Skip to main content

On the Fly–Taking Flight

In this special 500th episode, On the Fly is moving to a new home.

Here’s why—and what’s staying the same.

For a very long time (since April 2012), On the Fly has lived on Blogger.

Blogger has been a reliable host—dependable, quiet, and never complaining when I arrived late with another half-baked idea, a guitar riff, or a story that needed a little air. It faithfully archived my thoughts, my music, and more than a decade of curiosity.


But the internet has changed.

It’s louder now. Flashier. More insistent. Every thought is nudged to perform. Every sentence wants to be optimized, monetized, or interrupted by something that really wants your attention right this second.

I’ve been craving the opposite.

So today, On the Fly is moving to Substack.

If you’ve been with me for a while, you know my quiet obsession: the Art of Seeing. I’m interested in the moments we rush past—the Aversion Trap, the discipline hidden inside a guitarist’s daily practice, the small revelations that appear when you wander Paris without a plan.

As a writer, a lifelong cyclist, and an amateur astronomer, I’ve learned something simple yet stubborn: The best views don’t show up when you’re in a hurry. They show up when you pause.

Why the move?

I wanted a home that feels less like a cluttered website and more like a conversation. A place where the words and the music can breathe.

Here’s what that looks like:

  • No ads. No noise. Just the story, the song, and the space between them.
  • Direct delivery. New episodes and essays arrive in your inbox—no refreshing, no algorithms pretending to know you better than you know yourself.
  • An actual listening experience. You can now listen to all 480+ archived episodes in the Substack app (once moved), which pairs well with walking, riding, or staring thoughtfully out a window.

What’s staying the same?

Pretty much everything that matters.

The Friday Morning Pause isn’t going anywhere. My curiosity about heritage, creativity, baseball, and the odd poetry of everyday life remains fully intact. I’m still Patrick. Still asking questions–and I’m still occasionally surprised by the answers.

I’m also bringing the entire On the Fly archive with me, so feel free to wander. There’s a lot back there—some of it still holding up surprisingly well.

To longtime readers: thank you for crossing the digital border with me. To those just joining: I’m glad you’re here.

Let’s look up from our screens now and then and see what we can discover— On the Fly.

Stay curious. Ask questions. I’ll see you in the next episode.

— Patrick

SUBSCRIBE TO ON THE FLY

Join 495+ episodes on our new home.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

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...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

The Endless Work of Wisdom

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...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

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...