Deprecated: Function WP_Dependencies->add_data() was called with an argument that is deprecated since version 6.9.0! IE conditional comments are ignored by all supported browsers. in /home/customer/www/stevedorst.com/public_html/blog/wp-includes/functions.php on line 6260

Blog

A Desert Ride

Cycling, Travel

With Victor and Nate

The first time I rode with the Desert Cycling Club, the elites dropped me like a bad habit.
But today, I was hoping to keep up on the money stretch – a gradual 5-mile incline from the floor of the Coachella Valley into the foothills of the Little San Bernadinos. I had a secret weapon: fueled by turkey and stuffing.

We meet at 7:30 at Palm Desert Civic Park. It’s a big crowd of about 100. It’s mixed: young and old; men and women. The female leader announces an A-ride and three variations on the B-ride.

Against all good judgment, I go A . . .

Palm Desert, California is an insanely beautiful place to ride a bike. The roads are wide and well maintained—with bike lanes galore, some wide enough for golf carts.

I did today’s route last Saturday, which takes you through Palm Desert, Thousand Palms, Bermuda Dunes, Coachella, Indio, La Quinta, Indian Wells, and back to Palm Desert.

It’s dry and sunny, with basically perfect weather this time of year. There are snow-topped mountains to the west and south, and a sprawling range to the north that stretches to Joshua Tree National Park—which is larger than the state of Rhode Island.

Desert Cycling Club A-Ride (65)

Find more Cycling Routes / Bike Rides in Palm Desert, CA

We head north, spinning reasonably. It’s nearing 8:00, and the B riders have peeled off. It’s in the mid-60s. About 40 riders turn north off of 38th Ave onto Washington. A double peloton stretches out to single as we start to push the pace.

I work my way toward the front and nestle in behind a big guy. I notice I’m about the only guy with hair on my legs. On a bike, that can only mean one thing . . . speed!

Three riders stand up on their pedals in quick succession and break away from us. By the time we make a hard right turn onto Thousand Palms Canyon Road, they’re 20 lengths ahead and the race up the incline is on.

I’m feeling strong. But the pace is only going to get faster. Suddenly I hear a wooooosh, and I’m skidding on a flat tire. I veer to the shoulder, and the peloton is gone like that!

I sit on a rock. This road is a thin scar in a hardscrabble desert. No traffic. Mountains and a clear sky.

I fix my flat, turn my bike back downhill, and spin the 14 miles to Palm Desert. I’m catching a flight back home in two hours . . . but I can’t wait until I can test myself on this route again.

Hulu Plus: $7.99, and a World of Docs

Watching Docs

Everybody knows Hulu’s popular shows: much of the best that networks and cable have on offer. For the price of a burger per month, I could settle down this winter to catch up on 152 episodes of Family Guy, 212 episodes of Dancing with the Stars, or 152 episodes of The Office.

And since my Blu-Ray player has the Hulu Plus app, I’m not watching this on my computer. I’m sitting on my couch, watching the big-screen TV, eating popcorn . . .

But today I discovered Hulu’s world of documentaries . . . I was excited to see something like 400 docs in the list.

Classics like Grey Gardens, Harlan County USA, and Hoop Dreams.

Recent award-winners like The Corporation, Exit Through the Gift Shop, and Super Size Me.

Films made by friends of mine, like Bedford: The Town They Left Behind, and Trembling Before G-d.

And LOTS of films that I’ve been meaning to see: Beer Wars, God Grew Tired of Us, and The End of Poverty. And more and more and more.

So if Netflix is $10/month and Hulu+ is $8/month, why am I still paying $125/month for cable?

Storytelling, at a Crossroads

Good Ideas Rock!, Travel

Do you know a good storyteller? She’s the life of the party. The one who gets everybody rip-rolling, turns us deathly silent, then provokes a tear or two. We gather around. She regales us.

Now, imagine 25 of the most amazing storytellers you’ve ever met gathered in the same square mile, performing to circus tents full of 500 enthusiastic listeners. But it seems like they’re talking straight to you. That’s the National Storytelling Festival, in its 39th year.

I spend the weekend in Jonesborough, Tennessee — the oldest town in the state. It was founded in 1779, before the Volunteer state became a state. Almost 8,000 people prowl the town with me, on the hunt for stories. It’s like a film festival, only better. Tellers duck and weave by synapse and whim, bending narratives in response to giggling children, passing trains, or thundering applause.

It’s “night at the improv,” but better. David Holt plays 10 acoustic instruments; Bill Lepp gives me cramps as he invents insane tall tales; Elizabeth Ellis slows it down – I shed a tear. Antonio Sacre is energetic, yet tender. Clare Murphy is protean, spinning morality tales from the dawn of time. Donald Davis pays homage to Kathryn Windham; Holt remembers Ed Hicks. Tellers know they stand on the shoulders of those who came before them.

Billed as “One festival, three days, a world of stories,” it was much more. A time to reflect on the nature of stories themselves, and how they move and sustain us.