The Man In The Mirror

These days, when I look at myself in the mirror I see someone I regularly saw on television eons ago: Droopy Dog. Before you get me wrong, this piece is not by any means an essay on self flagellation nor an attempt to elevate false humility. There are just more lines on my face now the region right below my nose mimics Droopy’s.

I use the mirror to check if I needed a haircut and never went past below the hairline. At age 55 one knows what to expect. However, I heard some talk that I lost weight and wanted to know what it is they see. So I began exploring below the hairline. I did lose weight.

It was not due to exercise or having too much of it. My biking has actually taken a pause these past few months. No, not severe lethargy but a matter of who stays with Carmella while I ride. And though the bike went through some serious gear train upgrade, the rider remained sedentary.

There is good news, though. Within the next few days Patricia will start working from home. The little sister will now have the big sister to watch over her while their dad goes away for a few hours of self indulgence. Someone up there loves me.

Yes, the loss in weight has nothing to do with biking. My annual physical exam indicates, on average, everything as normal. Well, there is still the issue of arrhythmia, anemia and spondylosis but are all under control the doctors never considered them serious. For a while, the look of the man in the mirror caused some concern.

Concern, however, can also be a springboard of gratitude if one chooses. That I can still do laps inside my favorite trails, join my nephew and niece on out of town mountain biking trips, in spite of the worry cloud hovering over my head are reasons to thank my Creator for this life I celebrate. I may run out of breath quite quickly now and my heartbeat I hear much louder but these I decided will be my motives for jubilation. I am alive and savoring life. Nothing beats that.

Not even if each morning I see a reflection of Droopy Dog on the mirror.

In Search for Significance

“You and I live in an age when only a rare minority of individuals desire to spend their lives in pursuit of objectives which are bigger than they are. In our age, for most people, when they die it will be as though they never lived.” Rusty Rustenbach, Giving Yourself Away

It must be my age. Or maybe it’s only me. At 55, I feel I’ve reached a point where what I do should not be done just for the sake of doing it. A few years ago I would have cared less. But a time comes when what you leave behind and how you will be remembered starts to grab your attention.

It was late 2010 when I biked all the way to Baguio City, over 200 kilometers away, on my then alloy mountain bike. Before we started my aim was to see my limits. But right in the middle of it I remembered my daughters. Here is something they will be talking among themselves and then later with their children.

Sometime in the future, on their way to visit their roots in that cool mountain city, they will be talking how Papa made this one ridiculous attempt to better himself. Later they will be telling their children how Grandpa made the kilometers and mashed his way up Kennon Road because he wanted to leave them a story.

But whenever I think of leaving a significant mark, I always remember Jojo, a very good friend from Texas. He is an icon as far as this writer is concerned. Here is a man focused on sowing the seeds that will benefit others, particularly the marginalized, through his work in Gawad Kalinga. Here is man truly in pursuit of objectives bigger than he is. Here is a man who will look back at his life convinced he lived it well.

John Maxwell once wrote, “significance comes when you add value to others.” I share this thinking and so I emulate Jojo.

I would love to bike and do nothing else. I started my sport this way. And then I began to notice along my favorite single track a people displaced. They are there, in spite the harsh surroundings, in spite of the lack of basic necessities like water and electricity, an old tarpaulin as their roof, because this is the only place they can call, even temporarily, home. Mountain biking in my backyard offers me a view of people abandoned.

While most would breeze on, focused on the trail ahead and their body English, there are a handful of us who can hear, smell and see the struggle around us. So we stop, we reach out, we give. We believe it is the only way we can render back to those who allowed us into their space so we can enjoy our sport. But my true reward is I enjoyed my biking even more after my giving.

First, I feel safer knowing I am threading the same ground as those who see me as their friend. There is no wondering off to places that may be dangerous for the very people who see me as their friend stops me.

Next, people wave me over for coffee, a simple snack and small talk. The warmth makes me feel I am family and always welcomed here.

Finally, it makes me discover the real joy of selfless giving.  I would have earned a few pesos selling my old bike frame but giving it away to someone in there who long yearned to have something representing my ride, who yells us his “hello!” while blowing his air horn every time we bike past his claim, creates happiness that is without measure.

And there may be no payment for the effort of bringing school supplies for the poor in that area but the “thank you!” from the parents who sees school are their children's only hope raises one’s own hope for a better world.

When it is time for me to draw the curtain, I would like to look back to a life that has been lived and lived to the full. A life that found joy in giving. A life that found significance through the smiles of the people whose lives I have touched. A life that sowed seeds of hope. A life that has done all these and had fun doing it.

Katherine Graham puts it best: “To love what you do and feel that it matters—how could anything be more fun?”

Still We Celebrate

Cecille turned 50 last May 21.

