Biscuit was active

This is our dog, Biscuit. She never bites, rarely barks, never steals food and rarely makes a mess. She’ll do a dozen different tricks if you pay her in treats. She only has one vice—she loves to chase critters. Rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks--if it has fur and it scurries around, it’s prey. Whatever breeds she comes from, there must be a healthy dose of hunting-dog DNA in her. Not only does she have the desire, she’s got some hunting skill to go with it, which is why one corner of our yard is now a rabbit cemetery. There’s no getting her attention once she has caught the sight or smell of some critter. As such, we only trust her indoors, on a leash, or in our fenced-in yard.

Now I’m an obsessive dog owner and an early adopter, so a while back I bought her a GPS dog tracker. You clip this to her collar and it updates her location now and then via smartphone app, generating a notification if she has left some pre-defined safe zones. It has a cell phone plan so that it can communicate from almost anywhere. Plus it has activity tracking like a fitness band if you want to obsess over how many calories your pup is burning. We had her wearing this for a while but it’s a bit bulky and needs recharging every few days so we stopped putting it on her.

Earlier this summer I was driving home from a meeting and my wife called in a panic. Biscuit had escaped from the back yard. She frantically searched the neighborhood for an hour or so while I helplessly sat in traffic trying to get home. We live on a cul-de-sac but it’s just off of a fairly busy road that would be very dangerous. Eventually my wife spotted her at the neighbor’s house and grabbed her, to our great relief.

That close call prompted some corrective actions: First I inspected the backyard fence and found a pretty big gap in an area of known rodent activity. No doubt Biscuit saw a critter scurry under the fence and pushed her way through. I patched over the gap and any others I could find with plastic mesh. And secondly, from now on she’s going to wear that GPS tracker!

This false sense of security lasted about three weeks until one Saturday morning when my wife generously offered to take Biscuit out and let me sleep in. She escaped again! But, this time we had GPS tracking. We both activated our apps and set out into the neighborhood.

Pretty quickly we realized that getting our pup back was still going to be a challenge, real-time location tracking or not. The app has a “track” button that will change the refresh rate to once per minute or so. But Biscuit can cover a lot of ground in a minute, and she can go a lot of places that we can’t go. Strictly speaking we shouldn’t be trespassing on people’s property, for one thing. But worse than that, we live in a woodsy area with thick underbrush, poison ivy and a creek snaking around behind houses. She has no problem traversing all of this terrain. Once I caught a glimpse of her happily crisscrossing the stream. The same dog who gives you the look as if she’s being tortured when you gently wet her down in the shower…

Our plan was to station ourselves with treats and a leash on the street at a couple places where she might come out of the woods. I grabbed a bike—my wife’s was the only one with air in the tires so it wasn’t the ideal size—to try to cover more ground. We shared GPS locations with each other. Not on the same app, unfortunately.  

Biscuit’s plan was apparently to zigzag randomly across three cul-de-sacs in pursuit of critters and completely ignore our calls. A couple times we got close enough to spot her, but couldn’t get her attention.

Once I saw a location update pretty close to the house so I ventured into the woods out of our backyard, onto some conservation land. After 15 minutes of slogging through branches and mud, I was dirty, sweaty and bruised, and Biscuit was on the other side of the neighborhood already. I gave up and returned home dejectedly.

At some point we had Biscuit localized behind a couple of houses and one of our neighbors that we know was coming out. We asked him if he had seen her. He hadn’t. We asked if we could go into his yard to look for her and he consented. By way of explanation, I told him, “We have a GPS tracker on her so I know she’s back there.” “A GPS tracker on a dog?! Huh!” was his reply. Not really in the mood to reflect on these amazing times we live in, we continued our search.

An hour and forty minutes after the escape, the GPS location stopped updating. It gave the message “we’re having trouble communicating” with a spinning wheel icon. Searching the neighborhood was already starting to seem like a lost cause. Without location updates, there seemed no point to do anything but go home and wait for her to return or for someone to find her and call the number on her tag.  We felt helpless and defeated. We sat and hit refresh. We restarted the app. We called customer support but they couldn’t do anything. We imagined the worst.

