Hello, Ms. Baby, you'll be leaving, along with your buddy Mr. Bathwater.

First, take a look (if you like) at Brian McGory's screed on the plague that is the Boston cyclist. I'll be here when you get back.

Read it? Okay.

I have a better solution. If we expect cyclists to obey Boston traffic laws, let's treat them more like motorists. To wit: every bike that hits a Boston street needs to have a smallish license plate. Make it a one-time fee of $20. The money goes to educating cyclists, drivers and pedestrians about coexisting on the roads (pedestrians can be as much of a scourge on the roads as anyone else). Every cyclist gets a manual: here are Boston's traffic laws. Here's what you can do. Here's what you can't do. Every time you do something illegal, it's a $100 fine. Second offense, $200. Your license plate is tied to your personal info, so you can be tracked down for failure to pay.

Cops would have latitude to dispense a warning, but the 40 for 40 citations-to-warning ratio cited in McGory's piece is pathetic. (Adding a 20% bike coupon and a helmet for the first hundred people reduces a warning from a slap on the wrist to a joke. What's next, milk and cookies?) For every person who gets a warning and becomes a better commuter, there's someone who ignores it or backslides after awhile. A warning is fleeting, but a $100 fine lingers in the memory, and not fondly.

Banning bicycles is as dumb a solution as you can ask for, and it's made worse by the broad strokes McGory paints cyclists with. Sure, let's discourage people from commuting in a manner that's healthier for them and the environment (discounting for a moment the unhealthy stresses cyclists endure by riding alongside cars, trucks and buses, and the much smaller stresses drivers endure sharing the road with bikes). And while we're at it, let's assume all cyclists are arrogant and entitled. After all, I assume all Op-Ed columnists are opinionated blowhards, so we're even.

Maybe I'm biased--to paraphrase Kid Koala, some of my best friends are cyclists. But if the situation is addressed properly, more bicycles on the road would be better in the long run for the daily commute, not to mention the environment and the health of the people who saddle up. It might even get some of us off our lazy asses and onto a two-wheeler, instead of riding in to work every day in a car, bus or train.

Part 3: How Many Cabs Will You Be Needing?

Apologies for the incredible shrinking text. Blogspot seems to be having a problem with it at the moment.
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People forget how rarely teams have been able to begin a season by teaming up three Hall-of-Fame caliber players at or near the peak of their careers. The ’69 Lakers tried it with Wilt, West and Baylor; by the time that team won a title in 1972, Baylor was gone. The next time was the 2007-08, when the Celtics traded for Garnett and Ray Allen. (Other teams accumulated three greats, but I can’t recall anyone other than these two teams uniting all three at the outset of one season.) 

This summer marked the third time in the NBA’s 64 year history a team has been able to bring three elite players together; at this point it’s questionable whether you can put Bosh in the elite category, but let that pass. With just a third test case, this is still largely unknown territory, more so because in this case all of these players are young and at their peaks.

What are the Heat missing? Size, a point guard, and players who can do the dirty work. Roster issues, essentially, which a wily GM like Pat Riley can sort out over time. But the primary reason the ’69 Lakers and the ’08 Celtics came together is because of something the Heat don’t yet have: desperation. How much desperation can a 25, 27 and 28 year old muster, especially when the oldest of that group already has a ring?

Pierce, Garnett and Allen had played a combined 33 seasons without a Finals appearance, much less a championship. It’s pretty easy to see how three veterans on the wrong side of 30 could sublimate their games in order to raise a banner.  Throw in the fact that Garnett’s ego fed off defense and rebounding; that two offensive-minded All-Stars bought into playing in your face defense; and that the relatively small overlap in the skills of those three players allowed them to blend more easily, and no wonder the Celtics took the league by storm. But they did that through defense, the ultimate barometer of effort. At every juncture, they played like a team that needed to prove something.

Will the Heat become that team? The more I think about it, the more I believe they won’t. Not because Pat Riley won’t be able to solve their roster issues; not because their coach (be it Spoelstra, Riley or someone else) will be unable to eventually get through to them; not because of any of the main guys involved is allergic to work; not because every non-Heat fan wants them to fail.

