A love letter to my LEAF

Foreword

I returned my leased 2018 Nissan LEAF electric vehicle last week. I drove it for more than eight months as a daily commuter and occasional jaunt enabler. It is a remarkable car. It is my favorite four-wheeled vehicle to drive bar none. And so…

I am writing this love letter to you, my dear LEAF. We’re been ripped apart after 4,900 miles together. Our breakup provoked anguish and adoration in equal measure. Anguish because you’ve moved on to a new driver; adoration and thanks for the time we had together. I love the way you moved me.

Driving with you was sheer delight. Almost soundless on the road, nary a growl from under the hood. Like drinking coffee on an empty stomach, you spooled up horsepower for amazing acceleration. What is more, your eco-friendly nature made you me-friendly. Without that spirited personality in my life now I must grudgingly accept a ‘normal’ driving experience.

I remember the first time I saw your younger self, with your ample, rounded proportions. You’d been launched into this world for only a few months. I was tasked to drive you to an event near Oppama, Japan. I’d never seen you before.  But I’d heard how unique you looked, how fresh your outlook, how you represented a new era that would change the world. 

You were dressed all in white, glittering in the lights of our office parking lot where I picked you up. I was warned that you were quiet. Still, I couldn’t detect if your motor was running at first, but I quickly figured out how to begin our first date. I remember my focus on not making an embarrassing move;  I gingerly guided us toward our destination at a modest pace. I could tell that you appreciated my caution and concern for your well-being. But I wasn't mature enough, wasn't ready to commit. After a few dates, we drifted apart. When we were together, though, boy oh boy the metaphorical sparks did fly.

Truth is, I tried going out with other cars, to forget you. They were so noisy, so normal, and so sullied. I just used them and walked away.

Looking back, I see now that due to our work commitments you and I drifted in and out of each other’s orbit. Sure, we flirted with other partners. But I never forgot about you, always yearned for another chance. I knew instinctively your future was bright. I hoped to be with you again as you matured. Then one day I saw you hiss along a highway on my computer screen, a silver blur. 

I had butterflies in my stomach when I first laid eyes on you. How hot looking, how modern you’d become. The coltish curves had turned into a sharper silhouette. I was nervous, unsure of myself. How could I again make you mine? But it was more than physical attraction. It was both heart and head. From our first frolic together, I knew you were fun to be with, fun to travel together. Because you'd matured, I knew you'd have the energy and stamina to take me where I needed to go. I thought, how does this ‘new you’ present yourself on the tougher roads of today’s world?

I somehow managed to get back into your good books, sink into your seats. I love that your motor doesn't have to scream to move us faster and faster where we want to go. I love that I know we will have a long future together. I love how when I look at you, despite the troubles of the day, I sense that everything will be all right. 

More and more of your cousins are plying the roads of the Earth, to help make the world greener and more beautiful. Our relationship was part of that.

The vicissitudes of life and work have temporary separated us again. Yet I know that we will reunite somewhere down the proverbial road. Until then, know that I love you. I think you're a lively soul, and practical, and good—all the things you dream for in a motoring partner. So, the question, dear lovely LEAF, do you feel the same way?

Pushing pumpkins

I flash orange-tinged jazz hands to you all!

I don’t recall pumpkin patches being such a big deal during my youth in Ontario. We either bought them at the supermarket or my Grampa gave them to us. He grew lots of different vegetables as a retiree/gentleman farmer. The Rising Family™ has its own way of doing things: Embrace the Pumpkin Experience.

Yeah, I’ve got pumpkins on the brain. That’s due to the variety of pumpkin patch outings we’ve had since late September.

And the fact that it is Hallowe’en this evening.

This year, we first encountered the magical orange squash plants during a visit to Cheekwood. It’s an old-money family residence which now is botanical garden and historic estate.

We went there in late September for a Japanese cultural event. But we stopped in our tracks upon seeing this remarkable house made of straw and pumpkins.

Next, we ventured out on our 2nd annual trek to the pumpkin patches on local farms. The idea is to say goodbye to summer and welcome the fall by seeing the farms, enjoying the harvest, and briefly touching the pastoral life.

