of course due to other reasons, such as social ability.  But we ran and ran and ran.  All without Nikes, amazingly.  Running without supported shoes is how our machines were initially made.  Our feet receive nourishment from contact with the soil.  Our running form takes proper shape when we discard the hoofs.  We're more engaged and focused when we run barefoot.  We sustain less injuries.  We have more fun.  

Maybe this is what will happen when I decide to take a look under the hood of my bike.  I'll feel more connected to this machine that brings me so much joy.  Maybe I'll get more out of my biking experience; and my bike will get more out of me. 

Or maybe I won't.  If I do learn all these new things about my bike, and begin caring for all of my bike's needs, would I have experienced my flat in my last tri?  Or would we have experienced the kindness of this Round Pint of Guiness in the minivan?  Probably not. 

Maybe I'll continue to ignore and dismiss my bike's needs.  That way I'll still have something to write about.

Pay It Forward

"Pay it forward: When someone does a good deed for you, instead of paying them back, pay it forward by doing a good deed for someone else." - Urban Dictionary 

My watch reads 1:26 when the record stops, when my world stops spinning.  My pedal stroke slows down to the point of non-movement as I can no longer climb.  I step off my bike.  It's over.  I'm done. 

My heart slows down with each breath I take while off the bike.  I'm alone in the middle of nowhere, a thousand feet high in the Tahoe mountains.  Well, I'm not totally alone.  There are the other hundred or so racers in front of and behind me.  But at this moment I couldn't feel more alone.  Just me, the seemingly endless trail, the fifty-foot tall trees and the cheering (or laughing, I'm not sure) birds.  I look down at my bike and see the damage.  The flat is worse than I imagined.  There's not a puff of air left in my back tire.  The tire looks the way I feel: deflated, dejected, embarrassed.  What do I do? 

Well, you fucking fix the flat, I hear you saying.  Yes, in theory that is what a person does.  "Problem: Flat tire; Solution: fix the flat."  Not that hard, right?  But what do you do when you've never fixed a flat in your life?  Not once, not never.  Not a bike tire, car tire, nothing.  What then?  And next, what do you when you're in the middle of a triathlon and don't have any equipment to fix said flat?  No spare tube, no pump, no tools.  Nothing.  Zero.  You're Grade A Fucked is what you are.  Or at least that's what I thought...

The race had been going so well up till this point - until this hour and twenty sixth minute.  The swim was freezing, but I felt confident throughout.  My face was frozen but I actually achieved what could objectively pass as swimming.  I was proud of this considering my first triathlon I frantically flopped like an otter in a pool of watered down ice for the half-mile.  This time, the lake was clear - I could actually see the bottom.   And I had a ton of space.  I wasn't the kid at the bottom of the dog-pile.  I could spread out and kick.  But most importantly, I could swim next to Tracy, who was jumping into her first triathlon.  

I was excited to be able to swim next to her, for both comfort and pacing.  She has always kicked my ass in the pool, so I figured if I could ride her wake I'd be in good shape.  But, due to either her pride ("I wakeboard in the Lake at this time of the year without a wetsuit!"), naivety ("the Lake can't be that cold at the end of June!") or bad advice from the moron at Sportsbasement Athletics ("I wouldn't wear a wetsuit at Tahoe in the summer"), Tracy decided to forgo renting an Ironman wetsuit.  Instead, she relied on a springsuit that she borrowed from her friend.  (If a full wetsuit is formal attire, then a springsuit is appropriate dress for Casual Friday - the teeshirt and shorts of wetsuits).  We later found out that this springsuit cost Tracy's friend a whopping $10.  (By way of comparison, it cost me $25 just to rent a full triathlon wetsuit for one week.  And to purchase one of these ironman suits is well above $250).  

As we scanned the scene on raceday, it didn't take long for us to realize that Tracy was the only one in a springsuit, everyone else was in a full Ironman suit - minus the batty nut who was practically naked in her regular swim suit.  Needless to say, Tracy was nervous and  I was worried for her.  

The gun fires and we're off.  We charge into the Lake with sights set on circling around the six-foot floating orange buoy.  It doesn't take me long to realize that Tracy is struggling.  When I roll my head to the right to take an in-breath, I notice that Tracy's a little bit behind me.  She's moving forward at a decent pace, but her head's above the water.  She's making a swim move that resembles the modified "head-above water freestyle/doggie-paddle" that I ungracefully mastered in my first triathlon.  She's freezing.  I'm cold in a full wetsuit.  She's gotta be dying.  I hang back with her and check in.  

