The Rain Delay…

Even casual sports fans have seen the effects of a rain delay.  An outdoor sport is called to a halt by the officials, only to continue later, and reach the inevitable win/lose conclusion.  Fans wait anxiously.  Players wait anxiously.  And all involved, it seems, can’t help but feel the outcome will be tainted.

Without exception, 50% of the fans will be certain that the game resulted with the wrong conclusion, influenced by the stoppage, even if their team was well behind at the onset of the delay.  The other 50%, however, will be equally certain that their team would have still won, with or without the influence of the rain delay, but the asterisk will haunt them.  Of course, there’s no way the alternative result can ever be known beyond the great, WHAT IF…

What takes place after a rain delay, is what takes place, and until humans are better able to control the flow of rain during sportsball events, we should accept the results – just like we accept the results of political elections.  Wink…

I had my own rain delay of sorts yesterday, though it wasn’t as critical as game 7 of this World series, past.  My early morning walk yesterday, was put off for a few hours by a late-season storm.  I was anxious.  My dog was anxious.  We were certain the outcome would be tainted.  However, thanks to a mid-morning cancelation in my schedule, which came after the rain subsided, we were provided the opportunity to walk – after the rain delay.

Unlike in sport, the result of our rain delay offered two winners, me and my dog, with no losers and no thinking about the great, WHAT IF…

As he and I are both fans of, and participants in our morning walks, 100% of us agreed with the result, and there was no grumbling from Stroodle or myself about the effect the rain had on the outcome of our walk – the conclusion was stunning.  Here’s some proof of yesterday’s outdoor game. May you all engage in such sport, daily… Jhciacb

126789

_____________________________________________

If you are not already a subscriber, please scroll up and do so.  Tell your friends about me — about what happens when I push the STOP button on the blender in my head. Oh, and there’s this from Sons Of Bill.  Enjoy…

It’s He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-re…

This weekend, I will need to water my trees, flowers, and succulents – for the first time since Thanksgiving. Summer arrived yesterday. Well, one of our summers. We get a few of them here.

Yesterday it was 82 degrees on my front porch by 2:00pm. I wasn’t prepared for summer.  It just showed up. I’m already sick of summer, and it’s less than a day old. I know, only a fool complains about good weather…

It rained a great deal this winter. The overnight lows have wavered between crisp and, holy living f#ck, is this Colorado…?. The drought conditions which have threatened this region for a decade are receding. In 18 years here, I’ve not seen this region so grown out, so lush, and so enchanting, despite the cold temperatures.

1.jpg

The dried ponds, and sand bottom creeks where I walk each day have filled, and now flow. Some now overflow. Just the sight of water, in nature, recreates us. Water can cleanse us, even from a distance. I cherish more, the water that cleanses my soul, than that which cleanses my skin.

bb.jpg

I’ve made it a point to spend more time than usual in these places this year – walking in the growth and near the waters. It’s become my obsession. I’ll still walk every day, as summer begins to dry my surroundings, but my walks might be less inspired.

With summer upon us, all the greens will slowly fail, and become tans, and then browns. The blooms will shout for attention for a few weeks more, then fade to crisp. It may cool again for a time, then summer will show up again in late June. The peak of life though, and the height of the waters for this year, is right now.

2.jpg

I’ll long remember this winter – this El Nino which nobody predicted. I know that rain like we have had may not return for a while – or maybe never again, not like this.

At some point, probably later today, I’ll start anticipating winter once again, in hopes it doesn’t disappoint. All things must pass. In an eternal universe though, they will rise again, it’s just a question of when… Jhciacb

_____________________________________________

If you are not already a subscriber, please scroll up and do so.  Tell your friends about me — about what happens when I push the STOP button on the blender in my head. Oh, and there’s this from Shocking Blue.  Enjoy…

Occupational Hazard…

I make my living as a fitness trainer. I have worked a small town 17 years, Fallbrook, California.  Because of what I do, the size of the town, and my time in place, many people know me here – know who I am and what I do. Wherever I go, at least a few people always identify me as Roy, the trainer guy.

And then there’s the local market. Because I work from home, I go to the market daily. It’s a reason for me to leave the house – which is important when you work from home. Every day, whether I need something or not, I enter the market, pick up a handheld basket and stroll the isles, to justify leaving my home.

As a fitness trainer, I tend to be a conscientious eater. Still, there are times when I might breach from that, and enjoy a treat or five. I might also pick up something for my mother; Oreos, Betty Crocker frosting, Milano cookies, or Fritos. These are the daily rewards one is entitled to, should they make it into their late 80s.

