Stupid Is As Stupid Does

It’s been quite a month for us Atwoods when it comes to cycling.

First, my mom took a spill while on a Sunday ride with my dad through the town in which they live. Two weekends later, my dad was heading out for a cruise with a neighborhood buddy when he got tangled with another cyclist and crashed. Fortunately, besides some bruises and scrapes, they are both okay (and still planning to ride through Italy next summer — go mom and dad!).

And today, it was my turn. (Jeff, fortunately, is still recovering from his ACL surgery and forbidden to ride a bike, otherwise he, too, may have been fated to eat asphalt this month.)

My parents’ crashes were the effects of random circumstances: needing to swerve quickly out of the way of an obstacle and being cut-off by a suddenly stopping rider. My fall, however, was the result of simple stupidity and flagrant arrogance.

I live in the Presidio of San Francisco, a decommissioned military base founded in 1776 and since turned into a national park at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge that buttresses historic Crissy Fields, Baker Beach, and the Pacific Ocean. It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world to live and an urban outdoor enthusiasts utopia — a sprawling protected greenland of trails and bike paths in the most European cosmopolitan city in America.

But it’s on the northernmost end of the city, and as such, I often ride my bike 5 to 7 miles through commute traffic to get to the CalTrain station. I then ride CalTrain south to Palo Alto and mount my bike again for a few more miles to College Track in East Palo Alto.

It’s a great way to commute: the famed hills of San Francisco provide a morning wake-up and an early-evening workout; I can catch-up on some reading while on the train; and I don’t have to worry about traffic on Highway 101. Plus, I experience no “green guilt.” By leaving my car at home, I save gas and don’t add any carbon emissions to the atmosphere.

I’ve commuted this way — via bike to CalTrain — numerous times at all times of day, including before sunrise and after late-dinner hours. With each ride I’ve gotten more familiar with the driving and parking habits of tourists and taxis, and I have learned to manage my way through traffic by taking certain side streets. On my very first bike-to-train day of commuting, I scheduled a plenty-enough zone of 60 minutes to get from my home in the Presidio to the 4th and King Station. It took me around 30-35 minutes, depending on how I hit the traffic signals. These last few weeks I’ve budgeted 30 minutes and have been doing the route in 18-25 minutes, faster than it would take me to drive.

Things started off well this morning. The weather was cool, not cold; the sun was just about to climb above the tree line of the tall pines and Eucalyptus trees in the Presidio; and my legs felt fresh. The first few lights I came to were green and I was able to make the left turn onto Geary without having to wait at the intersection for any traffic from the opposite direction to pass-through. I played a game of cat-and-mouse with a Muni bus: it pulled-off to pick-up morning riders on the corner and I’d fly by. Thirty to 40 seconds later it would chase me down and pass me at a stop-sign, then it would stop again a few blocks up. I’d leapfrog it and then it’d catch me. We played like this until I powered-through a climb near the Kabuki Theatre and it turned-off on a side road. I was making good enough time to catch an earlier train than I planned to make.

Ofarrell Avenue is slightly downhill and I was cruising easily. Cars are confined to the two most left lanes while I am able to ride in the relatively empty right lane reserved for city buses. I was greeted with green lights at each intersection I came to, only to have the signal turn yellow and red right after I safely passed through. Traffic behind me was continually stopped giving me a wide-open street to ride down.

Normally I turn-off Ofarrell and onto Stockton, cross Market to merge onto 4th, and ride that down, weaving between cars merging on and off Highway 80, to the CalTrain station at the corner of King. This day, though, I spotted some moving vans blocking my lane of traffic a few blocks up and decided to turn-off onto Hyde. This would give me the opportunity to ride down Market towards the rising sun framed by the Bay Bridge and the beautiful Ferry Building before I needed to turn onto 4th.

I made my turn onto Hyde and noticed that up ahead, at the intersection of Market, the crossing signal was counting down from7. The last few pedestrians in the crosswalk picked-up their pace to get safely across the street. I, too, picked-up my pace. I was a few blocks away from Market still, but wanted to make it through the light.