I did manage to get some coffee in me and it cleared my head a bit. What if she got stuck at the last reported location? Perhaps a long shot but if she was moving around, she would have eventually gotten out of the pocket of bad cell coverage. (AT&T was called some unpleasant names, at some point). I drove down to the next cul-de-sac and found the nearest house to that location. I rang the doorbell and the dad of the house came out to meet me with a puzzled look. After my explanation, he led me through the house and to the back of their fenced in yard to a gate.

“It’s all poison ivy back there.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll take my chances.”

I walk through the gate and I see Biscuit, sniffing around, without her collar. I approach her slowly, call her (Biscuit: shrug), and eventually hold out a treat for her and hug her tight.  I carry her back to the neighbor’s house. She’s hot, tired and filthy, but unhurt. I call my wife. I bring her home. Water and showers all around. Biscuit stares blankly at the wall during a warm-hearted scolding. We’re all safe.

Lying in bed later I try to process the whole sequence of events. How had she escaped? (Ans: another gap under the fence, genius.) How did she lose her collar? Why had the collar lost signal? It occurred to me that losing signal and losing the collar might be related. In which case, the collar would still be at the last reported location. The location was on conservation land, so I didn’t need anyone’s permission to go look for it. Thus I resolved to stage a recovery mission the next morning.

Again I set out clambering through the woods, trying to stay reasonably dry and free of poison ivy and mosquito bites. I approached the last known location and recognized the neighbor’s backyard that I had cut through. There was a big rock there and some dead branches. I expected to find the collar snagged on a branch but nothing red caught my eye. After circling the perimeter of the region on the map, I circled back to find the exact center point. Then I spotted a hole under a pile of rocks, with freshly dug dirt leading to a den. A fox hole? A coyote den? Home for a groundhog or raccoon?  We’ve seen all of these around the neighborhood. I shone my phone flashlight into the hole to look for the collar but didn’t see anything. I thought about reaching my hand in to fish around for it, but thought better of it, given the risk of a coyote bite. At any rate, I think the circumstantial evidence is clear enough. Biscuit wriggled her way into this fox hole as far as she could, then backed out, leaving the collar behind with a few feet of solid granite in the path of the satellite signal.

Here’s the track of Biscuit’s adventures. New personal best!

I can’t figure out what lesson to take from this story. I was glad we had the GPS tracker on her, but knowing her location was pointless without a way to catch her. Then when it went dead, we probably felt worse than we would have if she wasn’t wearing it. We spent good money on this gadget and the one time we need it to work, it fails! Then the technology was redeemed when we found Biscuit close to the last location. But wait a sec, that GPS tracker is pretty bulky. It’s probably what got snagged inside the foxhole. If not for that, maybe she wouldn’t have lost her collar with our phone numbers on it. So that’s my 3-star review, I guess.

Watching the Tour de France in Person

One of the main goals of this vacation was to watch the Tour de France in person as they rode through nearby St. Malo, Avranches, le Mont St. Michel and Laval. I've been watching the Tour quite a bit the past few years and I wanted to see what it would be like to witness the action up close. Although there's no doubt that the grand tours of bike racing can only be appreciated on TV, huge crowds still line the roads all over France to catch a glimpse of the riders streaming by at 40+ km/hr. It's a unique atmosphere, unlike any other sporting event that I know of.

We started off in the direction of le Mont St. Michel on the day of stage 10, which finished in St. Malo. Although the time trial would finish in Mont St. Michel the next day, we wanted to visit that famous town and judged (correctly) that it would be impossible to get close on the day of the stage. Part of our drive was on the time trial route. Many RVs were already parked on the route, staking out prime locations. Making our way to St. Malo on the main roads was relatively easy. At least in this case, the tour organizers chose roads other than the main thoroughfare for the race route, probably so as not to create a traffic jam for spectators and unwitting visitors and residents. As we approached the town there were signs for TDF parking, which we followed into a large lot. Parking was free, as was a shuttle into town, which dropped us off very near the finish line.  (I ask you if you can name a major world sporting event that offers free parking!)