"Are you alright, T?" 

"Fine," she quickly responds.  She knows that I know that she's an icicle.  But I also know that she won't admit that she's not okay until she was at the point of immediate doom - a result of having two older brothers who she always had to keep up with.  So I stick around.  I slow my stroke and stay with her.  

Every couple strokes, I check in.  "How you doing, T?"  "I'm alright," she says.    I know she's in pain, but I just don't know how much.  The parade of horribles dances through my icy brain: What if she doesn't make it through the swim?  All because of a shitty wetsuit!?  What if she has to quit the race?   And never wants to do triathlons again?  What about hypothermia!?  That's a real possibility, isn't it?!  

I try calming myself down by taking a few deep breaths as I stay within five feet of T.  This helps.  On my next stroke, I pull my head up to see where the buoy is.   We are within 20 yards of the big orange buoy.  I look over and notice that Trace has realized how close we are to the turning point (the buoy).  I see what somewhat resembles a smile crack through her frozen face.  I know she's going to be fine.  She's going to make it.  I stop hovering and cut loose.  (I'm not exactly sure how she felt about this.  But I'm hoping that she will get around to writing about her Tri experience here, from her perspective. Sometime soon.  Hopefully). 

Despite the freezing water, the morning was beautiful.  The sun was shining perfectly bright, not too harsh.  It thawed me out as I stood on shore and waited for T to emerge.  By the time we ran up the shore, across the street and to the transition station, we had warmed.  It kept us just warm enough throughout the ride as the lake-kissed breeze cooled us.  

My pace on the bike is a bit faster than T's - I attribute this to my tree trunked legs and the extra comfy backside saddle I carry around.  So as we climbed our first hill, as planned, we departed, thinking the next time we would see each other would be the finish line.

My first hour on the bike was nothing short of euphoric.  It was the complete opposite of my first tri. Tahoe City had wide-open trails, good steady climbs, significant downhills to fly down and forget all about your last strenuous climb.  Most importantly, there were no mudswamps.  Just solid, at times rocky trails. It was the most similar to what Trace and I typically train on.  I was feeling so good.  I was cranking up the hills and burning down them.  I was on an unhinged rollercoaster.  I was passing people - passing people! Handfuls!  I try to think of myself as only competing against myself and not others, but when I started passing people I couldn't deny the extra jolt of fuel and adrenaline this gave me.  Denying this feeling would be a denial of human nature.   We are made to compete, just as we are made to love.  

As I'm beginning to accept this untapped competitiveness, the hills start feeling harder.  The trail feels like I'm back in Folsom, rummaging through the mudswamps.  Why was that hill so damn hard?  Am I in the wrong gear?  Nope.  Right gear.  I keep climbing, unsure of what's happening.  I fly down a hill, dodge the rocks and sticks, and begin another climb.  

As I climb, I look down at my watch: one hour and twenty six minutes have passed...  The tire...  Screwed.  

I pull my bike off the trail and flip it upside down.  Man, why did it have to be the back tire?  Why?  Not only do I not know how to change a flat, I don't even know how to get my back tire off of my bike.  This serves me right.  Just the day before, Tracy's dad Dale was baffled when this embarrassing fact surfaced, this fact that I've never changed a tire and don't have the equipment to do so.   

"But what happens if you get a flat out there?" Dale asked me.  "La la la la la la.  I'm not listening!" I thought as I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears.  I was like a teenager in the mindset of invincibility - the "it won't happen to me" mindset.  

As I'm pulled off to the side of the trail, I hear what sounds like a human-sized hummingbird flying up behind me.  I quickly spin around.  The guy is a beast.  He is ripping up the hill.  He looks like a Marvel Comic Superhero with his full-bodied spandex getup, muscles made of twisted steel.  As he flies up toward me, I stand in awe, momentarily forgetting about my predicament.  He gets closer.  He breaks his rhythmic breath and asks, "You alright?"  "Yea," I quickly respond, fearing that he just saw me checking out his right calf where his age is written in Sharpie - it said 55, by the way; amazing.  He keeps pumping up the hill, keeping an eye on me out of the corner of his eye.  He takes a few more deep breaths.  He sees the flat.  "Have... any... equipment?"  he asks, sucking air.  Embarrassed, I confess I don't.  I look down at my bike and away from him, drooping my chin to my chest in solidifying shame.  