If at a given time there are 40 people in the market, pushing carts, carrying baskets, and seeking out the best lambchops, strawberries, or baby wipes, at least 5 of those people will know who I am – and what I do for a living.

Without fail, when I run into somebody I know or who knows me, no matter how hard they try not to, their eyes always break contact with mine, immediately peering into my basket – to see what trainers eat. And just as quickly, as though they were a dog caught drinking from the toilet, their eyes break from my basket and rejoin mine, trying to look not guilty for their examination of my stuff.

Yesterday this happened several times. In my basket were Saltine crackers, some Progresso soups, and cough drops – my mom has been in bed sick. One client I ran into saw the cough drops, and I swear I’m not making this up, said to me…

“Oh, cough drops. A candy you can justify…”

Yes, I said. You caught me. Sugar and menthol – the two things I crave most when I’m i bodybuilding mode.

ggg

If I’m going to cheat, I assured her, I would get the wild cherry cough drops, and have them with ice cream – lots of and lots of ice cream…  Jhciacb

_____________________________________________

If you are not already a subscriber, please scroll up and do so.  Tell your friends about me — about what happens when I push the STOP button on the blender in my head. Oh, and there’s this from the elegant Ronnie Lane…  Enjoy…

Sniffing With My Eyes…

It finally happened.  After 10 year of blogging, after writing 350 essays, each approximately 1,000 words, I sat down to write this morning, and I had nothing to say.   Nada.  Zip.  Blanca.  I know, I know, praise be to Allah, right…?

Could be the well has run dry.  Could be the pump is broken.  More likely though, the guy with his hand on the pump handle also has it on too many other things of late; work, mom, friendships, exercise, meditation, and the stewarding and walking of his mammal.

I do a lot of that these days; the dog walking that is.  Stroodle walks in a style that he and I call, Comando.  That is, Stroodle walks off leash.  He just sniffs his way in the best possible direction as I keep him out of fights, and offer him small bites of animal protein when we are done.

A veterinarian once told me that we (humans) see beauty with our eye, and a dog sees aesthetic beauty with his nose.  This ideal brings me much peace, as Stroolde and I spend time together daily, appreciating beauty wherever we may go.

Rather than force an essay this week — one which just isn’t there, I’m going share some of my favorite iPhone pictures from the last couple of years, many of which were taken on sniffing hunts with Stroodle.

From Nederland to Moss Landing, central Utah, Carlsbad, Pt. Lobos, and right here in Fallbrook, I hope you enjoy.  I hope to have a new essay up in a week or two.  Be well… Jhciacb

______________________________________________________

Please check back in two weeks to see what happens when I push the STOP button on the blender in my head.  Oh, and there is this from Ronnie Land & Slim Chance.  Enjoy!

See Sections…

Wake Up Shake Up…

There are at least 5 things that must be done immediately on my awakening. Switch on the coffee pot. Open the back door for the dogs. Warm up the shower. Pee. Acknowledge dogs. Pee again. Feed dogs. Step into shower. Acknowledge dogs from shower.

Then, a little coffee, a little Sports Center, a check of the headlines to see who’s dead, and I pack my crap for the day. It all passes in a blur before I’m out the door for my morning commute. Just short of 15 miles, and roughly 50 minutes in duration, my bicycle ride to work each day is a joy.

 The Sections…

Section 1: Temecula, CA is where my commute begins; the only Mediterranean climate in the US. The first 3 miles are a flat stretch along Pechanga Parkway – the perfect warm up. On fresh legs and fueled by an apple and black coffee, the rhythm of my morning synchs perfectly. I travel at roughly 24 mph for this stretch. The air is usually crisp with a moderate to heavy marine layer overhead. There is no wind, and on strong legs I glide effortlessly through the sea of red ceramic roof tops.

When I turn left and head south on Old Highway 395, I have an immediate climb of 250 feet over the next 1.2 miles – not a chore on fresh legs, and a good way to gather my senses for the impending day. With that single left turn, I transition from suburban to rural. This stretch is a series of 2-lane switchbacks that provide a few great glimpses of the Temecula valley as I climb my way out of town.

Temecula valley...

Temecula valley…

With just a slight change in elevation, I’m now pushing into the marine layer that was once above as the mist keeps me cool. Years of geological evolution have adorned these hills with large boulders in captivating postures. I imagine them as what condominiums might have looked like in the town of Bedrock. Sadly, this crosses my mind every morning.

Flintstone Condominiums...

Flintstone Condominiums…

The mist that cools me...