I got to the intersection just as the flashing red hand appeared. Rather than slowing down for the sharp left turn onto Market, or stopping at the soon-to-be-red light (as I should have done), I kept peddling hard. Just as I entered the four-way intersection near 20+ mph, I noticed the railroad-like tracks for the Muni streetcar running down Market. Tracks and thin road bike tires do not make for a fun match-up, especially when the road is slick from morning fog.

SH–!

I was down before I could finish the word. Down hard.

My head took the brunt of the fall. I saw my bike splayed on the other side of the street and my water bottle rolling towards the headlights of the cars bearing down on me. I popped-up and jumped onto the sidewalk. I grabbed my bike after the cars passed. The left side of my body was throbbing. The seat of my bike was skewed, the chain was all twisted around the derailler, and the rear brakes were jacked-up. The wheels still seemed true and there was little scuffing on the frame. It would be ridable after a tune-up and clean-up.

I checked my bike first because I was afraid to check myself. My left hand was bleeding a deep red from knuckles blackened with asphalt and grease. My knee and ankle had little pebbles embedded in the skin; blood was trickling down my leg. My shorts were shredded thin at the waist and my shirt ripped at the shoulder. My upper ribcage and chest on my left side was tender. I tried taking deep breaths, which hurt. I was most worried about my head, though. It hit the ground hard. Slowly, I reached up and felt my helmet. It was still in one-piece. I took it off and patted my head. No blood. No cuts. I looked at my helmet. A small but deep divet showed evidence of the hard impact.

Standing straight and breathing deeply caused me to wince. So much for catching that early train.

I thought of getting a cab home to clean-up or calling Lauren. I didn’t want to worry her, though. Plus, I needed to get to work. This was the first day of a new staff member I had recently hired. I wanted to be at the center early. I was definitely shaken and dirty from the fall, but not seriously injured.

I tried to fix my chain, but it was tangled in a Gordian knot. So I slung my steel-framed commuter bike around my right (good) shoulder, the way we wore backpacks over one shoulder in elementary school, and started to run towards my destination.

I must’ve been quite the site: businessmen and -women walking to work and talking on their cell phones quickly jumped off the sidewalk when I got near. People in cars slowed to stare. All gave me horrified looks that betrayed their thoughts: “Hey Dirty and Bloody Dude, you’ve got a bike! Why aren’t you riding it rather than carrying it?!”

It was a good 1.5 miles from where I fell on Market to the CalTrain station. I ran at a pretty quick clip, pretending I was in a cyclocross race or that I was in a crash just short of the finish line at the Tour de France and had to cross the line with my bike. These mind-games masked my real reason for running: embarrassment. I acted stupid on my bike and wanted to run away from anyone who might have seen me crash.

I ran fast enough to make my train. I was still pretty ugly and no one sat near me. The 40-minute southbound ride provided me time to catch my breath and to reflect about how lucky I was to be alive. If I hadn’t been wearing a properly fit helmet, my head would’ve split open. I was lucky, too, that no cars ran over me or my bike. I also kept thinking about how stupid I acted trying to take such a fast turn onto a busy thoroughfare. Cockiness had replaced common sense.

When I reached my stop, I again slung my bike over my shoulder and ran to the site of the academic summer advancement program we organize for incoming freshmen. I was early and winced through a cold shower. I got dressed for the day.

As the students arrived they asked about my cuts and bruises. I joked that I had gotten into a fight at a cub the night before. It was the only time I wasn’t proud of my “war wounds,” which I normally earned by pushing myself too-hard on the trails.

To close-out the end of every day, we do an “appreciation circle.” Students and staff circle together, hold hands, and share with the group thoughts, things, or people they appreciate from the day. One student said he appreciated me for being there — I was in a bike accident, but I was safe. Another said that I taught them to never give-up. I could’ve easily called-in sick/hurt for the day, but I ran with my broken bike to show-up when needed. A few more students said some very nice things, too, about demonstrating determination and overcoming obstacles. Because of what I went through to get to them, they no longer had an excuse to miss school simply if they oversleep or miss the bus. I received a lot of hugs of love.