The next thing I hear is the squeak of a brake and the unzipping of a zipper.  Startled, I look up the trail to my right and see 55 off his bike, digging into a bag that is attached underneath his seat.  Then, like a blackjack dealer slinging out his cards to the sure-to-lose gambler, 55 starts flinging all sorts of stuff at me from his bag.  Before I can realize what's happening, he says to me:  

"Name's Nate Brown.  Gonna need that Co2 back.  Good luck!"  Then he vanishes.  

Co2?!  Holy shit.  Thank you, Nate Brown.  But what the hell is all this?  Okay, that's a tube.  These are two separate 6-inch plastic things that look like deformed and un-fun kid's toys.  And this, this is the 4-inch can of Co2.  But uh... But uh, what am I... supposed to do with it?  Alright, I decide, first things first.  

I still haven't gotten my back tire off.  I look down at my watch.  I'm burning time.  It's already been 5-6 minutes.  Fuck!  More and more people are passing me.  I'm reminded that I don't even know how to get my back tire off, let alone how to work any of this shit he's just thrown at me.  This feels like one of those dreams where you are being asked to perform surgery on someone without any training - all in your underwear, exposed.  I'm clueless and frantic.

Maybe if I move my bike to the other side of the trail that will help, I decide.  Maybe there's some more light over there or something?  I shuffle across the trail with my upside down bike, looking sad, both the bike and me.  I have no idea what I'm doing.  I anxiously start hitting the bike in random places.  I give it a few kicks.  I start unscrewing stuff.  I pull on things.  I'm like an infant with a block.   I feel like a chimp trying to work a computer.  

I look down at my watch.  It's been 15 minutes!  Fuck!  All the people I passed are cruising past me, with two pumped up tires in tact.  I aimlessly start hitting and pulling things harder and faster.  No help.  People keep passing and asking if I'm alright. "Ya' alright, man?" they ask.  By the tenth inquiry, my cool-under pressure response of, "yes, I'm fine, thanks,"  quickly unravels into an anxious "yes! fine!" bark.  

I'm not sure what it was, it must have been the sound of her soft maternal voice, but I finally crack when I'm asked for the 20th time if I'm alright.  I finally make the honest and uncomfortable confession to this woman, telling her that, "No, I am not, in fact, alright.  I can't get my tire off.  In fact, I don't even know how to.  I've never done it before."  

The woman says nothing, pulls over, gracefully swings her leg over the side of her bike and sets it down.  She comes over to me with a bright smile.   She goes straight for the tire.  She grabs the tire, starts twiddling the screws and the chain.   She mumbles a few things under her breath as a mechanic would at an autobody shop.  In a flash, the tire is off.  

I'm filled with so many emotions.  From excitement and gratefulness, to the feeling of total emasculation.  The woman laughs, not at me, but with me, as if she's aware of my shame, and wants to lighten the moment.  She hops back on her bike.  "Thank you so much!" I shout.  "Oh no problem.  You'll end up catching me anyway!"  she says as she rides off, displaying the number 64 (years old) on her right calf.  She was angel.  

Now the tire is off the bike.  I have so much adrenaline pumping that I practically rip off the tire from my rim and throw the old tube to the side.  I'm almost there.  I have all the equipment.  I can figure this out.  Right?  

I grab the fresh tube and the small can of Co2.  I read the three-step directions on the Co2.  Seems easy enough. I align the valve of the tube with the nozzle of the can.  But... nothing happens.  No air comes roaring out.  Nothing.  I try every possible thing I can think of to get the can to work.  But nothing.  No air.  I look down at my watch. 18 minutes have passed since 1:26.  I'm back to my chimpanzee ways.  Hitting, kicking and pulling things.  Nothing helps.  

I look back down the trail and see a sight of comfort.  It's Tracy in her purple Nike tank beaming through the trees, climbing up the hill.  I start whistling at her before she can totally see me.  

"What?! What are you doing?!  Why are you waiting for me?!"  When I explain the situation and she sees the bike, she calms down, pulls over and starts trying to help.  

She can't figure out the Co2 either.  She decides we should hassle someone for a manual pump (for reasons I'll never know, I never would've thought of that).  The next ten people that pass don't have a pump.  Things start looking bleak.  Then, as hope dwindles, we cast one more line for help.  The next guy coming up is young, handsome, super fit, and head to toe in top of the line racing gear.  He's covered in mud and hauling ass up the hill.  With shoulders slouched we ask if he has a pump.  