The 2008 Celtics came together as a blank slate. The players were open to adjusting their games and playing in a different style, because the manner in which they’d competed for more than ten years had netted them nothing but individual acclaim. The fans knew the team’s window of opportunity was short, but didn’t expect a championship in the first season.

The Heat entered the season welcoming lofty expectations, only to find that early failures have turned those expectations into albatrosses or worse, sources of derision and mockery. They have two of the five best players on the planet, only they don’t play well together; yet neither of them currently believes they can or should change their games. The path they’re following could lead to championship—even multiple championship—glory, but I think it’s more likely they’re headed towards disillusionment. In 2007, Paul Pierce was happy to get any kind of quality help the Celtics could provide him, and what he got were two very different players as hungry and desperate as he was to get to the promised land. In 2010, three young men got together looking for a good time, and only a short time into the trip find only conflict, angst and scorn. Something tells me that at the end of the ride, they’ll be taking separate cabs home.
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PS: Tony Massarotti of the Globe wrote about this in a different form today. I think his central idea--that Pat Riley should make it clear that it's the players who are responsible for getting out of this mess--is sound. But I'd be surprised if Riles makes that statement. I'll let you read it and draw your own conclusion.

Part 2: An Alternate Universe

There’s a reason why I think back on that vintage Converse commercial with Bird and Magic. You couldn’t have asked for two more outwardly different personalities to become rivals on the NBA’s marquee franchises, nor could you ask for those teams to play any differently from each other than they already did. You had Bird, the surly introvert vs. Magic, the smiling showman; you had the lunch pail Celtics vs. the Showtime Lakers.

You also had two players and two teams that worked their way towards the joy of playing basketball. We’re well aware of Magic’s ability to put on a show, and one of the great things about the Bird/Magic rivalry is that time and reflection has given us a much better appreciation of how much work Magic put into his game. Exhibit A is the “junior junior Sky Hook” he used to beat the Celts in Game 4 of the ’87 Finals. Exhibit B is the significantly more accurate outside set shot he developed by that same point in his career. He possessed neither of these weapons when he entered the NBA at 19—just a year older than LeBron when he made his debut.

Bird had an unparalleled work ethic, and yes, the most fun thing was winning, but Bird could put on a show, too. And he enjoyed it--enjoyed inventing shots or passes on the fly. In fact, his work ethic gave him the space to create something new, just as Magic’s time in the gym allowed him to do the same. Sort of like a guitarist who spends countless hours practicing scales, and then in concert whips off amazing solos that seem to come out of nowhere. Of the many things Bird and Magic had in common, one of the most prominent was the sense that on any given night, either of them might do something you’d never seen anyone do before—an off-balance shot from a crazy angle, or a flashy pass that was on its way to being an assist before a gap had even opened up to let it through. The most entertaining plays Bird and Magic made ultimately sprung from all the private work they undertook to become the best possible players.

Maybe Bird and Magic would have possessed very different attitudes if they had become pros in the last 15 years. Neither player made the cover of Sports Illustrated before he left high school. Neither player grew up in the AAU world, where talent is spotted and cultivated obscenely early. And can you imagine a modern college coach losing sight of Bird now, the way Bobby Knight lost sight of him at Indiana in 1974?

There’s no telling how either player would have developed, athletically or mentally, under those conditions. Run Magic and Bird through the AAU framework and imagine a career path that leads them to 2010 free agency. Would they, too, have wanted to join up instead of trying to beat each other? If they had signed with the same team, would they have pranced on a catwalk in front of adoring thousands in their new city? Would they have expected the regular season to be a party and the playoffs a coronation?

Tomorrow: How Many Cabs Will You Be Needing?

Part 1: Show Me Whatcha Got

I’m picturing Dwyane Wade on a beautifully built outdoor court. It’s a pleasant but slightly humid Miami night. All the lights are on. He’s wearing his Miami practice gear and swishing jumpers, one after another, from 18 feet.

A limousine pulls up. Some dust kicks across the sidewalk. Two very large men emerge from the back in slow motion, clad Miami Heat warm ups. One wears a shooting shirt bearing a number 1, the other a number 6. It’s Bosh and LeBron. They look fierce, determined.