But I didn’t feel like I deserved any appreciation. I acted stupid and deserved to crash — it was the only thing that could bring me back to earth. For with each city ride I had become a bit more comfortable and cavalier about exercising caution, rolling through stop signs, getting too close to cars, and riding too fast down certain streets.

I share this embarrassing episode because I don’t want to forget it, nor do I want others to have to experience an accident before slowing down themselves. Life is fast and sometimes unfair, especially as we cyclists share the roads with half-ton motorized vehicles. The last thing we need to do is to put ourselves in any more danger by hot-dogging through city streets. Every single serious cyclist I know has at one point had an accident with a car, often an injury-inducing accident. It’s almost inevitable: ride a bike long enough and you will get hurt. And recently I’ve read too many stories in the newspaper about cyclists who were hit by a car while riding and died. Let’s not kill ourselves, either.

My plan for tomorrow: slow down. I’m budgeting 40 minutes to get to the CalTrain station.

Run With It!
J.R. Atwood

What Do We Do With Knowledge? Reflections on "An Inconvenient Truth"

I just returned from a viewing of “An Inconvenient Truth,” the documentary of Al Gore’s crusade against global warming. Of most concern to me right now is not a desire to join the greening of America bandwagon; nor is it anger and frustration at the lack of political will exercised by our government officials; nor am I saddled with guilt for my contributions to the climate crisis.

These issues are causing conflict in my head and demand attention. But mostly I am stirred to inquire about our obligation to act when given knowledge. What do we do with what we learn? “An Inconvenient Truth” is not simply a must-see movie; it is a need-to-see action-inducing educational experience. What will our individual and collective action be to ensure a sustainable environment?

Most of what I read from critics and heard from friends about “An Inconvenient Truth” is true: The evidence for global warming is overwhelming and undeniable. Mr. Gore is a maestro of Apple’s iWorks presentation software and an engaging, professorial, inspired and inspiring instructor of science, technology, and politics. Otherwise exhausting and seemingly disparate data is woven and presented into a digestible and palatable narrative to illustrate the causes — natural and man-made — of climate change, and to explain the causation (not simply the correlation) between such data points as: the historical booming of the human population; the precipitous destruction of hundreds of ecosystems; the rapidly increasing rate of species extinction; the rise of sea levels; global temperatures and greenhouse emissions dating back 650,000 years; continental drift; the number of natural disasters in a given year; glacial recession; and various historical humankind milestones.

This may be the most important movie you ever see.

Yes, some will watch “An Inconvenient Truth” (or not watch “An Inconvenient Truth” because they think of it) as a long PSA reminding people that Al Gore, Serious Presidential Candidate, is still around, alive, and hungry.

And yes, there are some scenes that too-slowly pan-in on a pensive Mr. Gore internally wrestling with ideas of how to save the world. But this is Mr. Gore’s story. And the intent — and effect — of inserting Mr. Gore into the frame is to provide a personal narrative to our collective history; it is to illustrate the data used to explain our being; it is to ground the timeline of our collective history and fortunes of a future of progress in a coming-of-age story.

Mr. Gore’s biography, as it relates to global warming, is a search for meaning that all of us can identity with. We don’t buy, read, or remember textbooks about history; we buy, read, and remember books about people in history.

True, too: While Mr. Gore says global warming is not a political issue, “An Inconvenient Truth” is a political movie. But not in the same way, nor with the “preach-to-the-choir with a fire-and-brimstone” intention, as such docudramas as “Fahrenheit 911.” Rather than Bush-bash, hyperbolize taken-out-of-context sound bites, or dumb-down his thesis by exploiting emotion (as some have charged Michael Moore of doing, and as many of Mr. Moore’s lesser-skilled would-be wannabes intimate), Mr. Gore leverages reason to educate other about, and to empower others to fight against, global warming.