He smiles, "I do!" he says.  He pulls over, hops off his bike, unhitches the small pump from his bike and runs over toward us. 

"Thank you so much!" we say as we start pumping madly.  We look up and he's still standing there.  "Look, we don't want to hurt your time.  You can finish the race.  We'll find you afterwards," we offer.  "What's your name?"

"No, no.  No problem, no problem.  Exact same thing happened to me last year in this race.  Got a flat, didn't have the equipment.  Someone gave me everything I needed.  35 minutes later I was back on my bike.  No problem guys.  Pay it forward. Pay it forward.  My name's Glen." 

Ten minutes later, miraculously, Tracy, Glen and I have resuscitated the bike.  I flip the bike over and hop on the saddle.  It works!  Tracy and I are laughing hysterically as we start peddling.  We can't believe it.  We're off.   

I can't believe I'm going to finish the race. 

After that the rest of the race is a blur.  There were only a few miles left of the ride.  And the run seemed easy, even though it was straight uphill for the most part.  I felt so grateful after the tire experience that I couldn't think of the pain of the race.  It was like being given another life after being certain I was roadkill. 

The next thing I know I'm crossing the finish line.   Tracy crosses a few minutes after. 

During my first triathlon, I experienced a wave of emotions on the first few miles of the run when I was away from everything and everyone.  But this time was totally different.  I felt this wave of emotions, not when I was away from people, but with people: during the freezing swim with Tracy; on the trail when three different people decided to forego their self-interest to help a stranger out; when I saw Tracy cross the finish line.  

There's no doubt that triathlon's are individual feats and accomplishments.  But the photo of that one person crossing the finish line is only a snapshot.  It doesn't show the people who make that feat possible in this first place.  It crops out the people who helped you with your flat.  It cuts out those who get your ass out of the bed every morning and train with you everyday.  It doesn't include the person who gave you the courage to do the triathlon in the first place by signing you up for an Xterra as a Christmas gift.  It forgets those whose generosity allowed you to purchase the mountain bike in the first place. 

There's so much to pay forward.  I guess I'll start with helping the guy on my next race who's hitting his bike like a Chimp.

A Real Test of Strength

A guy walks into Popeyes on his lunch break at noon and orders a bucket o' chicken.  

Translation: "Oh hi, Boss.  Don't worry about me today.  Callin' it a day at noon!" 

I work in Downtown Oakland close to City Center.  I often walk through the City Center Square where, reliably, there is an ant-farm of people scattered about during the lunch hour.  In City Center there are ten to twenty restaurants/lunch delis.  They're all pretty generic spots, mostly chains.  There's Quiznos, Starbucks, Baja Fresh, some family owned delis, and then... there's Popeyes.  

In passing through the Square on my way to the gym for a quick swim or to grab a quick bite, I always notice that there's always a good amount of people inside each restaurant.  The line at most places is about 4 to 5 at most.  

But Popeyes.  Man, it's a whole different beast.  The line bursts from the doors and squiggles out along the side of the restaurant (can I really call it a restaurant?!).  This always amazes me.  People from all walks of life, poring out the door in their suits, waiting for that huge bucket o' greasy chicken to set their day straight.    

I don't know how they do this.  I'm not judging.  I mean, I know how they can eat it - the smell is always enticing.   I honestly just don't know how they do it.  How do these people go back to work for the next 4-5 hours after taking a face-first plunge into the bucket o' chick?  How do they do they do it? 

For me, I'd probably be more productive if I knocked down a twelve-pack of brew than if I took down 12 greasy wings.  I'd feel more hung-over and drunk from the chicken than the alcohol.  My stomach would experience a TKO via Chick.  My forehead would be sweating out deep-fried grease for the rest of the afternoon.  I'd pass out within twenty minutes.  

Staying awake, productive, and not in the bathroom for the rest of the afternoon after eating Popeyes should be the next triathlon I attempt. 

How do they do they do it?

It's one of the great mysteries of the world.

The Muni Vigilante

"Crunch... Chomp. Chomp... Crunch… Chomp.” 

Its 8:30 a.m. and I'm startled by the noise coming from behind me.  I'm sitting on the comfortable, yet unspeakably unhygienic BART Train seat (see link: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/06/us/06bcseats.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=bay%20area%20rapid%20transit&st=cse).  I'm on my way to work.  My train has just emerged from the tunnel and into the bright Oakland morning sun.  Leaving behind the summer fog of the city each morning is something I've begun to anticipate and crave as much as a warm shower first thing on a cold morning. 