It’s healthy outdoor family recreation: go on a hay ride; feed the animals; navigate the corn maze; and sample pumpkin flavored foods and beverages.

Of course, during the visit you can also see hundreds of pumpkins. Different shapes, sizes and colors! A great chance to choose the perfect pumpkin for Halloween and Thanksgiving. Beats the supermarket every time.

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Summer 2019 Scraps

Courtesy of ed.com via Marian Wayan & Shutterstock

Summer is the greatest season. But it does end. According to the calendar, summer faded into autumn on September 23. In middle Tennessee, according to the thermometer, it was much later. Through the first week of October this year, Nashville's temperature surpassed the 90ºF (33ºC) mark nearly 100 times. Almost 25 percent of the year that hot? It warms my heart! 

That much heat, humidity and fine weather enabled a lot of activity. So here are a few more scraps of summer 2019--time well spent.

“Visiting with folks”

A few days before my family returned home from summer leave in Nippon, I took a solo trip to Tallahassee to see longtime bud Mike Penilski in his native habitat. He was on vacay with his family. I took the opportunity to take another long drive, always a pleasure for me, and visit them for a day. It was PG-rated, no buddy bacchanalia. 

Mainly this was a dip in Wakulla Springs, a taste of Florida panhandle hospitality, and cocktails on the boat deck at sundown.

The Rising Family came back to Music City in late July and the silly season continued. My brother and his girlfriend came to visit us mid-August. This enabled me to conduct a tour of downtown Nashville and fire up the BBQ. It was great to have other relations join my family here.

County Fair

We hit the Williamson County Fair with all the smells, sights and bustle that it entails. As my daughters grow up, they want to indulge in different carnival rides, and their taste in food changes. So this year stressed more exciting, adrenal rides. Less kiddie stuff.  It was the second year that we had major league fun. 

I love the agricultural origins of these fairs. They remind us of where our food comes from. And the families, flirting teenagers, doting grandparents—old time, uncomplicated fun. A source of youthful joy. Hard to come by as the world grows faster and more complex.

Kentucky Kingdom & Hurricane Bay + Louisville Slugger Museum

We took advantage of Louisville this year! Spent two days riding Kentucky Kingdom’s roller coasters and amusement park attractions, and dipping and zipping in Hurricane Bay’s water park. 

This year, I also convinced Marina Man to come with me to the Louisville Slugger museum tour in downtown Louisville. It was baseball heaven. With this visit and two ballgames under her belt this year, I am exposing her more to the joys of the summer game. The museum visit tugged at the heartstrings of history and was educational. I loved every minute of it!

Beyond the history oozing from the walls and dripping on the wood shavings, I saw staff making new bats for today's heroes from all 30 major league clubs including Vladimir Guerrero, Jr. (Blue Jays) and Joey Votto (Reds).

I closed the season underlined by a weeklong obsession with the song “Summer Girl” by the L.A. sister trio Haim. It’s right up there among the great hits about Los Angeles, but with clear nods to Lou Reed. It became my song of summer 2019.

It’s great to be alive, people.

Summer 2019 Sliders

I had no idea what “sliders” were when I first saw them on a menu in Nashville. I discovered that the White Castle hamburger chain popularized sliders starting in the Depression era. They are cheap miniature hamburgers that were soon nicknamed sliders because they are so greasy and small you can easily slide ‘em into your stomach. 

Courtesy of The Krystal Company

I’ve learned they can keep right on going downward until sliding out yer ass. In short, they are five stars yummy, but occasionally colon blow. Not unlike these blogposts of mine.

What follows are a few Rising Family™ summer 2019 summaries.

I ask you: who doesn't love summer? The warmth, the sensation of the sun on your skin, watersports, BBQ, camping, the freedom of romping outdoors whenever you want. You need more reasons? How about riding on motorcycles wearing only a T-shirt and shorts. Jumping off a cliff into a cool lake. Humidity like lanolin on your skin. That certain clean feeling after a mid-afternoon shower. Then heading outside for more heat. 