The mist that cools me…

Section 2: After I reach the top of the switchbacks most of the next few miles are fairly straight and slightly downhill. As I cross from Riverside County into San Diego County, I transcend climates as well. The scrub oaks and arid hills give way to eucalyptus trees, some palm and succulent nurseries, and the floral greenhouses along the way – because everything that can grow in San Diego’s north county will grow. The scent of eucalyptus wafting through the fog smells better than freshly brewed coffee.

IMG_6396

IMG_6403

This is the easy section of the ride with only 2 brief uphill sprints, but mostly my legs move to support the downhill glide. The final mile of this section is a steep downhill on which I usually coast to prepare my legs for the brief but exhilarating climb that begins on section 3.

3 miles of a slight downhill...

3 miles of a slight downhill…

Palm nursery on Old 395...

Palm nursery on Old 395…

Section 3: I turn right and cross over I-15 before I begin a short climb up East Mission Road headed into Fallbrook. This gets my heart-rate up for a few minutes, but it’s no chore. When I reach the top I usually sit up, let go the handle bars, and pull my shirt up to wipe sweat from my burning eyes.

Crossing I-15...

Crossing I-15…

The balance of my ride into work is an aesthetic gift. The ride is flat or slightly downhill with a few fun curves. I push this section hard since the peddling is easy, but I always take time to enjoy the great scenery that channels cars and bicycles alike into Fallbrook, including the little vineyard shown below.

Strawberry fields for seconds...

Strawberry fields for seconds…

Vineyard on East Mission Road...

Vineyard on East Mission Road…

The ride into Fallbrook on East Mission is roughly 4 miles, and is medicine for my soul. These views, along with the early morning fog are a large part of why I live here.

Welcome to Fallbrook...

Welcome to Fallbrook…

My Gears And Thoughts…

My bike has a double crank set. Unless transitioning, I’m always in 1 of 3 gears. Sadly, I actually have names for these gears. Even sadder, they are pathetic names; My Gear, My Other Gear, and My Different Other Gear. If I am not in one of these gears during the course of my ride, I have somehow failed with my sleep, fuel, or attitude.

Along the way my thoughts drift to the farthest reaches of my imagination, but never are they too far from what matters most — my ears.  A good defensive cyclist rides with his ears first, knowing what’s behind matters more than what is in front. Most injured cyclists never see the vehicle that hits them. Still, my thoughts during my ride entertain me far better than any aspect of popular culture ever could.

Morning on Main Street...

Morning on Main Street.  Studio view…

Still Growing As An Athlete…

Explosive athletes are physically strong for short bursts. Endurance athletes are mentally strong over long periods of time.   This commute is somewhere in the middle. I have always been a good explosive athlete, but never mentally strong with endurance sports. Though this commute is only 15 miles, it’s more than a sprint for me. I am attempting to break through the mentally strong barrier. Since beginning this commute several months ago, I am actually making strides in that direction. I’m pushing hills harder, scarcely coasting on flats, and I speed up for red lights rather than slow down for them.

My ride home is a different story.   It comes at the end of the day, in heat, usually in wind, is mostly uphill, and always after my daily workout with the weights. There is no joy there. It is simply an obligation that I must return in order to enjoy my morning commute once again, but that is a story for another essay. Be well… rc

111395

Roy Cohen is also available for consulting from a distance.  Click here to learn more.

______________________________________________________________

Please check back in a few weeks to see what happens when I push the STOP button on the blender in my head. Oh, and there’s this from The Sleepy Jackson. Enjoy!

Leap, And The Net Will Appear…

Evil Cohnievel…

A friend recently referred to me as the Evil Knievel of leaps of faith. That is among the highest compliments I have ever received. Her statement arose from my willingness to change the circumstances of my life on a dime, regardless of the potential for a disastrous outcome, in hopes of a positive outcome. I guess I do this on a regular basis.

My friend was probably unaware though, that emotionally speaking, I have gone over the handle bars, been thrown like a ragdoll, and tumbled to the end of the landing ramp on more than a few of my leaps. Even the leaps that look seamless to those looking on, have rattled me pretty good on the inside.

A Snow Cohen In Winter…

I had been shoveling snow at 5:00am on a hateful Colorado morning in February of 1999. After I dug tracks wide enough and long enough for the wheels of my car to pass through the drift, I came inside, shook off the cold, and exclaimed to my family, never again! Weeks later I would be in the San Diego area looking to purchase a home.

That leap didn’t go so well. Less than a year after the move I ended up divorced, broken, and beaten. It was my Caesar’s Palace moment as the Evil Knievel of leaps of faith. It took a long time to recover from the numerous injuries that resulted from that leap; not withstanding that I severely injured two others, and the recovery continues even now for us all.