His message is not “Someone else messed up! Boo, hiss and laugh at them!” Rather, he elevates the level of seriousness in this global discussion and shares responsibility for contributing to, and eliminating, the climate crisis. He challenges his audience — in the halls of congress, in university lecture halls, in town forums, at coffee shops, in airports, in movie theaters, whoever will listen! — to be change agents in their own lives.

We must take baby steps forward: utilizing mass transit or biking to work; switching to energy efficient light bulbs and appliances; calling our utility provider to inquire about their investment in green energy; writing congress to demand a national, moral energy policy; recycling; convincing others to see “An Inconvenient Truth.” But within the structure of society, the best way to combat an impending global crisis (the only way?) — e.g. the once-believed-inevitable-expansion of the ozone hole — is to use politics to enact policy.

“An Inconvenient Truth” is a terrifying film, but not because Mr. Gore is a fear-monger peddling a future of certain doomsday reckoning. Rather, the fright is in confronting just how much power we — humankind — possess to dramatically change the landscape and forever alter habits of Mother Earth. This film has a revelatory aspect to it; presented is irrefutable evidence that we have left our mark on this planet, more-so than any other species in history. Unfortunately, our left-behinds illustrate waste, carelessness, and convenience. Fortunately, our future can be healing, restorative, and positive for all else whom we share the land, sea, and air.

Thus the return to the question I posed at the beginning of this reflection: What do we do with knowledge? I sit here, at my computer specifically and in this world generally, as a social observer. The best way to contribute to my local/regional/national/global community, I believed, was by observing people and unemotionally explaining their actions; that is, by illustrating habits and interactions without inserting moral criticism. People were to be understood, not necessarily reprimanded or rewarded.

But tonight I am acting in this world as a social critic. Being green cannot be a fad. Our passions for moral progress cannot ebb; there are objective right and wrong ways to live and respond to our relationship with the earth. We cannot afford to allow relativism or cuteness to trump sustainability. We must commit to the cause of accountability and responsibility, pushing each other, and ourselves, to both take baby steps forward and to revolutionize our way of being (advancing massive green campaigns to ratify the Kyoto Protocol, eradicate our dependence on fossil fuel, invest in nuclear energy, reconstruct and reconfigure cities to eliminate the great distances between where we live and work, commit to reducing our national CO2 emissions by 50% in 10 years).

Necessity is the mother of invention and the world is at a tipping point. It is up to us to decide where to push it next: forward or back.

What do we do with knowledge? Act! Start by watching “An Inconvenient Truth” and visiting the movie’s official website, www.climatecrisis.net.

Wandering and wondering,
J.R. Atwood

Social Hearsay and Rumor: Who Brought KFC to the Picnic?

I’ve been curious and frustrated the past few weeks about the want of educated individuals — and groups — to participate in a giant game of social telephone by forwarding hearsay and rumor, even when such stories inflict harm against one’s identity.

About a month ago, at a monthly staff meeting, we were kicking around ideas for a fun, social get-together. We all recognized the power of food to serve as a motivator and reason for gathering, so someone suggested a party. Someone else suggested a pot-luck. With the weather so nice, said another, why don’t we do a picnic?

At this there was an objection — the word ‘picnic,’ apparently, has a historical connotation that many find offensive. Perhaps we could call it something else?

There were some who nodded and vocally agreed. Three staff members said they were not aware of any negative association with the word ‘picnic’ and asked for an explanation.

“The origin of the term ‘picnic’ derives from the acts of lynching African-Americans. The word ‘picnic’ is short for ‘Pick A Nigger.’ Whites used to gather and ‘pic’ a black person to lynch at public family gatherings.”

Some in the group appeared to have heard this before and believed it; some appeared to have heard it before and were skeptical; some had just heard it and were horrified; and some had just heard it and doubted the story. All of us agreed to have an outing with food some time in the following month and moved on to other conversation.

