On The Fly

In this episode, Morning Coffee–Update . . . Now, I’m not saying coffee is a biological necessity. I hear there are people who wake up naturally, fueled entirely by optimism, morning yoga, and the sheer thrill of being alive. I’ve never actually met one, but I assume they exist. As for me, at 4:30 a.m., my brain (with a caffeine boost) is a finely tuned analytical engine, ready to tackle the day. But, dear readers, I come before you today as a humbled man. I owe you an apology. Not one of those carefully worded "I'm sorry if anyone was offended" apologies. A real one. For years, I stood on my digital soapbox, defending the utilitarian brew button on my electric drip coffee maker. I praised convenience. I extolled efficiency. I dispensed coffee advice with confidence, despite knowing only slightly more about brewing than the average vending machine. I wasn't merely mistaken—I was enthusiastically, publicly mistaken. The revelation came last week. I was in Tucson, enjo...

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...

I n this episode, How I Found Equipoise on the Links I had a grand goal, a numerical quest, To shoot under seventy, passing the test! With my seventieth birthday just thirty days out, We headed to Carlsbad to conquer my doubt. Now, golf is a game full of grumbles and groans, Of muttering words in quite pitiful tones. You squeeze on the club till your knuckles turn white, You count up your score, and you freeze up in fright! But today on the course, I discovered new joys, I found that magnificent word: Equipoise ! It means that you’re balanced, composed, and un-rushed, The voices of panic completely are hushed. I threw out the math and the scorecard addition, And swapped out the stress for a simple tradition. I thought of Ben Hogan, who cleverly taught "Don't think of the score. The next shot matters far more." I didn't look back, I didn't look past, I simply stepped up, and I had a great blast. Seven nice pars and a birdie so sweet, Nine bogeys, one double (which ...

It always makes me smile. The moment people learn I've officially entered what I like to call the Great Un-Working (retirement), they almost immediately ask the same question: “So . . . What do you do now?" I think they're expecting me to say I'm restoring a vintage sports car, hiking the John Muir Trail, or finally becoming fluent in French.   Instead, I tell them: "I live life deliberately." That's usually the point when I get a polite nod, followed by the unmistakable look of someone wondering whether I've simply found a more sophisticated way to say, “I’m becoming a bum.” Apparently, "living deliberately" sounds suspiciously like unemployment, just better branding. The truth is, what living deliberately looks like for me right now is taking time to synthesize a lifetime of experiences into these weekly reflections. It's slowing down long enough to ask what those experiences have taught me, while keeping the door wide open to the poss...

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...