The Pleasures of the Mountain Bike

What follows is from my first weblog, and is dated 4 May 2004. The photo was taken this morning by Dennis Murray, fellow aficionado of strenuous pursuits.

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Time was, when running was my exercise, the daily bread of my cardiovascular system. But then the injuries came: chondromalacia patellae in both knees, shin splints, plantar fasciitis, you name it. So I took up the bike, and eventually the mountain bike. Now I run just once a week, on Sunday mornings, for about 75 minutes. The other days I either hike or ride the mountain bike, mostly the latter. I like to be on the road before sunrise, and catch old Sol as he rises over the magnificent and mysterious Superstition Mountains. There is nothing like greeting the sun as he greets the mountains, bathing them in the serene light of daybreak. It is an appropriate moment for gratitude, gratitude for another day on which to bang my head against the riddle of existence. Riding into the rising sun, I sometimes recall Nietzsche’s words from Thus Spoke Zarathustra: “O you overrich star, what would you be except for those for whom you shine?”

The beauty of the mountain bike is that you can get off the roads, away from cars and people, and onto trails and jeep tracks. I’d rather dodge rattlesnakes than cars any day. I have even been known to strike out cross-country across open desert. I’ve got kevlar-reinforced tires, with thick tubes, and a strip of plastic betwixt tube and tire as prophylaxis against cactus spines and other impregnators. No need for slime, and no flats for going on two years. My bike is an old Trek 930, a modest mid-range hard-tail – having been called a hard-ass, I suppose this is appropriate – with front-end suspension. As every Thoreauvian knows, one doesn’t have to spend a lot of money to have fun and live well.

Still, nothing in my experience beats running for the endorphin kick. ‘Endorphin’ is a contraction of ‘endogenous morphine.’ The adjective means originating from within, in this case, from within the brain. You know what morphine is. The brain of a body under athletic stress seems to produce these endorphins the existence of which, I understand, is more scientific postulation than verified fact. Endorphins manifest themselves at the level of consciousness in rather delightful sensations. When conditions are auspicious, and I am about 45-50 minutes into a run, I enter a phase wherein I apperceive myself as merely riding in my body as a pure spectator of a pure spectacle. I become a transcendental onlooker, and the world becomes George Santayana’s realm of essence.

“I become a transparent eyeball: I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or parcel of God.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature.”)

BVMTBike24Aug2020

 

Just a Number?

Some say that age is just a number. Well, is temperature just a number too? In Phoenix in July, say? Or is it a number that measures something?

"It's 115!"

"That's just a number; you are only as hot as you feel."

Linkage!

  • Leftists devouring themselves and proving that diversity is not their strength: a delightful social justice  shit show.  By the way, Trump (or his writers) came up with a great line last night during his powerful speech under Mount Rushmore. Quoting from memory: Social justice is neither just nor good for society.
  • Rod Serling could not have predicted the Twilight Zone of our current predicament.

This week, Senate Republicans continue to beclown themselves. During a June 30 appearance on Tucker Carlson’s Fox News show, Senator Mike Braun (R-Ind.) fumbled his way through a heated interview about his bill to make it easier to sue police officers and his support for Black Lives Matter. Just as statues of Christopher Columbus started to fall across the country, Senators James Lankford (R-Ok.) and Ron Johnson (R-Wisc.) introduced a bill to scrap Columbus Day and instead declare a national holiday for Juneteenth.

  • The awesome destructive power of concupiscence unchecked: Jeffrey Epstein and his pimp and paramour Ghislaine Maxwell.

“Do You Get Hate Mail?”

A philosopher sympathetic to my views asked me this question a year or two ago. I said that I used to, but no longer.

Now why might that be despite an enlarged readership in a time of increasing political anger?  One possible explanation is that we are now so 'siloed' into our positions that we read only our own.  

Speaking of silos, a Mormon friend of a non-Mormon friend of mine purchased an old ICBM silo in Arizona. Now that's one serious prepper.  Moderate in all things, including moderation, I keep my prepping within the bounds of sense. And I read everything. Nihil humanum, et cetera.

Companion post: Word of the Day: Oubliette

Oubliette

The Differences between Me and You

I'm sensitive, you're touchy.  I'm firm,  you are pigheaded.  Frugality in me is cheapness in you.  I am open-minded, you are empty-headed.  I am careful, you are obsessive.  I am courageous while you are as reckless as a Kennedy.  I am polite but you are obsequious.  My speech is soothing, yours is unctuous.  I am earthy and brimming with vitality while you are crude and bestial.  I'm alive to necessary distinctions; you are a bloody hairsplitter.  I'm conservative, you're reactionary.  I know the human heart, but you are a misanthrope.  I love and honor my wife while you are uxorious.  I am focused; you are monomaniacal.