The next day an email was sent to all of us by one of our staff members whose curiosity about the etymology of the word ‘picnic’ had been piqued. The idea that ‘picnic’ derived from the activity of white families lynching blacks, she explained, is an urban legend. And cited in her email were links to various legitimate sources that both chronicled how the false etymology is perpetuated and debunked the myth that ‘picnic’ has its roots in a racial practice. From Snopes.com, an urban legend reference website:

‘Picnic’ began life as a 17th-century French word — it wasn’t even close to being an American invention. A 1692 edition of Origines de la Langue Françoise de Ménage mentions ‘piquenique’ as being of recent origin marks the first appearance of the word in print. As for how the French came by this new term, it was likely invented by joining the common form of the verb ‘piquer’ (meaning “to pick” or “peck”) and a nonsense rhyming syllable coined to fit the first half of this new palate-pleaser.The first documented appearance of the term outside the French language occurred in 1748, but it was 1800 or thereabouts before anyone can prove it made it into the English language. Even then, it still wasn’t in America — it was in England.

By the 19th century, ‘picnic’ had successfully made this linguistic shift in meaning. Its history (and that of every other word in the English language) is documented in the Oxford English Dictionary, and nowhere in its lengthy OED entry is mention made of executions or blacks.

From Take Our Word for It, an online word-origin magazine:

[Upon receiving many inquiries about the racially derogative association of the word picnic] we contacted Dr. Alonzo Smith, a research fellow in Africa-American Studies at the Smithsonian Institution. Dr. Smith graciously provided us with the following reply:To attempt to tie lynchings to family outings, where food was served, is to misunderstand the real nature of these events. Rather, they were outbreaks of mass white hysteria, and attempts by groups of Whites to terrorize and brutalize the entire Black communities where they occurred. Often, they were motivated by alleged acts of violence by Blacks against Whites, alleged disrespect and other breaches of Southern racial “etiquette”, and on many occasions, victims were chosen at random. Although women and children were frequently present, it is more accurate to view these events as collective psychotic behavior, rather than family outings.

I have read several accounts and analyses of lynching, and have not ever found reference to this alleged origin of the word picnic. I refer you to one of the most recent studies, Under Sentence of Death: Lynching in the South, by W. Fitzhugh Brundage, Chapel Hill, University of South Carolina Press, 1997.

Alonzo Smith, Ph.D.

I had researched the etymology of ‘picnic’ myself the evening prior, and with the receipt of this email, felt that we could all, without any moral objection or fear of offending another, begin to refer to our “community outdoor gathering with food” as what it is, a “picnic.”

Fast-forward a few weeks. Again, we are together as a staff, this time in a workshop, when someone shares the legendary story of Colonel Sanders to illustrate the power of perseverance. As this person’s telling of the story goes, in the mid 1950’s, Harold Sanders found himself a near-penniless 65-year-old man. The Colonel had run a successful restaurant business for a number of years, so successful that he received his moniker after being bestowed with the honor “Colonel of Kentucky” by Governor Ruby Laffoon in recognition of Sanders’ contributions to the state cuisine. But a state highway was in the works that would bypass the city in which the Colonel’s restaurant sat; bankruptcy was imminent, Sanders believed. So he closed shop, sold his assets, paid his debts, and found himself reliant on his $105/month Social Security checks.

Wanting more than an early retirement, however, Col. Sanders made giant batches of his 11-ingredient secret chicken recipe and hit the road with his pressure cooker. Upon every restaurant he stumbled, he would try to sell to the owner, manager, or cook his recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken. These restaurants already had recipes for chicken, however, and didn’t see why it was worth buying something they didn’t need.

Forth Colonel Sanders continued, logging thousands of miles in his car and receiving many hundreds of “No thank you” responses for his chicken recipe. Until he got to Salt Lake City, Utah.

Here he met a fellow restaurateur, Peter Harman, who agreed to try the Colonel’s recipe. It so impressed Harman that the two forged a business partnership on the franchise model. The idea was to get restaurants to buy their chicken coated with the Colonel’s secret recipe. For every chicken sold, Sanders and Harman would get a nickel. Contracts were sealed with a handshake. The rest, they say, is history: in 1969, Kentucky Fried Chicken Corp. was listed on the NYSE; in 1971 there were over 3,500 KFC franchises and company-owned restaurants worldwide; in 1974, Col. Sanders was the second most recognizable celebrity in the world; in 1986, PepsiCo bought the Colonel’s company for $840 million; and in 1992, as a part of the corporate conglomerate Yum! Brands, Inc., KFC is, along with Pizza Hut and Taco Bell, a member of the world’s largest restaurant company with over 32,500 restaurants in more than 100 countries and territories.