I love Nashville summers. The summer of 2019 did not disappoint. In fun ways through to the mundane, I had a great time. Here are a few reasons why.

The Almighty Lawn
In my youth, I mowed my parents' lawn and thought it wasn't worth the trouble. Now in middle age, I revel in keeping the weeds at bay and resurrecting our rented home’s neglected Bermuda grass. Southerners love their lawns and mini John Deere mowers. I caught the fever. 

Canada Day
We are modestly patriotic, we Canucks. Once overseas, we recognize what a great thing we have going in the Great White North and raise our flag-waving game. I made my point with my American co-workers on July 1. I declared my office a temporary Honourary Consulate of Canada for the day. We avoided diplomatic rancor. Laughter is the best way to achieve a constructive bilateral relationship.

Going to Memphis
Mr. Maczynski, a co-worker from South Africa, was on a temporary assignment at my office during the summer. I took him on a music-inspired tour of Memphis during the Independence Day long weekend. We toured Graceland and Sun Studio, ate hyper-local wet BBQ, drank local craft beers, and rocked it. 

I saw parts of Memphis’s storied musical history that I otherwise would not have had the chance to see. Thanks, Kyle! Even the night drive back to Nashville on the I-40 was exciting. A flash thunderstorm and mega rain made one stretch super-adrenalized. Rock and roll.

Kentucky Fried Carburetor
With no family around, I was free to hit the road on weekends. In July, thoroughly enjoyed a motorcycle tour north to Kentucky on Hobo Bike accompanied by William Matsusiak. For shaved ice. And for fun.

NatchezBall Run II

Courtesy of doityourselfrv.com

More Main Dish - Days One & Two

Speeding through southwestern Tennessee I finally felt I was On The Road. I wasn’t in a Hunter S. Thompson gonzo mood; it felt more like relief to be moving forward again. Putting the ill-fated start with Hobo Bike behind me. I did some mental gymnastics to convert the bile of adversity into the champagne of positivity. 

After all, I was driving a shiny pickup truck and gawking at landscapes in parts of the rural South I’d never seen before. Moreover, I was putting miles down on pavement. I think I am at my happiest when in motion.

My optimism didn’t prevent the rainfall. It began soon after I met up with Stevie Y. and WMD at the Black Belt Overlook milepost outside Tupelo. While the rain didn’t dampen my upbeat mood, wistful Elvis ballads played in my head. My riding buddies empathized with my bad luck. They generously offered to take turns driving the truck (a.k.a. our command module) to give me some road time on their German motorbikes. Danke shoen, meine Kameraden. That’s pure friendship right there, folks. It’s also the reason we had a total of eight wheels on the road: 4+2+2. We switched our rides and WMD took the wheel of the trusty Frontier. I jumped on his gleaming BMW.

Later, somewhat soaked, we arrived at a hamlet called French Camp in a pastoral part of Mississippi. We stopped for warm beverages at a tired-looking café/gift shop in an old farmhouse next to a church. There was a palpable Children of the Corn atmosphere there. 

Giddy, chilled, and with the prospect of heading out into the rain again, we repeatedly broke into laughter. At that point, we were roughly midway. Distance-wise, 190 miles left between us and our goal of Natchez, Mississippi.

We pressed on. I drove Steve‘s big Beamer. Its heft felt like a Mark III Tiger tank compared to my Kawasaki.  I was concerned about braking on a slick pavement with the alternating drizzle or downpour. Soon, Steve Y. boarded William’s machine. It was late afternoon by then and this motley caravan bombed down the last quarter of the parkway. We saw a young, indecisive deer dart across the road ahead. An armadillo waddled across the highway, and flocks of bats flew above us in a clearing at dusk. The precipitation grudgingly petered out to a sprinkle. We drove through several verdant green pastures. Other patches on the highway had trees forming a canopy overhead, covering the road. Fallen trees lay on the side of the highway, victims of a recent hurricane. Plenty of dead critter carcasses on the highway, too. As time wore on, we became a little concerned about creeping darkness; driving a motorcycle at night can be dangerous. Still, there weren’t that many cars on the road as dusk set in. We gradually increased speed in an attempt to reach Natchez before nightfall.  As a group, we cruised between 50-65 mph for almost two hours during the last 110 miles to our destination.