But what irony. A day that started with so much joy and celebration interrupted by a late afternoon news from her doctor that her recent CT Scan indicates the nodule in her liver has grown 30%.

Reaching half centuries should be golden moments, milestones, an apex. A time for great jubilation, a time for dancing. An occasion of significance. A moment of dampened spirits it should never be.

Still, in spite of the daunting news of this enhancing nodule, with all finesse, Cecille carried on celebrating.

Photo Credits: Migs Ebarvia

For my beloved, being alive after that sad news of 4^th stage Adenocarcinoma some 2 years ago is reason for great rejoicing, of thanksgiving, of witnessing. Half centuries are landmarks and this strong-willed and deeply spiritual lady believes there is much yet to accomplish, much yet to share, much love yet to give. No illness, no new pronouncements will stop these.

Hence the journey continues. She looks forward to running the race that was set before her by her Almighty and loving Creator, her God, her King.

Myself, I will hold her hands and run with her. Our race it shall be.

The Old Man and The Niner

“I may not be as stong as I think, but I know many tricks and I have resolution.”  Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

A foreword.

For the uninitiated, there are currently 2 standards in mountain biking: the 26 inch and the 29 inch wheel. Another is getting into the fray, the 27.5 inch or the 650b.

Why a the bigger wheel? Simply put, the bigger the wheel the easier it is to roll over obstacles. Period. Think skateboard and the car. The smaller wheeled skateboard sees all sleeping police men aka “humps” as mountains and pebbles as rock gardens. But not the bigger wheeled car. Which when translated to the trail, roots, chutes, steps and many others are mostly non issue with the bigger wheel. 

That out of the way, on with the story, which is about the bike, the experience, of friendships and where it often leads to.

It has been two weeks and it still lingers. Something good always does.

Several weeks ago, I visited my favorite bike shop, hoping to find a good deal on an entry-level bike for my very confused wannabe mountain biker nephew, when I bumped into some folks who appeared to be in some state of utter bewilderment, severely dazed, very much like my nephew. I can feel the fierce battle was raging within these confounded people.

I am familiar with the symptoms. It innocently started as mere price fishing. And then the brewing storm: the apparent confusion between want and need, between the cherished item and the wife who may not serve you dinner or, worse, altogether cancel your “Thursday Delight” because you ran out of sane reasons for this untimely purchase.

Local bike shops can be a very difficult place to be in. I have to embarrassingly admit I am, without fail, short of frothing in the mouth whenever I get into one. Like this favorite store I just stumbled in, where a member of its successful marketing team happens to be a good friend (although he has yet to prove his marketing mettle on stingy me. Maybe the frothing scares him, I do not know.) But man, I can sit there for hours talking bike, breathing bike, feeling the bikes and still be treated to free coffee.

I now suspect it is some guilt ploy. The coffee I mean. After drinking gallons of free stuff, who wouldn't feel guilty if they don't buy anything?

But in spite of dazed visitors, zombie land it isn't. More like Nirvana. Free coffee or none.

That Wednesday Francis must have overheard me talking to CJ about his shift to a 29 inch wheel from a 26. I have, like forever, wondered if butt pain is inversely proportional wheel size.

The next thing I knew, he was telling me to bring along a bike carrier the following day. He was loaning me a Niner Jet9 for 4 days. I guess being the good friend that he is and, I dare add, a 29er biker himself, he can not and will not allow me to go on with life feeling so distressed and confused. Empathy defined.

So Friday found me giggling like a little boy as I blaze along Malipay, Saturday grinning and yelling like the Mad Hatter throughout Timberland, and finally Monday pushing myself like crazy in Filinvest. Absolute fun, two painful spills included.

To enjoy mountain biking one has to know how to keep balance and maintain momentum. Having learned all this the painful way, which was after several spills and endos (endo - being thrown over the handlebar for choosing the wrong line), the lesson has somehow ingrained itself into my being. Pain has a way of making you remember.

With bigger wheels then, when you have something that just rolls over almost anything, the fun factor rises exponentially. This is what a 29er gave me.

Focus is more on choosing my line and less on body English. Yes, in some ways, this Jet 9 made me a bit braver. And of course, having top shelf items on board does give you the edge. They always do, psychologically, at least.

But if there is one thing this amateur sees as big wheel disadvantage, the 29er does take a bit more effort to get up to speed. A bit sluggish from standstill. But since I did not suffer any lactic acid chaos in my legs during the course of using this bike, the effect of Newton's law on inertia is easily overlooked.

On the top tube is writtten “Pedal Damn It!” So pedal I did, damn it! A case of mind over matter? Perhaps.

While I am perfectly happy with my hardtail and its entry level equipment, to find myself on a big wheeled full suspension rocket is euphoria. It is like being the king of the hill, whatever that hill is. And while the battered butt took some time getting used to plush rear suspension, riding this rocket is a level up.

