textfiles/fun/CAA/gecaa-11

From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan  7 17:19:01 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-11

Strangeness and Halloween



#11 in the second online CAA series



by



Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)



Eugene, OR; 612 miles.



November 6, 1986



     It's odd sometimes, living this lifestyle sampler.  In Salem -- after a

brutal 55-mile day of headwinds, rain, and shoulderless darkness -- we settled

in with a delightful couple who had sent an electronic invitation via

CompuServe over two years ago.  Huddling in a phone booth, I queried my

database for contacts; within the hour we were warm and dry, blinking in the

light, legs quivering from one of our hardest rides yet and bodies numb from

exhaustion.  (Welcome new GEnie user D.MACMILLAN.)



     Before long I was alone in the house -- as Maggie, David and Lois went out

to shop for Halloween dinner.  I wrote quietly by the woodstove, jumping up

every sentence or two to hand carob-coated fruit crunchies to the costumed

children of a town I'd never seen.  Unlike the mischievous rampages of my own

childhood, this night was tame, almost depressing:  every group was shepherded

by a bored but watchful adult, waiting on the sidewalk with a flashlight.  Some

people, it seems, have found it amusing to give poison to children.  The

holiday continues, emasculated.



     This is strange.  EVERYTHING is strange.  As I step outside of society

(yet move intimately within it), American behavior seems progressively more

bizarre until I find other humans at least as fascinating as they find me.

Lift yourself out of your normal context and think about a few things for a

minute -- as if you ware studying an alien culture...



Consider the "business crowd."  They swarm the restaurants at noon -- the women

painted and garbed in restrictive clothing, the men identical in uniforms

characterized by strips of colored fabric tied about the neck.  Most (even the

brilliant ones) work hard for decades to support a lifestyle whose primary

functions are stability and the consumption of expensive goods -- a lifestyle

that takes on a life of its own to the extent that many are unable to change

their course even when they finally WANT to... as many eventually do.



Giant billboards promote addiction to tobacco smoke, with sexy people ("Alive

with Pleasure!") smiling over a notice that reads: "SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING:

Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema, And May Complicate

Pregnancy."  In many parts of America, cigarette smoking is actually considered

attractive -- despite the fact that it stains teeth, releases dangerous fumes,

and threatens health.



Humans put a lot of other strange things into their bodies (even ignoring

drugs).  Food, for example, is routinely laced with chemicals, antibiotics,

coloring agents, sweeteners and random impurities -- spawning a whole

subculture of people who prefer to eat products "close to the source" instead.

But these natural foods typically cost half again as much as those that have

been subjected to extensive processing. When you're a human engine consuming

5,000 calories a day, such matters take on paramount importance.



The males of this species gather across the land and earnestly discuss

"football," a ritualized proccess in which regionally- identifiable teams of

powerful men rumble hairily across large fields, slapping each other's bottoms

whenever they manage to relocate an oblong leather ball in a fashion contrary

to the intentions of their opponents.  This national obsession (at least as

pervasive as religion, and in many ways comparable) provides a safe yet

controversial topic of conversation -- a sort of macho safety valve.



Across the earth's surface are invisible random boundaries that define the

geopolitical limits of human cultures.  People crossing these lines are subject

to search, personal scrutiny -- sometimes even arrest or death.  Some of the

larger regions have declared themselves "superpowers" and devote a major

percentage of their resources to the creation and maintenance of weaponry

capable of killing everybody else on the planet (as well as themselves) some 40

times over. Though it has been pointed out that such activity may quickly

destroy human civilization, there has been no serious attempt to reverse this

behavior.



Few humans think in terms of a planet, in fact.  This is a very odd species:

nuclear waste has to be stored for a time longer than all of recorded history

before it ceases to be deadly. Pets eat better than many children -- who have

been behaviorally conditioned to crave such delicacies as Apple Jacks (a

breakfast cereal that is 54% sugar).  Skin color is the basis of a caste

system, offically or otherwise. Leaders are chosen on the basis of charisma and

marketing ability, not intelligence.  Success is measured by dollars, not

happiness.  Some fatal diseases are too profitable to eradicate, while others

are considered blessings by a few who see them as God's way of eradicating

people who are different.  The list goes on and on.



     When viewed from the perspective of an incoming starship, in fact, much of

human behavior seems absurd -- even though there is no serious shortage of

intelligence, creativity, awareness, and love.



     Somehow, living on a bicycle intensifies all this.  My little starship --

my Loony Excursion Module -- is connected yet unconnected, a rolling platform

from which to view the world at close range.  And the closer I get, the more

remote I feel.  Do you see why I keep calling this strange, even though it has

become my normal life?



                   * * *



     In other news:  The ride from Salem to Corvallis was flawless -- 42 miles

of a cool, sunny tailwind; good conversation on the radio; energetic music

(Level 42) on the cassette deck; perfect.  We arrived under a peach-colored sky

show, the afternoon sun setting autumn foliage ablaze over a campus still

sleepy from the aftereffects of Halloween night (college style).  We meandered

about until dark, then headed for the home of our first hostess.



     Waiting to cross a street, I fell over.  Now, this is not my usual style,

nor it it considered healthy behavior on a machine that weighs about as much as

the average medium-sized Honda.  As I struggled to wrestle it back up, the

handlebars fell off.



     Red alert!



     My life was suddenly immobilized -- with no repair part available anywhere

in the world.  I sat by the road in the dark and stared numbly at the fractured

bearing mount, machined long ago from an inappropriate chunk of cast aluminum.

This would take a machine shop, a hunk of 6061 or 7075, and someone deft with a

mill.  Lacking all three in this unfamiliar town, we parked the bikes and

strolled to dinner at Nearly Normal's -- a place that conjured 60's images

while tickling the palate and pleasing the ear with classical guitar.  I needed

a break.



     Oregon is an interesting place.  People seem alive, involved, interested

in others.  Perhaps that has something to do with the demographic filtering

that results from my bizarre appearance, but the net effect is easy connection

-- and before long we were standing in Griffo Brothers Ironmonger Works, a

garage shop par excellence, watching Mark the metal wizard at the helm of his

Mazak numerically controlled milling machine.  Color graphic definition of my

steering part in, finely-honed aluminum out.  Ain't technology wonderful?



     Rolling again, we spent two days with Hewlett-Packard, the reason

Corvallis had come to seem a sort of mecca.  Media, brown-bag lunch with 200

employees, still more new friends.  And when the Portable was taken away for

upgrades, the lobby suddenly felt like a hospital waiting room:  we sat in our

little sea of clutter, clad in T-shirts ans sweats, catching up on

correspondence and looking up expectantly every time someone in a tie walked

through the room.  "How is she?"



     We're in Eugene, now -- getting ready for the 96-mile mountainous ride

(with no services) that will land us on the coast.  In the meantime... still

more new friends, still more bike tweaking, still more adventure and food and

rain and coffee and conversation.  Always the same, always completely

different.  This is the texture of our life, the internal decor of a Winnebiko.



     And the next time you hear from me, it will be from the Pacific.