By the time I transfer from the N line Muni train to the Bart, most of the other commuters have already evacuated Bart and scrambled into their Downtown San Francisco offices.  Most people who live in the city (SF) don't work in Oakland.  It wouldn't make any sense to live in the city and pay the high rent, just so you could commute to Oakland, where the cost of living is much lower.  So my Bart trip is always nice.  The train's usually empty and leaves me plenty of space to stretch out and dive into the paper or my book. 

As the train emerges on this morning, I settle into my coffee and first few pages of my book.  The sun is shining.  I had a great night's sleep.  The day is off to a perfect start.   

"Crunch... Chomp. Chomp..." 

Okay, you've got to be shitting me.  I can't ignore this now.  I turn around in my seat.  I turn around for the dual purpose of finding out what the species behind me is doing and to give a disapproving snarl of a glare.  I snap my head back, give a disapproving glare, and quickly scan the scene.  The guy’s about 40, thin, dressed casually, and either Latino or Indian (what? I couldn’t tell, it was a quick glance!)  When I see the tennis ball canister-looking thing of Onion-flavored Pringles in this guy’s hands, my disapproving glare becomes sharper, sadder.  It's 8:30 in the morning and homeboy's crunching on Pringles.  Not just eating Pringles, but crunching them to hell.  He might as well have been jumping up and down on the chips in Stilettos.  It was so loud and right in my ear.  On any other day, I probably would have just laughed to myself, slipped in my ipod, and rode out the train for another ten minutes before we hit my stop.  But because of what happened yesterday, I was on a mission.   

Yesterday, I was jam-packed on the N train, heading home - as always.  We are always stuffed like sardines on the commute home.  Everyone's pooped and everyone's face conveys a longing to head home peacefully to their family, beer, dinner - all of the above, whatever.  All of us commuters suffer together.  And we all want the same thing.  Quiet.  Silence.  We want to read our book, listen to our ipod, or just sit there and quietly stare off into space after a long day.  But you can always spot those who aren't a part of the team.  And on this day, I happened to be standing next to two from the opposition.   

These two girls were clearly young - just out of high school probably.  And they were recklessly blaring away.  They were practically shouting at each other.   

"Oh yea, ya know, I used to date Sergio, but he wouldn't introduce me to his parents.  So I said eff that! Ya know?  And then...  And then, he started dating my best friend, ya know?  And I was like, ya know, dat's it!  So we're done!  So yea... now I'm dating his best friend, David.  He's pretty cool and all.  He's hot and..."   

And on and on they went like this for a few minutes that felt like hours.  All my fellow commuters/regulars/teammates made death-glares in these girls' direction and then in the direction of their fellow teammates, all to convey their mutual understanding of, "geezus, what the fuck?"  But to no avail.  The girls were completely clueless and continued whaling.   

I had enough.  I ripped my ipod headphones out of my ears and leaned over toward the girls.   

"Do you mind keeping your conversation down?  We can all hear everything you guys are saying.  I can't even hear my ipod.  Do you mind?  We all just had a long day," I instinctively blurted out, without much thought.   

"Ohhh, sorrryy," replied the girls, with the look of genuine embarrassment.  They completely stopped their conversation for a full minute, then continued at a much muted tone.  I could feel my fellow commuters eyes on me.  I made a few rounds of eye contact with some of my teammates.  "We won!" I imagined all of their smiled eye contact conveying.  It was a small victory, but a huge one nonetheless.   I felt empowered.  I felt like a hero.  “The Muni Vigilante!”  

So this particular morning, I felt inspired.  I was determined.  I wasn't going to just stand by as the Pringle Perp won.  I wasn't going to let him sit there and crunch away on his Pringles in reckless disregard of the law and common courtesy.  I couldn't.   

After my initial death glare and surveyance of the scene, I was now turned back around, facing forward pondering yesterday's victory and plotting today's strategy.  What should I do?  What should I say?  Should I turn around and ask him if he's aware that its a $250 fine for eating on Bart, and that he better cut that shit out?  Should I turn around and say something passive aggressive and judgmental about his choice of nutrition, and then proceed to tell him that he better cut that shit out - for both health concerns and my own sanity?  As the chomp and crunch continues I imagine the perfect move.  I imagine myself popping up on my seat and springing into the air with a 180-degree turn - in Matrix-style slow motion – and, with agility and grace, drop-kicking the Pringles can with my left foot and then destroying his chomping jaw with my right. 