The moral of the story is oft-told and well-worn: believe in yourself, even when others do not; and don’t take “No” for an answer.

Over dinner that evening I stumbled into a discussion about “The real story of Col. Sanders’ chicken recipe.” A number of people had heard of, and believed in, an alternate version: that the Colonel’s “secret recipe” was created by his cook, a black woman. Sanders apparently stole the recipe from her and sold it for millions of dollars and never gave a dime of royalties to his cook.

“Do you really think a southern white dude would cook for himself, let alone know how to create such a killer chicken recipe?”

“I heard he stole the recipe from his slave — she wasn’t a hired maid, like you may think of. Sanders owned a slave and he stole her chicken recipe.”

“Why do you think he dresses like a ‘Souther Gentleman’?! — He wanted to appeal to the racist nature in people, especially in the south.”

“It’s just like the ‘picnic’ thing — it’s racism masquerading, publicly but silently so as not to offend, in society.”

“I heard he donated 10% of KFC’s profits to the KKK.”

“That’s the version I heard from my mother.”

The tone of the conversation and debate was jocular, but the issue at hand was deeply serious: here is another example of a particular group — black Americans — wronged by white Americans. We can all be cool together now, around this dinner table, as a collection of diverse individuals, but there are stories about certain people that simply are not told, the “real story of KFC” being one of them.

“Good thing no one brought any KFC to our staff picnic.”

There was lots of laughing at this, and again, the conversation moved in another direction, but I was left behind lost in thought. How can so many intelligent, thoughtful, well-read and well-travelled people look at a set of facts — e.g., the documented etymology of the use of ‘picnic’ in France and Germany — and choose to believe that the facts are false, or born of another time and circumstance — e.g., that ‘picnic’ derives from a racial practice in the United States?

“History is written by those with power,” a friend offered to me when I asked him this question. “Plus, legends are often created, not born. The story of Col. Sanders is probably, to a certain extend, fantasy to create a particular image or brand.”

Okay, but wouldn’t the ‘alternate’ story of KFC’s chicken recipe emerge — beyond forwarded e-mail messages — if it was rooted in truth? We’re talking about one of the most successful fast-food franchises in history whose own history is very young — we don’t need to research 500 years of historical text written in a foreign language to know that yes, indeed, Harland Sanders owned and operated a restaurant in Corbin, Kentucky in the 1940s where he perfected his method for cooking and saucing chickens. There are business records available to prove this, as well as personal anecdotes, receipts, and biographies. Harland’s father died when he was a young boy; his mom worked full-time, and he was responsible for all the household chores, including cooking. Sanders, even as the owner of a service station that prepared food for the weary travelers that came through town, was probably too poor to hire a personal cook. Remember, he had to survive on his Social Security checks of $105/month after closing shop. (He certainly did not have a slave since slavery was abolished 75 years earlier! Sanders, too, was born and raised in Indianapolis, a northern, Union state.)

So why the existence of such nonsense whose presence makes it even more difficult to honestly converse about America’s history and the issues of race today? It’s as if we want easy examples — the root of the word picnic, the Colonel’s secret recipe — that illustrate injustice. They become a crutch, perhaps, when used to highlight our challenges and explain our circumstances. Never mind their accuracy; these things could be true because of our collective history and because of the issues of race that still exist. Further, they reinforce cultural stereotypes that we were raised to believe about the motivations and actions of ourselves and others.

This want to believe social hearsay and rumor — often in defiance of cold, hard, legitimate, documented facts — creates a lot of headaches for ourselves. We box-in ourselves needlessly, and argue over superficialities relentlessly rather than converse about observed truth passionately.

Wandering and wondering,
J.R. Atwood