A level up in so many ways, indeed, made more profound because a friend believed on doing me one good turn.

It was the late Zig Ziglar who said that when we help others achieve their dreams, we achieve ours. While I do not know if I helped Francis achieve his, as he is still struggling with his marketing skills with me, most assuredly he helped me with mine. And while this blog has mentioned more of this experience of a lifetime, it is really an essay on where friendships often lead us.

Just like how big wheels roll over most obstacles leaving you free to focus on your momentum, real friendship, likewise, frees you from so many burdens so you can focus on your strengths, on your joys, on your freedom, on things that really matter. Real friendship is empowerment.

More than live the dream itself, albeit temporarily, this generosity helped me discover things that I never knew I had, things I am capable of, of true joy on a bike. I learned to love myself even more, actually.

And there, a four day adventure I will never forget.

Thanks, Francis!

The Man himself, far left.

My 5-Week Singlehood: A Mid Term Recap

By the way, “singlehood” is not recognized as an English word. That is, if I have to rely on LibreOffice Writer's spell checker. Maybe because “singlehood” is merely this author's state of mind.

I am almost past halfway. Singlehood, that is. My dear wife and daughter are both in the US fulfilling one of our dreams for Carmella.

I stayed behind for various reasons, mostly self-serving. Like I do not want to go through the trouble of getting a US visa again. Well, I have been denied once and one embarrassment is all this poor writer can handle. 

I was also intent on getting on with my writing, which I have to admit, I am doing rather poorly. I guess writer's block is at its worst when your heart longs for someone's presence. Things are more lucid when both of them are around.

Then there is also the mountain biking part which I promised Cecille I will do on a daily basis. I even got myself a new knee support. Fail. Big time. The most I can manage is a lame once-a-week pedal.

So they are there, an ocean away from me, and each one with a different objective. Which I think I should also mention here as it colors my 5-week state of singlehood.

For Cecille, a trip to the US will not be complete without a visit to one of the closest outlet mall. It's not the buying part that excites but the experience of being surrounded by on-sale original is, for her, akin to being in Nirvana. She may have the same level of joy being in Divisoria but in the years I have known this lady that I love, I learned that women would rather have the real McCoy even it is hardly distinguishable from an imitation.

I really do not get it. Call this writer a bumpkin but for me, unless that Crocodile faces the wrong direction, I find no shame in wearing a close copy.

What I really find hilarious in all this is I do the reconnoitering for her. I may be here but I am Cecille's eyes when it comes to getting the best offer on pressure cookers, Timex watches, Nike budget socks, Salt Sticks capsules and many more.

I know how many minutes away is the nearest REI, Nike store, Borders and Walmart, thanks to Google Maps. I know where best to meet friends to make the most of reunions.

I know that the best offer on watches is not at Nordstrom Rack but at Walmart: $19 for a good Timex Sports Watch and very, very original. No fakes there, I am sure.

So while they are enjoying every moment, I am busy feeding them information that will make their trip worth it. A backroom covert operative clone, if you ask me. 

An egg on my face, really, but I have never done as extensive a research as I am doing now. If only I had the same fervor back in college, I would be the current owner of several companies.

For Carmella, this trip is about finally getting that dream gadget, a pair of expensive earphones from Skullcandy (surprised Cecille actually bought her one), a pair of Vans shoes and her dream bag from Jansport. She now spends the rest of her US trip playing games and taking pictures using the same gadget.

But I miss my girls.

I miss my after dinner talks with Cecille. Better than kitchen dates, this is when we are most comfortable with each other. Often there is nothing special to talk about, but the presence of the beloved speaks louder than words.

I miss her incessant housekeeping. I miss her relaxation mode called the “Telenovela.” I miss going to the Sunday Feast with her. I miss her special sweet soupy desserts. I miss laughing with her. I miss embracing her.

And while my days are filled with non-stop debate when she is around, I miss Carmella. 

Somehow, Man vs Food Nation tastes bland without her. I miss the intellectual discourse that comes after watching Intervention. I miss the inspiration she articulates after watching Kings of Restoration. I miss her art work. I miss watching her read. I miss her singing. I miss biking with her. I miss the hugs.

I have roughly 3 more weeks. I can't wait.

Why I Continue To Wear Yellow

I like Lance Armstrong mainly for his efforts towards cancer awareness. But I never was an avid follower. I never knew why. Maybe because he is still a roadie and I am a mountain biker? Maybe because he is more concerned about draft while I more of that next drop? Maybe because he rides Trek and I ride generic?