In me there is commitment, in you fanaticism.  I'm a peacemaker, you're an appeaser.  I'm spontaneous, you're just undisciplined.  I'm neat and clean; you are fastidious.  In me there is wit and style, in you mere preciosity.  I know the value of a dollar while you are just a miser.  I cross the Rubicons of life with resoluteness while you are a fool who burns his bridges behind him.  I do not hide my masculinity, but you flaunt yours.  I save, you hoard.  I am reserved, you are shy.  I invest, you gamble.  I am a lover of solitude, you are a recluse.

I have a hearty appetite; you are a glutton.  A civilized man, I enjoy an occasional drink; you, however, must teetotal to avoid becoming a drunkard.  I'm witty and urbane, you are precious.  I am bucolic, you are rustic.  I'm original, you are idiosyncratic. I am principled, you are doctrinaire.  I am precise, you are pedantic.

And those are just some of the differences between me and you. 

Facebook

I'm on a roll. Daily punch-back against leftist loons on a wide variety of topics. Culture critique in the bowels of the Zuckerbergian beast.  No lefties need apply. I am looking for a few good men and women to join me in the fight for sense and sanity and the defense of the Republic. 

I received 'friend' requests from a couple of hotties the other day who proudly strut their stuff and sport their 'racks' on pages including links to their 'nude pics.'  Sorry girls, you are not MavPhil material.  

Notre Dame de Paris

Dr. Vito B. Caiati, historian, contributes the following:

With regard to Notre Dame, I have several observations. First, the cathedral had not been properly maintained. Its neglect by the French government has been raised by architectural conservationists for several years. Second, the fire alarm systems of Notre Dame appear to have been inadequate, in that the first alarm sounded at 18:20 on the day of the fire, but the technology employed did not indicate the location of the fire to the technicians in the cathedral. Thus, this first alarm was judged to be “false.” A second alarm sounded 23 minutes later, a lapse that allowed the fire to spread to the “forest” of ancient, roof-supporting oak timbers, many of which dated from the time of Charlemagne. The fire was so extensive and intense that the north tower of the cathedral was almost lost to it (15-30 minutes more of flame and it would have collapsed). Only now is the Minister of Culture calling for a review of the security systems in all cathedrals: too late. Fourth, there are “modernist” forces at work to interfere with the historical reconstruction of the cathedral. It is one thing to argue that the structure supporting the roof, which will be invisible, masked by the stone vault below and the copper roof above, need not be made of oak (1200 very old oak trees would be needed) as the original but rather of concrete, as in the reconstructed Cathedral of Reims or metal as the recently restored Collège de Bernardins in Paris, and quite another to impose some modernist horror in the form of a new spire, which is what the bien-pensant rulers of France apparently have in mind, the prime minister Edouard Philippe calling for a competition on its design and Macron (to whom Matteo Salvini hilariously refers as “il signorino”) recommending “un geste architectural contemporain.” These people are drawn from the same smart-set multiculturalists who blocked any reference to Europe’s Christian roots in the European Constitution and who have remained largely silent in face of the wave of church desecrations that have swept France in the last few years (878 cases in 2017 alone). Moreover, they are enthusiastic admirers of the modernist architectural horrors that now beset Paris, from the Pompidou Centre, to the Tour Montparnasse, to the Grande Arche, to the Bibliothèque nationale de France, to the Philarmonie de Paris, and to the proposed monstrosity The Triangle Tower. So the reconstruction may well become a real problem, given the disdain for history, tradition, and Christianity that infects the ruling elites of France. It seems to me that the spire should either be reconstructed according to the 19th century design of Viollet-le-duc or left off the roof entirely as it was before his renovation.

Yes, I Repeat Myself

Leftists constantly repeat their lies in the hope that they will be eventually taken for truths. So we of the Coalition of the Sane need to constantly repeat truths.  Not our truths, for there is  no such thing as 'our' truth or 'my' truth or 'your' truth.'  Truth is not subject to ownership. If you have it, you have it without possessing it.   

So speak the truth and speak it often.  Don't be afraid of repeating yourself. Living well is impossible without repetition. All learning, all teaching, all physical culture, all musicianship require repetition. No mastery of anything, no improvement in anything, is possible without repetition.  Can you play that riff the same way every time? If not, keep practicing. 

By practicing blows, whether verbal or physical, you learn how to land effective ones.

Typo Man Salutes Two Eagle-Eyed Readers

C. P. and J.I.O. warrant my gratitude for catching errors.  Platonizer that I am,  my mind goes directly to the trans-sensible sense and is appropriately inattentive to its mere material embodiment.  I try to catch all my typographical errors but I am regularly surprised at how many I miss.

I probably missed one in the line just written. 

And damned if I didn't find one, after writing the last sentence, a typo now duly corrected.

Prandial and Post-Prandial Pleasures

With Brian B. and Mike V. at Los Locos Gringos, my favorite local Mexican eatery. There is nothing better than a good meal and good conversation with like-minded friends. After Mike sped away on his iron horse, Brian and I spent the rest of the afternoon playing chess at Gecko Espresso. Mike, on the right, is one sharp-dressed man these days. Me? I am still of the '60s sartorially speaking. 

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