11ev

Eventually I was healed enough to start a business, make new friends, and put down some roots in Fallbrook, California. For 15 years in my life was on autopilot. I lived a minimalist life with few expectations, and designed my existence to be aesthetic, if not ascetic.

My Fallbrook Home...

My Fallbrook Home…

However on a visit home in May of this year I got a good look at much of what I had left behind in Colorado 15 years earlier. My mother, now in her mid-80s, was primary to this view. I quickly came to realize how important it will be for me to be close to her in the coming years.

An almost immediate decision was made to walk away from those roots, relationships, and even my business in Fallbrook, and return to Colorado to be closer to my mother, my brother, and his children. Leap…

Mammy:  How I love ya...

Mammy: How I love ya…

Snake River Cohen…

I had no idea how I would earn a living back in Colorado, I simply leaped. I had been somewhat burned out on fitness training. I began looking for work almost immediately. Anything would do – I just needed a job to support my leap.

There were many promises of low pay, long hours, and human exploitation. I was beginning to wonder if I would be going over the handlebars yet again – to have walked away from a good life and my own business in favor of swapping out restaurant floor-mats at 4:00am for $15 an hour.

Eventually a high-end athletic club in the Denver area expressed interest in me as a sales manager; a job that would have paid me a good base, with incentives I was confident I could exceed. A smooth landing was in my sights.

Leaving this athletic club, in a city of 2 million people, I took a good look around. I saw traffic. I saw suits. I saw stress. But what stood out most of all, was an absence of soul. I began to question my decision to accept such a job, and live in that environment. I designed my life to be simple, low stress, and pedestrian in a small town.

I returned to the place I was staying, wrote and sent this letter to the Director of the Community Center in Nederland, Colorado – a town I have had a peripheral relationship with for nearly 20 years.  The Director called me the same day she received the letter and we agreed to meet later in the week.

11let

 Long story less long: I am now in a collaborative effort with the town of Nederland, using my social media and networking skills to promote use of their facility in the community. In exchange, I can run my fitness training business there – so long as there are folks willing to be trained. Leap…

8IMG_2975 - Copy

It Could Be Ugly. It Could Be Pretty…

I continue to be as amazed as I am appreciative of the people, the circumstances, and the choices which seem to have influenced and shaped my life; a life that has changed more in the past 6 months, than in the 15 years previous.

I’m still midair on this one. The landing could be smooth, I could once again go over the handlebars, or it could be something in-between. I know the potential reward. I understand the risk. I leapt. I now await the result. Either way, the audience is sure to be entertained. Be well… rc

please take a moment, scroll back to the top, and rate this.  thank you.

____________________________________________________________

Please check back in a few weeks to see what happens when I push the STOP button on the blender in my head. Oh, and there’s this from The Plateros. Enjoy…

Bombs away…

I first wrote this back in March for my Contemplative Fitness Facebook page.  It’s been a heavy week of bombing here at Camp Pendleton, not far from my back door.  I absolutely support these activities, though I always hope the exercises of war will only be played out when necessary, and hopefully not at all. 

When I begin to feel these concussions though, as I have been feeling them this past week, I get reflective, and concerned…

Bombs away…

When I was young I read the following sentence by Bill Dobbins in an article published in Muscle Builder And Power magazine:

“Watching Frank Zane train, his concentration is so severe that one gets the impression a bomb could go off in the gym, and Zane would neither let go the bar, nor lose his concentration.”

As a 15 year old, that statement left an impression on me that would be both formative, and long-lasting in my approach to strength training.

I have always prided myself on my ability to maintain a high level of concentration during an exercise – even if bombs were to go off around me.

Funny, now they actually do.

I live not far from the back gate of The Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base. The explosions I hear daily can be so concussive that my windows can rattle, the mirrors shake, and occasionally the pictures on my walls tilt to one side.

When this happens during a workout I never miss a beat. I don’t lose focus. I will continue until my set is complete. My concentration is so severe that people in China can feel my intensity.

Despite this, my mind does drift some when I hear, and feel the bombs.

As I hear the explosions in the distance, and feel my walls rattle, I can’t help but think about the Marines firing those weapons – of where they have been, what they have seen, and if they will use explosives again in a genuine scenario.

On the days when the bomb’s concussions are as severe as my own concentration, and make the walls shake, my mind drifts even further in-between sets.

I wonder; what must it feel like to be a mindful fitness enthusiast, innocently working out in a gym in Iraq, Afghanistan, Gaza, or anywhere else, and feel bombs exploding during the workout.
arm_war

Would a person wonder, while doing arm curls, is their mother ok…? Are their friends ok…? Will they be ok…?

