336 lines
9.8 KiB
Plaintext
336 lines
9.8 KiB
Plaintext
From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan 7 17:24:48 1991
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To: wordy@Corp
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Subject: chapter-27
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ROUGHING IT IN PALO ALTO
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#27 in the second online CAA series
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by
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Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)
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Palo Alto, CA; 12,000 miles.
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April 26, 1987
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Copyright 1987, Steven K. Roberts. All Rights Reserved.
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GEnie subscriber S.PONTIN in Rochester writes: "Many of us in the less
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temperate zones wonder when you'll be leaving the exotic climes of the West
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coast to embark on the REAL adventure, the soul- destroying adventure that
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ensues when you cross over into the the desert. After all, any of us can have
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good time in Palo Alto..."
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But Simon... we HAVE been roughing it! Why, just yesterday we were
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sprayed with cold salt water as we danced in a 34-foot sailboat across the
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violent, whitecapped surface of San Francisco Bay. There were moments of
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terror as the deck dipped into rushing froth -- as the women screamed and the
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captain intoned "It's under control... it's under control" like a reassuring
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litany while Angel Island passed to starboard.
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Yes, we're roughing it alright. Later, in the hot tub, we found the water
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at the bottom chilly -- in sharp contrast to the steaming dark liquid that
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first lured the three of us in, Maggie and Laura and me. Soft wrestling in the
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murky depths, the two of them ganging up on me, tickling me, taking advantage
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of my exhaustion...
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So you think this is an easy life, here in Palo Alto? Why, it fairly
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reeks of challenge, risk, and high adventure! My electronic calendar is
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crammed to capacity with fearless assaults on high-tech pinnacles (subtly
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camouflaged as speaking engagements): Hewlett- Packard. Apple. Sun.
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Intellicorp. All-nighters of software-hacking alternate with those of
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machining and still others of writing... leaving me wired yet exhausted, too
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limp to face the daily onslaught of perky voices and curious faces. And then
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there are the unexpected doses of adrenalin: skimming the Pacific with Alan in
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a Cessna 172, only to nose skyward, squeak over a cliff, and aim for the
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treetops of a 2,000-foot ridge. "There's my property," he says, pointing down
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as the plane closes in on a cluster of redwoods at 200 feet per second...
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Adrenalin's addicting stuff, isn't it? But unlike most addictions, it's
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pure delight when the conditions are right and horrifying when they're not.
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Skydiving, breathless tickling marathons, climbing to Alan's tree fort in the
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dark, taking a blind corner at 30 in a Vacuum Velocipede -- those are OK.
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Getting cut off by a jerk-piloted dirty white van making a left turn onto Page
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Mill Road -- that's definitely NOT OK. That little buzz of adrenalin does
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little to offset the chilling awareness of extreme vulnerability, of mortality.
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Sometimes I get images... a mental slide show of what-ifs that urge me to flee
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these risky highways and move to something else, something gentle, something
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like a recumbent kayak or sailboat or even, while we're dreaming, something
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airborne.
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But in the meantime, lacking the requisite megabucks, I'll be pedaling the
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Megacycle out of Palo Alto in about 2 weeks. The layover has served its
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purpose; the tires itch violently like a sneeze that won't quite happen and the
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urge to roll is so compelling that it seems almost hormonal.
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And besides, I want to play with my new toys where they're designed to
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work best -- out there on the road where comfort, like a gob of gelato, is rare
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treat instead of daily routine.
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* * *
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New toys, yes. There have been a number of techie delights to offset the
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stresses of my frantic business schedule. One of the major motives of this
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whole Palo Alto adventure was to get some of the bike's sexier systems working.
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A few highlights...
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--> The machine now has pneumatic truck horns, powered by a compressed-air
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tank with adjustable regulator and handlebar pushbutton. I now sound, as well
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as look, like a Mack Bike. This exciting new potential for acoustic
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obnoxiousness has already paid off in traffic with that jerk in the van -- the
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kind of guy who bases his respect for a man upon strength, number of tattoos,
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or loudness. Lacking the first two, I socked him with 140 db of air horns,
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followed by 130 db of knifing siren and a quick clang of the bell. His shouted
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curses, rendered feeble, dwindled to a trickle and then disappeared behind a
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quick, defensive finger gesture.
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--> The hydraulic brake project, product of Mathauser Engineering and a few
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late nights with machining wizard Peter Lindener at Stanford, is done. A pair
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of master cylinders under the seat is actuated by a transfer bar with a
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proportional coupling to the right hand brake lever. This system, along with
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the existing disc brake, might even be enough to stop my 1/5-ton biomechanical
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absurdity before it crushes a stray Toyota or something.