LeBron speaks: “Hey, I heard they made new Nikes for last year’s Miami Heat.” Wade looks down at his sneakers, then glowers back at LeBron. “Yeah?”

Bosh says, “Well, Nike made some sneakers for this year’s Miami Heat.” Lebron and Bosh rip off their warm up pants to reveal fabulous new Nikes, in the Heat’s trademark black, red, and white colors.

Wade’s glower switches to a beaming smile as he exclaims, “Nice kicks! I gotta get me some of those.” At which point, Bosh grins, hands him a box and says, “We brought you a pair.”

Cut to: Wade, Bosh, and LeBron, wearing their flashy new sneakers and Heat uniforms, throwing alley oops to each other, burying jumpers, smiling and high fiving. Good times! They look absolutely ecstatic. And unbeatable.

 

Tomorrow: An Alternate Universe

Tale of the Tape/Thank you

The tale of the tape of the 30 Days of Hot:

• 30 classes, 30 consecutive days, no doubles
• 45 hours of class time in the hot room
• 10 hours of pre- and post-class time in the hot room (20 minutes per class)
• Cumulative 2.3 days spent in the hot room
• 150 liters of water consumed—go to your local grocery store, hit the water aisle, and count the gallon jugs until you reach 40. That should paint the picture quite nicely. This is a conservative estimate, by the way. And I needed very drop of it.
• 90 towels used—60 from the studio, 30 from home
• 30,000 calories burned (1,000 per day)
• 10 pounds of calories burned (3,000 per pound)
• Estimated 30 miles of walking to get to the studio (1.5 miles per weekday; the weekends were the van or the T or a combination of the two)
• Roughly 1,400 reps of poses—each rep generally being one iteration of the pose, or two iterations if it needs to be done for each side of the body
• 13 different teachers
• 3 teachers I’d never had before
• 24 classes at Back Bay (15 in the big room upstairs, 9 in the small room); 4 classes at Harvard Square; 2 classes at Lincoln Street
• “Lock the knee” spoken by teachers an estimated 1,800 times (60 per class)
• Beginning weight: 176.5
• End weight: 170.5
• Blog posts: 35
• Estimated word count: 9,500

The numbers aren’t the whole story, but they say a lot.

Let’s end with some overdue thank yous:

First and foremost, extreme gratitude, thanks and love to my wife, Margo. She was hitting the hot room for two years before I tried it. She’s still the toughest cookie in the hot box. I aspire to her toughness and determination every day. Thanks, little missy.

Thanks to the excellent teachers at the Boston studios, encompassing Back Bay, Chinatown, and Harvard Square, in order of appearance: Dan, Meredith, Reba (from Tempe AZ), Danielle, Tomo, Courtney, Jackie, Michelle, Elizabeth, Rich, Brad, Jill and Derek. My job was to show up every day; their job was to push us beyond our limitations. They knew when to open a window, close a door, or lighten the mood with a quick quip. A more kind, knowledgeable and compassionate group you’d be hard pressed to find.

Thanks to my fellow practitioners, and especially my fellow 30 day challengers. Some days we rode the wave, some days the wave rode us. Thanks for your energy and your company in the face of extreme heat and borderline masochism.

Big thanks to the many people who urged me on, gave encouragement, or shook their heads in disbelief. It’s good to know that people were rooting for me. For those who shook your heads, trust me when I tell you: there were times when I questioned my own sanity.

Last but not least, many thanks to everyone who contributed to the Franciscan Food Bank as a result of my doing the challenge. I can only guess how much your generosity benefited the Food Bank. Because of your donations, my 30 days in the hot room had a greater purpose than achieving some vaguely defined notion of progress or accomplishment. For those who haven’t contributed but would like to, please do so and support the Friars’ fine work, particularly during a difficult economic time. I had the privilege of practicing with one of the Friars during many days of the challenge and getting to know him a little, so for me, the cause moved from an abstract act of charity to something a little more tangible by being in his company.