I was in that state where my comfort level with the bikes, coupled with growing fatigue, had generated a true sense of contentment, of mentally being in the moment. The speed, dimming sunlight, and the thrum of the motorcycle engine, were soothing. With no other distractions, these elements combine to produce a mild euphoria. I only feel that particular kind of exhilaration when motorcycling or scuba diving.

We arrived in Natchez just before the sunset. The light was a salmon pink that assaulted my retinas, and defies apt description. Just look at the photos! 

We checked in at the hotel, and quickly left for a local Applebee’s to indulge in food, beer, and fellowship. I had a celebratory beer: what a terrific way to mark my birthday! WMD did a Facebook post about the first leg of the journey. I tried to get a nightcap upon our return to the hotel…no luck. So, off to Slumberland. Day One had thrown us a few curveballs, and we needed to ready for more the next day.

Day Two 

All hands on deck for breakfast. Flawless kickoff at 0730, clear blue skies, and Stevie Y., WMD and I were in cheerful mode. In a defiant nod to the “three states” part of the trip’s sales pitch, we added a fourth state. 

We roared over the bridge into Vidalia, Louisiana, to fill up our gas tanks and sniff the Mississippi River aura. For the hell of it. 

Then we hit the road for the ride back to Nashville. Our driving was smooth, fast, and safe. I enjoy going on trips with a band of likeminded, capable drivers in which an agreeable pace and synergy develops. Like it did on this trip. We were averaging between 65 mph and 70 mph. We saw hardly any state troopers on the roads. Few other cars on the highway—everyone was at church! That serendipitous Zone I wrote about earlier returned. We endured another deluge of rain before and after we stopped at a Dairy Queen in Tupelo for lunch. 

All were soaked again after taking two or three turns swapping among the bikes and the truck. The rest of the afternoon was pleasant, uneventful-- meaning there was little rain. The driving was satisfying. 

I’ve done a few motorcycle adventures over the years. It's times like these when you recognize you are in harmony with the road and your friends, despite hundreds of miles covered, and all is right with the world. That was my headspace at three quarters of the way.

We eventually made it to the end of the Natchez Trace Parkway northern terminus. I noted that my Hobo Bike’s mechanical mishap had occurred between markers 430-431, just after the Double Arch Bridge. There was a long oil slick still visible on the highway surface. But we’d persevered and completed the trip. Steve, WMD and I quickly took a group shot to mark its end. Tired, but pleased with the safe completion of our quest, we all went our separate ways.

The Postscript

For me, this trip ended up being a mix of Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and The Cannonball Run. The former is a classic tome. It's a philosophical take on romantic and practical approaches to life’s challenges through a first person narrative, under the guise of describing a motorcycle trip. Zen’s prose is dense. Three times I doggedly tried to finish it only to end in abject failure. Conversely, The Cannonball Run is a 1981 movie, a screwball comedy about a cross-country car race starring Burt Reynolds, Roger Moore, Dom DeLuise, and Farrah Fawcett. It’s dumb, entertaining, full of late 70s/early 80s slapstick comedy and late-era Rat Pack hipster gags. 

Given my callow personality, it’s no surprise this NatchezBall Run was more Cannonball, less Zen. And what fun I had. Thank you, Steve Yarsynski  and Will Matusiak .

I wrote this post one month after the trip. The only physical reminders I have left are a big toe still blackened by the dye from my sodden black riding boots. Also, my motorcycle is still at the shop awaiting repair. I miss Hobo Bike!

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NatchezBall Run I

The Prelude

I’ve told many motorcycle tales in this blog. Here is another one.

I went on a one-day jaunt last spring with a group of riders that drove the first 50 miles of the Natchez Trace Parkway. That day's drive sparked the idea of touring the entire parkway. Months later, the tattered National Park Service info pamphlet was still in my tank bag. It further stoked my interest in driving the entire journey with this money shot: “444 miles through three states and 10,000 years of history.” The trip idea thus became a must-do.

