Purification And Peripatetic Learning

Today I had an entirely insignificant achievement that had nothing at all to do with cycling, writing, teaching or any of the  other more-or-less respectable things I do.  Still, I feel a little bit of pride.

What is that momentous deed?  I went to Aristotle's Lyceum.  That means I visited all of the archaelogical sites covered by the 30 Euro inclusive pass.  

The Lyceum site, as it turns out, was on the way to the next part of my trip.  At least, it's along the Metro line I took.  According to Lonely Planet (the source of all of my scholarly information!), the site was excavated only in 2011.  So, for 2346 years, it lay buried beneath what is now a police station and down the street from the War Museum.

I have long known that, until fairly recently, most major cities are located on the banks of some significant body of water.  I have also noticed that many school catalogues show a body of water on their covers even if there isn't one within 100 kilometers of the campus.  

As it turns out, the Lyceum was built by a river that has long since been filled in or rerouted.  A chief reason is that, in keeping with the philosophy that the mind and body are one, the school had a gymnasium.  The river supplied water for the baths which not only cleaned sweaty bodies, but also served as a purifying ritual.  

Hmm...I always want to wash up after a bike ride.  But I usually feel that the ride itself was in some way purifying, or at least cleansing, of my mind and spirit.  

I imagine that it didn't take vigorous exercise for Aristotle's students to work up a sweat on a hot day.  They probably were glistening after the walks they took, during which they talked about ideas of one kind or another with the master.  Because of these walks, the Lyceum was also known as the Peripatetic (after perapos) School.

After visiting the Lyceum, I got back on the Metro for my next destination.  Here's a clue to it:

Yes, it has water around it.  I'll tell you more soon.

Can't Stop Thinking About Him

I took the day off from work yesterday.  I'm going in today and I hope to have time afterward for a ride (besides my regular commute), however short.  I think it's the best way to deal with my feelings about Max.

He's not the first cat I've lost.  But he has experienced so much with me.  To be more exact, he was a sweet, loving presence through both the joys and the trials of the past ten and a half years.  

Max was at the door when I came home from a couple thousand days of work, a few hundred bike rides, trips to see my parents in Florida, trips to see my friends in France and other trips to Italy and the Czech Republic--and to Colorado, for my surgery.  He was with me during some difficult times, when people who said they would "always be there" for me changed their minds, and when a beau revealed his true, abusive, colors--and nearly destroyed my life.   

Most important of all--at least to me--he was with me as I was re-defining myself as a person, and a cyclist.  He didn't care whether I raced or if a 150 kilometer ride took half an hour, then an hour, longer than it did when I was in my twenties, thirties or even early 40s.  He didn't even care when I had a "bad hair day": something that was never a concern of mine when I was younger.

I had long heard that orange cats were the friendliest.  Max certainly lived up to that.  He was all love, all the time.  And when he wasn't basking in someone's affection, he was doing the other thing he did best:

A friend of mine, Michiko, called him "The Zen Cat."  Now you know why.  Maybe I should remember his calm affection today, as I ride to work and, hopefully, somewhere--even if it's just a park near work--afterward.

Nine Years, Nine Lives--With Max

It's hard to believe that I was once nine years old.

It's also hard to believe that, not so long ago, really, nine years seemed like a geologic age.

Now it goes by in the blink of an eye.  Periods of five and ten years start to blend with each other.  I realized as much when I made an offhand remark that something looked "Soo '80's."  

The person to whom I made the remark corrected me:  "More like early '90's".  After thinking for a moment, he said, "The '80's, the '90's--at our age, the decades run together."

That I can think of nine years as, in essence, a decade, says something about my perception of time.  I think I've also reached a point where any amount of time more than fifteen years becomes twenty.

Anyway...today, the 9th marks nine years of a relationship--with someone who, proverbially, has nine lives.

I am talking about none other than Max.  

Whenever I come home from a bike ride, he circles my wheels and my feet.  I feed him and, as soon as he's sated, he climbs onto my lap, whether I'm drinking, eating, reading or just spacing out.  

It still amazes me that such a wonderful cat came my way--and I didn't pay, or really do, anything to get him. In an earlier post, I told the story of how he came into my life. Whatever I've spent on him--which, really, isn't much--has been a pittance.  After all, when he climbs and walks on me, I feel as relaxed as I do after a good massage.  And when I'm tired or feeling blue, I talk to him and feel as if I've had a nice therapy sessions.

In  brief, he's a stress-reliever.  Of course, I don't tell him that:  I don't want to reduce him to mere usefulness.  I simply love having him around, and I hope he's around for some more years.  He's fifteen now, according to the vet who examined him just before I took him in.  In the scheme of things, that might just be the blink of an eye.  But it is a relationship, it is a love--which is to say, it is a life.