It was real, it was fun. It wasn’t always real fun, but I feel relieved, proud, and humbled by the experience. Namaste.

Day 30: Final Savasana

Courtesy Yoga Spy.

Last night a group of us were chatting in the Back Bay Bikram lobby after doing the 7:30 class. One fellow doing the 30 Day Challenge had just done a double--4:30 class, break for an hour or so, then the 7:30. He had to do a double tonight to finish with 30 classes in 30 days.

A lady friend of his said, "So you just have tomorrow? You did it!" She meant well, but no one on the verge of accomplishing something wants to hear that it's already done. Not until it's really, truly over.


A few moments later, I mentioned that I was also doing the 30 Days. And the lady said, again, "You did it!" And I replied, "Please don't say that. I haven't done it yet. I've got one more day."


It brought me back to day 1 of the challenge, a month ago. Same lobby, only this time before class. Dan, the teacher for that first class, was telling the young lady who just signed in, "Why don't you check off today before you go in? You know you're going to do it."


Sure, we know we're going to do it, just like last night I knew I would do tonight's class and finish the challenge. But I didn't want to check out mentally a day early; I didn't want to mark this one in the W column until the clock read 0:00. Not for any one class, and certainly not for the very last one. But at 7:30 tonight, the clock expired, the last knee locked, the last breath exhaled, and now I can say it: I did it.

What does that mean, exactly? I don't know. I can see the physical changes--hey, where's the beer gut? Did I actually have abdominal muscles hiding in there all this time?--and measure the obvious progress I made in many of the postures. I can applaud having the wherewithal to show up every day, including a five day stretch where I hovered between "not exactly sick" and "not exactly well," and consequently felt a little weird during much of those classes. But what will I end up carrying out of the hot room? I'll have to wait and see on that.

It’ll be nice to have my evenings back; even with two early departures each week to grab the 4:30 class, and a pair of days off in the middle, I felt like I was getting home late every night. Maybe the expenditure of effort created that feeling, or maybe the fact Daylight Savings kicked in and brought night down early; whether I was at home at 7 or at 9, I often didn’t feel like doing much. Maybe I felt I only had the energy to concentrate on one project at a time, and the 30 Day Challenge was it. I was rarely creative over the last month, and felt like a partial friend and husband. I’ll be happy returning to life as a fully committed, creative human being.

I think of this time after the challenge as a sort of Savasana. I’ll take at least a couple of weeks away, absorb the benefits of what I just did, and figure out what else I may have gained, and what I could do better. But for a little while, I’m just going to lie back and be happy that I’ve finished. Day 30 and the challenge are in the books.

Connect to the purring, y’all.

Namaste,

Scott

Day 29: Blowing in Firm (Kapalbhati in Vajrasana)

The 30 Day Challenge is like taking a daily commute through your body and mind. You’re driving the same car; the route never changes; the trip is always the same length. From day to day the car may purr along or it may cough and heave. You may get stuck in traffic. Once in a while, a usually congested intersection is completely clear, and you blow right through it, wishing it could be that clear every day. The radio station in your mind, might be turned off, but some days all you can hear are the obnoxious windbags on talk radio, ranting about the socialist bent of the temperature or the reactionary bias of the humidity. Could we get a nice, moderate breeze in here?

But some days, you notice new details in familiar places. A repaired sidewalk. New awnings over the shops. More greenery. You suddenly sink deeper and more comfortably in your seat. You’re able to shift gears just a little more easily. You realize that these places you’re traveling through are being renovated, opened up, modernized. Everything needs more work, but you realize things are changing almost imperceptibly. But those small details are adding up.

Does the commute sometimes feeling like I’m living through Groundhog’s Day? Sure. There have been times where the trip has been a slog. The first week was interesting—lots of up and downs. The second week was like driving through a ghost town where the lights were green at every intersection. Week three, there was ongoing construction at every corner, and the traffic snarled for miles. At various times in the last ten days, it’s been all of that.

Every day, the same route. Every day, a different journey. At the end, will I take a vacation? Come straight back for more? I have no idea. I’m about to park the car. I’ve arrived, but at what destination I’m not sure.