I wonder how quickly someone living exact that scenario might let go the bar, duck, and cover, biceps be damned.

Yes, I can hear a bomb go off and my lat-pulldowns will continue until the very last rep is completed. In-between sets though, my mind does wander… rc

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Please check back in 2 weeks to see what happens when I push the “stop” button on the blender in my head.  Oh, and there is this from the North Mississippi All Stars.  Enjoy…

The Long Shadow Of War…

The Convoy

My fitness studio faces onto East Mission Road, in Fallbrook, California.  At one end of Fallbrook, lies the back gate of Camp Pendleton; a Marine Base where Marines train to, among other things, blow things up and to kill.  I’m actually ok with that – the training of how to properly blow up and kill, we need that – just in case.  The actual acts of blowing up and killing, I have mixed feelings on, but I’m not so naïve as to deny the utility of force.

About 90 minutes from Fallbrook is Twentynine Palms, California where there is another base, and another area where Marines train to blow things up and to kill.  From the vantage point of my studio windows, all day long I see Marines transporting their artillery, mobile weapons, vehicles and tanks of all sizes, from Fallbrook to Twentynine Palms and back for training exercises.  Like good Marines, they do it convoy style.

With essentially one road in and out of Fallbrook, getting caught in or behind a convoy might make for some grumpy commuters, though nobody complains too much about it – there is great deal of respect for our Marines here.  I’ll suggest these days that folks caught in one of these convoys are probably more humbled than frustrated.  There is always a good bit of honking, waving, and offering of the thumbs-up sign to show support for our troops.

A New Toy For Uncle Hulka

One type of vehicle which I have seen going back and forth a lot lately is the LAV25 (Light Assault Vehicle).  The LAV25 is piloted by an exposed driver behind a small windshield at the lower front of the vehicle.  Several other crewmen also ride exposed, stationed at the top of the vehicle, with several more inside.  The new Chevy Camaro be damned, the LAV25 looks to me to be “the most powerful convertible on the road”.

LAV25

It must be a great relief to the crewmen to ride on one of these through the gorgeous aesthetic of the Fallbrook hills, and be in a place of peace.  A far cry I reckon, from the stress of turning a corner in Iraq or Afghanistan, and not knowing what apocalyptic mayhem might be waiting on the other side.  Though I enjoy watching these vehicles and these men travel back and forth, it forces me daily to take a moment and contemplate the sacrifices they and their families have made – regardless of my feelings on imperial war.

I often marvel at these vehicles as well as the larger, scarier killing machines for their size, their power, their rugged off road capabilities, and of course, their ability to destroy.  But in a moment this morning that “marvel” turned to fright as I remembered that these aren’t just training vehicles and weapons.  These vehicles have been beyond Fallbrook and Twentynine Palms – far beyond.  That at some point, most of these vehicles I see from day to day have probably been used in war – to kill and to blow things up, and that men might have died on or in the very vehicles that I marvel at as they drive by my gym.

I wondered as I watched several pass by this morning, was there once human blood and guts and body parts strewn across the camouflage surface, and subsequently squeegeed away with some soap and water from the very deck I was looking at…? Where there shots fired by those very men stationed at the top of that vehicle, into a crowd of combatants, or worse yet – into a crowd of civilians…?  These vehicles began to cast a shadow on me and my gym door – the shadow of a war reaching 8,000 miles away.

Something’s In The Air, And Over The Hill Too

It happens when I look up too; the instruments of war appear.  In addition to the convoys rumbling through town, Fallbrook locals see attack, survey, and supply helicopters flying overhead all day long.  We hear explosions from the heavy artillery firing range on the other side of the hills concuss to the point of rattling the windows and even shaking pictures on the walls – sometimes for hours at a time, and into the night.  It’s like living in a war zone but we locals all wear the immunity necklace.

Tanks on the roads.  Choppers in the air.  Explosions heard into the night.  I’m lucky, I live in a beautiful area, surrounded by good people, and I have plenty of anything – including freedom, and with no fear for my safety when I see the machines of war.  These machines though, they have seen other streets and other airspace, where the people who have seen them have feared them, and for good reason.  The people who have seen these machines on their streets and over their air 8,000 miles away just hoped for the best – or dropped to their knees and prayed.  And at the end of the day, I know these machines have closed their ears to those hopes and to those prayers, and just done their job.

It’s hard to live in Fallbrook without seeing – without feeling the shadow of war cast over our town – it’s everywhere we look.  I wonder on this day, what machines out there will ever cast a shadow of peace…?  Be well.  rc

Oh, and there is this from Daniel Lanois.  Enjoy…