From that kernel I badgered and cajoled two of my coworkers into freeing up a weekend in July for the trip. Truthfully, Steve Yarsynski (Stevie Y.) and Will Matusiak (a.k.a. WMD, Weapon of creative Mass Destruction) are the real heroes of this tale of tenacity and the joys of two-wheeled travel. In sum: two days, three guys, eight wheels, 888+ miles round trip, and unlimited fun. How to figure out that math? Read on.

The Main Dish

The weekend prior to the NatchezBall Run, WM and I were fueling up with coffee at an IHOP before a 300-mile shakeout tour to Kentucky. We had a friendly conversation with a couple who were interested in our motorcycles and tour plan. They viewed my bike with bemused interest and soon christened my tarted-up 1986 ZL600 Kawasaki Eliminator “the Barcalounger.” I had attached a wire mesh frame from the Dollar Tree  to strap down my knapsack and other travel gear. This obviated the extra cost of buying saddlebags. It also provided lower lumbar support. Win-win, right? The strange apparatus drew inquisitive looks. My “classic” 1986 Barcalounger was in complete contrast to the sleek and sexy new BMW owned by my riding partner. Even so, the Kentucky trip was a great time and we felt ready for the coming challenge.

To kick off the Natchez Parkway trip we opted for breakfast at the Loveless Café, a renowned Nashville area eatery. We were in high spirits. With one look at the loaded down Eliminator, Stevie Y. and WMD renamed it “Hobo Bike.” These were prophetic words.

The parkway is 444-miles long and commemorates the Old Natchez Trace that connected portions of the Mississippi River to salt licks in central Tennessee in bygone days. The highway surface is pristine. The legal speed limit is max 60 mph, commercial vehicles are banned from using the road, and stoplights and entrance/exit ramps are few. It’s a gorgeous scenic ride along a historic trail with memorable landscapes. We all filled our gas tanks and departed. 

At mile 13 from the northern terminus, my Hobo Bike blew its bevel cap right off the crankcase and the bike hemorrhaged oil all over the highway. SHIT! We three went into crisis mode. WM tried to find the bevel cap for 30 minutes with no luck. Stevie Y. bought duct tape and replacement motorcycle oil. I MacGyvered up the bevel cap area so the motorcycle’s engine would keep some oil inside and not seize up. 
The final diagnosis: I was fucked. I could not proceed. 

I felt this trip was suddenly like the Apollo 13 space mission. So I switched to Plan B. I called a tow truck to haul my motorcycle to a holding lot. I removed Hobo Bike’s accessories and its spare gas, then ubered to the nearest enterprise rent-a-car. I rented a white Nissan Frontier quarter-ton truck and sped to rendezvous with the boys near Tupelo, Mississippi.

Did this trip become a tale of woe? One of oh no?  No go? No way. Adapt and overcome…

For the birds

In June, the Rising Family™ flew to Japan for our summer vacation. These holidays usually involve going back to Hiroshima. We catch up with old friends and spend time with grandad (Ji-chan) and granny (Ba-chan) at their home in the countryside. We also habitually take a few days for travel in the Chugoku region. This time our mini-trip was far from normal. In fact, it was rooster-iffic and hen-tastic! Here’s why: we had a brood of crazed chickens nearly attack us in a quest for food.  We had a Lord of the Chickens experience.

Let me explain.

We rented a car in Hiroshima and during our mini-tour drove out to the Miroku no Sato amusement park. It’s situated up in the green hills southwest of Fukuyama in Hiroshima prefecture. “Miroku no Sato” means something like “Village of the Future.” The Rising Family first visited Miroku no Sato almost ten years ago (M. wasn’t born yet). It was in August 2009, the hottest and most humid time of the year. We went to escape the heat in the cool, toddler-friendly pools. I have fond, but dim, memories of that visit.

This year we chose to visit again with the Rising Daughters duo. Naomi and I correctly thought the waiting times for the rides would be shorter if we went on a weekday when most Japanese kids were still in school. As it turned out, lines were non-existent. Still, the place was still populated with staff who provided the excellent service and hospitality for which Japan is so well known. We took many roller coaster and other rides. 

