Datebook: Thursday, November 10th ~ 2006

My son is trying to think of a special present to get me for Christmas this year. But what I am finding out is all the things he suggests for me are really items he might secretly be craving.

I don’t need new snowboard bindings thank-you-very-much because the one time I stood on a snowboard I envisioned what it felt like to wear “cement boots”.

I don’t need anything with an “I” in front of it. I don’t own any pods or macs or apples so I certainly don’t need an I-sound system for my car or room.

I don’t need satellite radio because I drive one mile to work and most of the time I forget to turn on the radio because I am still adjusting my seatbelt when I have to turn the car off.

I know.

I can’t complain about the price of gas, or the complexities of negotiating traffic. But, it all evens out in the end because I used to put 60,000 miles on a car every eighteen months just driving back and forth to the ice rink where my daughter skates. My neighbors used to marvel at my trading cars every other year, imagining that they were still under warranty instead of actually needing brakes at 100,000 miles. Now I let my car warm up longer than the drive to work and I never get to hear a complete song on the radio anyway before I am pulling into the parking lot.

So it sounds a bit mawkish that I now often miss the drive to the rink. I mean, it offered a plethora of opportunities to listen to entire unabridged editions of books on tape. I could watch the drool roll out of my daughter’s mouth as she slept on the way up—sometimes her eyes flash around in her head when she is sleeping like those old pinball machines,-- and enjoy (for the most part) the conversation on the ride home.

I found an article in the paper about a man who works in San Jose, California who drives 3 ½ hours each way commuting from his house in Mariposa. That is 185 miles each way. In traffic. Apparently there is a contest sponsored by Midas, the auto service company, which gives 10,000.00 to the winner of the annual “Longest Commute Contest”. I’m not sure that would pay for the gas and the car maintenance but there must be a trophy to attract the 3000 entries they received last year. 2nd place drove 175 miles each way, and 3rd place drove 164.4 miles each way.

They could use satellite radio.

So, I thought about commuting and all the moms, dads, and skaters who are still driving all those distances to ice rinks and decided we should have a “Longest Commute to the Rink Contest”. The rules are pretty simple—email Daphne with the number of miles traveled from home to rink—(that being the rink you train at least 3 times a week) and win a travel prize.

Well, it won’t be with the Midas touch, or satellite radio coverage, but it will be fun never-the-less.

On the way home from work a few weeks ago, I had my daughter and her partner’s OD music in the CD player (Don’t ask—you do the same thing). I had to sit in my driveway for about thirty seconds to finish listening to it.

Why does it seem so much longer when they are skating to it?

Mombo