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--> Maggie has a whole new bike. The Infinity, faithful workhorse that it
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was, couldn't be adjusted far enough to let her 5'5" body turn the cranks
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without hyperextension. Her latest sponsor is Life Cycles, the all-recumbent
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bike shop here in Palo Alto (LIFECYCLES on GEnie), and the bike itself is a
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beautiful silver De Felice, hung with the glitter and sheen of polished
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aluminum components. As I write, Maggie's in the lab making drilling noises
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and puzzling over her all-new problems with communications gear, solar panel
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mounting, packing, cabling, and so on... all of which, for both of us, are
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about to be further complicated by a pair of lightweight Equinox trailers.
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--> My new security system is wonderful. Called the UNGO Box and made by
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Techne of Palo Alto, it senses even the most subtle movement (by watching for
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flux-density changes in a 40 kHz field around a puddle of mercury). Set to
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maximum sensitivity, the system can trigger my pocket beeper or the on-board
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siren when someone sneezes on one of my orange flags or stretches an uneducated
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finger toward a console switch. With digital remote control of a few bike
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functions (like speech), my response to an alert can dissuade casual tinkering
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with no loss of humor.
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--> The brain-interface unit, built on a Bell helmet substrate, is living up
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to its name. Linked to the bike by a 12-pin medical- grade Lemo connector and
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coil cord, the unit provides stereo jacks for my ears, adjustable boom
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microphone for my mouth, and a halogen lamp over the visor if I want to feel
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light-headed. And now, I'm designing a swing-down eyepiece for the new helmet
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optical system -- since Color Microimaging Corporation is providing detailed,
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full-color maps on microfiche. We have to do whatever we can to increase our
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brain's I/O bandwidth, you know... time to re-think that handlebar keyboard...
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--> Packet datacomm is working so well that I now view my bike as a mailbox --
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just like the HP computer. Every time I climb aboard, I sign on and download
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the messages, which are beginning to roll in from all over the country. The
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other day, I was pedaling to Mountain View while communicating digitally with
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Sourcevoid Dave while HE was enroute with friends to Monterey. A few minutes
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later, I accessed the satellite wormhole, emerged in Maryland, and left a
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bulletin-board message for a friend on the East Coast -- risking my physical
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self by typing my way through noontime El Camino traffic. It's really
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happening, folks... nothing can stop the networks now. If a solar-powered
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bicycle can go online while rolling, then how far are we from real-time pocket
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mailboxes?
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And speaking of new magic in the communications world, have you heard about
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DASnet? Remember my urgings in Chapter 24 on the general subject of
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universally linked networks? Well, I was obviously not the only person
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thinking about that -- it's been done. For information on linking to ARPANET,
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ATT Mail, BITNET, CompuServe, EIES, EasyLink, MCI, Portal, The Source, Telex,
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TWICS (Japan), Unison, and UUCP, drop a line to R.BRIGGS here on GEnie.
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* * *
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Meanwhile, all this whiz-bang technology aside, what's life like as we
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struggle through these last twelve rugged Palo Alto days?
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Well...
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The dinners range from world-class Maggie-pizza to creative productions of
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pumpkin seeds, roadside vegetation, and fish heads -- the spirited Conganese
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drummer Maboukaka to my right spitting eyeballs <tink> <tink> onto the plate,
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Maggie to my left helping herself to more flowers. Drinks run the gamut from
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exotic cognacs to homemade Kahlua, a tasty substance that imposes its own
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curfew. Strangely confused conversations in the bike room continue for two or
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three minutes before we suddenly realize that I'm talking about interrupt logic
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and Maggie's discussing aluminum fairing mounts. Daily show-n- tell jaunts
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throughout the peninsula are exhausting but profitable (at least in "soft
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dollars"). KLRS is on the radio -- the area's new station dedicated to that
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wonderful and yet-unnamed breed of music variously referred to as new age,
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Windham Hill, space, alternative, and yuppie muzak. Traffic roars by on
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Middlefield, now and again syncopated by the thundering bass of an East Palo
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Alto cruise-mobile. The perennial clutter is slowly getting sorted into boxes
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and disk files. There are far more amazing new friends and corresponding
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social opportunities than I can possibly keep organized in one overloaded
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wetware infosystem. And as always, free moments are filled by the detailed
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planning and fantasizing that precedes travel.
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For this, I suddenly realize, is more the beginning of trip 3 than the
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continuation of trip 2.
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So here we go again... drawing back the bow, steadying the breath, slowing
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the heartbeat, relaxing, sharpening the focus until the target point turns
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inside-out and becomes infinite space...
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-- Steve
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