We toured the “Showa Town” retro-themed area. It’s a throwback to life in postwar Japan during the 1950s-1970s. Like Happy Days, except it’s in southwestern Japan.

Next to this Showa retro-zone there is an enormous chicken coop, basically a fenced feeding area. Both Lady E. and M. love animals so we ambled over to a thatched hut where visitors can buy cups of feed and distribute them to the chickens. You use a specially cut bamboo feeder, filled with food pellets, and insert it through the wire fence so the fowl can eat. There were no park attendants here—buying the 100 yen feedbags was all on the honor system. Oddly, we never saw anyone else there that day even though we visited the chicken coop area twice out of sheer fascination tinged mixed with a dash of morbid humor. 

Just…read on.

We arrived at the feeding spot and four or five chickens were milling around outside the wire fence. They’d managed to escape and were rummaging for food. Marina started chasing them around. Law and order guy that I am, I thought we could have some fun. I thought, let’s teach Marina how to catch them and drop them back into the fenced area. 

Truth be told, Marina soon gave up, but I entertained myself by tracking down the errant hens and lobbing them back over the fence where they belonged. 

We soon realized that there were no attendants coming anytime soon. We had the place to ourselves. And these chickens were HUNGRY. So I purchased several of the feed pellet pouches. As soon as the girls starting dropping the pellets via the bamboo feeders, roosters and hens rapidly streamed in from all angles, piling on top of each other—hacking, kicking and fighting their way to the food. 

The melee that ensued was remarkable due to its sheer volume of squawks, thrashing, and blur of white and brown feathers.

Elena and Marina….well…they broke the rules by going into the compound. But their intent was noble. They wanted to stop the bullying roosters from monopolizing the food and make sure the weaker hens and chicks got some, too. But the crazed birds soon enveloped my daughters whenever they tried to feed them. Naomi went in to help, Elena came scrambling out. Birds were jumping on their shoulders and arms, pecking at the feed bags. It was nuts. The massed group of birds stacked almost a foot high blocked the entrance door. This became my excuse to throw some decoy food, deke out the straggler hens, and enter the fowl zone.

I was trying to be brave and get my womenfolk out of there. Damned if Naomi and M. didn’t double-down by spraying more feed pellets at the confused and traumatized lower rank of that vicious chicken society. More carnage ensued. 

The three of us walked up a trail inside the wire-enclosed area and I noticed a gaggle of several bigger birds surrounding and pecking what appeared to be a still-living chicken. But it would not be living for much longer. They were eating it alive! It was an outbreak of cannibalism.

I wasn’t sure how this jarring scene this would affect Marina. She went away to calmly feed a small subtribe of chicks and misfit poultry who were keeping away from the fray. As we walked down the trail back to the entrance, she pointed out the now-dead, mutilated chicken. I saw another chicken crime scene. It smelled awful. Time to go! We exited and flipped over a few more hundred yen of pellets over the wire. Next, we rounded up a couple more jail breaker roosters and deposited them back in the ongoing skirmish on the other side of the fence. Then we got the hell out of there.

It was a funny and shocking experience for us city slickers. Intriguing, even. We trekked to the leafy Dinosaur Park. Also boarded the roller coaster and defied gravity in the pirate ship. Overall, the Village of the Future makes for a good family outing at comparatively cheap prices. After a few more attraction rides and walking around the park, we went back to the chicken area later that afternoon to see if anything had changed or park attendants had come to deliver food. The same survival of the fittest scene awaited us. We located several more pecked and stripped-of-flesh carcasses. Blurrg.

It’s fair to say Miroku no Sato is a retro amusement park that has plenty of older rides, nice staff and a pleasant whiff of seen-better-days. Yet the most memorable part was the Hens from Hell. That episode provided life lessons for sheltered kids like our Rising Daughters. Especially witnessing the bloodshed inherent to the food chain and natural order when poultry society breaks down. Hellish and hilarious at the same time!