But as I'm considering the endless string of possibilities, I realize that the chomping and crunch has ceased.  He's done with the Pringles, I realize.  I've missed my opportunity to be a hero.  I take a take breath and sink a little deeper into my seat.  I look back at the book in my left hand that I've all but forgotten was there, “Born to Run,” by Christopher McDougall.  I’ve been hooked on this book.  I crack it and try to find where I left off, slowly erasing the Pringle Perp (PP) from my mind.   

The Bart putters down a ramp.  I haven’t even read a full paragraph before I feel something bang into the back of my foot from underneath the seat.  Reflexively, I yank my leg up in an instant.  But as I look down to see what just hit my foot, it’s already gone.  What the hell was that?  Did my nemesis just kick me?  No, it didn’t feel like a shoe.  I don’t know what that was…The Bart hiccups again and I quickly look down at my right shoe.  No fucking way! 

I didn’t need to look down quickly to spot what it was because what was kicking me was just chilling there.  It was resting up against my shoe, looking up at me like a puppy rolled over on it’s back begging for a belly rub.  It was my enemy’s empty can of Pringles can.  It had rolled under the seat to strike me, to assault and taunt me.  Before I can even begin to process this, I quickly lift my leg up and slam my heel into the Pringles can, kicking it right back where it came from.  Two seconds later, its back, resting on my heel again with an even brighter smile as it looks back up at me.   I’m so furious I can’t even think.  I lean down, grab the can and turn around to face the villain.    

So here I am.  Here’s my chance. Here’s my opportunity to school this guy, to act out one of the scenarios I had sketched up in my mind moments before.  Would it be the drop kick?!  I don’t know, but I knew it was my moment to continue my streak as the Muni Vigilante, the one who takes the public transportation law into his own hands for everyone’s benefit.  Full-time legal intern; part-time Muni Superhero. 

As I’m turned around staring at PP, with the Pringles in my right hand and a look of disgust on my face, I’m ready to capitalize.  But as I take in the breath that will surely be transferred into pure verbal domination, PP halts me with his own kryptonite:  He smirks and says, “Oh, sorry.  Yea, I’m all finished,” and grabs the can out of my hands like I’m his waiter.  I say nothing.  I turn around in my seat, devastated, confused, and completely deflated.  My gaze drops toward my lap.  I’m speechless.  What was that?  You’re all finished?  What?!  I know you’re all finished - the can was empty!  

The train pulls up to my stop before this all settles.  I step out of the train in a daze.  I walk out of the underground and into the busy streets of Downtown Oakland with my thoughts swirling.  The sun is shining, people in suits are shuffling, and the city pigeons are fluttering.  

I’m not sure when it started, maybe in law school, maybe when I started working in law, maybe living in the city – probably all three are responsible.  But riding public transit has made me aware of this impulse of correction – this feeling of wanting to correct other people’s behavior.  Like when someone’s doing something I disagree with, offends or angers me, I want to change their behavior.  I want that stranger to be wearing a helmet when he rides his bike.  (Does he know how unsafe it is not wearing one?!).  I want her to realize how obnoxious it is to carry on a conversation on her cellphone while on the train.  And I especially want him to know that it is (legally and morally) wrong to eat crunchy chips at 8:30 in the morning on the train. 

I could expend all of my energy -everyday for the rest of my life - being frustrated and angered by what strangers do around me.  But maybe this isn’t my responsibility.  Maybe my only responsibility is to myself – to be in control of how I respond, my reaction to each of these villains.  There’s always going to be someone to correct, to change, to “educate.”  But the struggle is endless and futile.  Just let go, man.  Turn it into something funny.  Easier said than done.  

Just. Let. Go… 

I look around the city searching for a way to distract my mind from my realization that I’m not cut out to be a Public Transit Superhero. Then a billboard catches my eye:  “The Green Lantern.”  Ryan Reynolds; looks stupid, I mutter to myself. 

I glance to the other side of the street.  There’s another billboard: “Captain America.”  It was like looking into the mirror of what I just realized I couldn’t be.  I felt relieved and optimistic.  The pressure was off me, but transferred outward and elsewhere. Maybe there’s a Bart Superhero out there somewhere… 

I couldn’t be a superhero.  I also couldn’t bring myself to see either of these movies.  

But a movie about Bart Superheroes?  That’s something I’d run to see.