There is a chasm that exists between being a roadie and a mountain biker which, for some of us, is a divide that is difficult to cross. For this mountain biker in particular, he finds the equipment on that side of the ridge more expensive; where size is inversely proportional to cost. He can not comprehend, for the life of him, how some tiny thing, merely because it came from the land of pizza and spaghetti, can be more expensive than his Romanian made wheelset.

Going back to Lance, I knew little of the man. If not for friends who spoke about his exploits in Leadville over our usual post-bike beer fest, I would have not known he actually ride mountainbikes and can be pretty good at it. In fact, he won that event beating a Leadville icon.

But what really stood out in my view was he had cancer and had beaten it. For one who is familiar with this illness, that introduction to the man was enough. My purpose has been defined.

So I put on the band, not for the personality who started it but because of his victory over the disease. Indeed, I wear this band for more profound reasons.

I wear this band because of the noise it made about cancer and its quest to find a cure.

I wear this band for the father who will never get to experience how to walk his daughter on her wedding day or the mother who will never know how it is to beam with pride on her son's college graduation because they lost their children to cancer.

I wear this band for the son who will never know how it is to feel his dad's enduring compassion specially on moments when all things seems lost or the daughter who will forever miss her mom's laughter while she prepares breakfast because they lost their parents to cancer.

I wear this band for those who now journey on in life with a limp because the person that gives them true strength is now gone, taken by cancer.

I wear this band for Cecille and Carmella and those like them who have gone through, some still going through, this dreadful experience called cancer.

Until cancer is finally beaten, I will wear my yellow Livestrong band.

Yes, I wear this band for more profound reasons.

Valentine Stories

Valentine Story 1:

The other night, I found myself huddled with the significant other while she was watching her favorite telenovela. No, I have not changed my mind about them. As I have written a few blogs earlier, I am not one for telenovelas. I think they dwell heavily on the sad and then insidiously package it as something entertaining. How can sad be entertaining remains a conundrum for this writer. 

Back to the cuddling. On the screen was, for my wife, the “kilig-King,” the young actor Xian Lim. I impishly asked her if she prefers I was as good looking. Turning to me and with a tight hug she said: “I will always choose this one, for he takes care of me.” 

I never saw myself as the caring husband but more of the debating type. Cecille loves to rebut any thought I would verbalize. These days, however, she would just remain quiet. She probably thinks it is dangerous to argue with a fool for people listening will not know who among us is. There is virtue in silence. 

But that evening something beautiful was said and with it, I have become more of a man that I imagined myself to be.

Valentine Story 2:

Fairly recently, even if it lasted only for two paydays, I was able to give Cecille a little allowance. Literally little. As in 200 Philippine Pesos little. Or at the current exchange rate US$5. My power, honestly, can not go beyond that.

To give an idea how little is little: no one goes on a date on Php200 unless they are intent on sharing a balut (fertilized duck egg) and a Coke sakto as their date's highlight. There should be enough left for a packet of Mentos to mask the balut aftermath.  

For someone who already receives a modest 5-figure salary, Php200 is hardly significant. It will not buy her that bag she has been wanting for decades or even that shoe or a Double Burger at Army Navy. It may bring her to Greenhills or Divisoria where she can get a good made-in-China imitation but she will not, for a good portion of that Php200 will be spent on fare alone. There is no indulging on Php200. 

But while most would find Php200 pitiful (others might even decide to give me another Php200 as a sign they sympathize with my predicament), this woman was just happy to receive. It is not merely out of prudence, as I now understand it. Cecille's sense of joy is more profound, always defined by the condition of the giver's heart.

For her, it is not how much I have but who I am willing to be in our relationship. That I have this assurance from the woman of my dreams, this Php200 truly rewards me more than her.

The Gift

Yes, it has been a while since I have been on these pages. If not for the recent blog written about Cecille and Carmella, there is a strong possibility I would have remained dormant Ad infinitum.

I simply lost my zest. I really thought going into a new career as a marketing consultant would further hone my writing and speaking skills. Instead, I found myself in a jungle, among hostile natives who, before all these began, I always knew as friends. With only a nail clipper to cut my way through the tangled vines, shrubs and small trees, I have become an unwilling Indiana Jones sans the machete and whip.

It has been tough these last several months. What aggravated it even more, I suppose, was I completely misunderstood the word “marketing.”

With all that was so unexpected suddenly popping and pounding me, I was on the verge of believing I am no longer capable of smart, of doing something outstandingly good that could be considered as productive. I began to seriously question my gifts and the supreme being who gave them. I began to question my worth. I wept.

And then the blog from Stef dela Cruz.

Simply, her craft reminded me where I belong, where I can “BE,” where I can do my art in abandon, where my audience is. The written word is my refuge. My writing is me at my very best.

This is my gift, my treasure, my very own. Something no one can deconstruct nor debase. And specially not through contradicting definitions of the art called “marketing.”

I am back. Definitely.