As we arrived at the finish line about 2 hours before the riders would, the "caravan" was already passing by. Preceding the riders on every tour stage is a promotional parade with music and announcements blaring from cars and spirited promoters throwing out free gifts to the crowd: snacks, hats, foam fingers, etc. On a later stop to see the Tour ride through Laval, it looked as if some families with young kids had come to see the caravan but left before the bike riders. Lots of fans were already staking out positions near the finish line. We weren't that diligent, so we stopped into a cafe in the walled old city of St. Malo for a beer, and watched the stage on TV. 

We made our way towards the finish line when the riders were about an hour from the finish, or about 45km. The riders approached from the North, along the coastal road that leads into St. Malo, flanked on the ocean side by a stone wall and on the shore side by houses and hotels. We walked down on the ocean side until we found a spot with a clear view of the road, about 700m from the finish. The caravan was still coming through, so we tried our luck at catching some free stuff, with modest results. Keeping the crowd involved was an announcer on a PA system, who managed to keep up a stirring commentary for the entire hour. I couldn't pick up much of what he said, but he seemed to be alternating between a play-by-play of what was happening in the bike race, some history of the tour, and other topics that I couldn't make out. There was a lot of scene-setting considering we were already there..."En le cite Corsaire, en Bretagne, dans le soleil, sous le ciel bleu..." After the caravan ran its course there were VIP cars, leading team cars, gendarmes, race officials, etc. The tour may bring along more automobiles than bicycles. I managed to track the progress of the riders with the Cycling News Tour Tracker iPhone app, and by catching a few words from the announcer here and there. As the riders approached the town, more heads appeared in the windows of the houses and hotels across the street.

Finally, after hours of buildup, the "coureurs" appeared, to cheers from the crowd, accompanied by the TV helicopter. And yes, it was all over in a few seconds for the most part. I could make out the jerseys of the lead couple of riders, and the rest of the peloton was a blur. Yellow jersey wearer Chris Froome must have been in there somewhere, but I didn't see him.  A few seconds later the announcer kept repeating the name of German sprinter Andre Greipel, leading me to believe that he had won the stage, but in fact it was fellow countryman Marcel Kittel, as we found out later. After the peloton came through there were team cars, but also some straggling riders that had lost minutes on the stage. One strange sight is to see riders cycling back down the route in reverse, even while other riders were still out on the course. I suppose this was the easiest way for them to get back to their team bus or hotel. 

That was a fairly long day, so we skipped the time trial in Mont St. Michel, opting instead to go for a slightly slower and shorter bike ride of our own. For stage 12 we had an opportunity to see the riders race through the town of Laval, only about 50 minutes from our home base. Not being a stage finish, this was much more relaxed and less crowded, but the streets near the center of Laval were still mostly lined with spectators. The sidewalk cafes along the route were the prime locations--no table for us. There was a small collection of exhibits and sample tables set up by tour sponsor Carrefour in the town square. This time the riders were more spread out than for the sprint finish. The five-rider breakaway came through first, then a seemingly huge time gap (which the peloton would inevitably reel in in due time), then the main field. This time the peloton was at most 2 or 3 riders wide, so it was possible to pick out individuals, if you knew what to look for. One "domestique" was stuffing his jersey full of about 8 water bottles to serve to his teammates. 

In case you want to try to do this, here are a few tips based on my admittedly limited experience.

- A few days before the stage, the official town website may post information about road closings. Probably only in French, of course. It seems as though they stay off of the main highways, so if you can't find that info, I would just use the biggest roads you can to approach. 

- if you have a smartphone, get the Cycling News tour tracker app. (This advice may quickly become obsolete, of course.) This app shows the detailed routes of each stage, and plots the positions of groups of riders in real time. Updating was sometimes unreliable for me, but this might have been the data connection.

- I wouldn't try to take a picture or video of the riders. This experience is only going to last a few seconds, so you don't want to spend it looking at a screen. 

- As with any free spectator sport, the longer you're willing to stake out a spot, the better it will be. Folding chairs and a picnic lunch would be a pretty stylish way to go.

- The prime locations in Laval were on the outside of turns, where the riders would be slowing down, and you might get a good view coming and going.

- if I had it to do again, I might try booking a hotel in the finishing town. It was too daunting to try to get into the old town of St. Malo after the stage, considering the 2 hour drive still ahead.

Crevé!

This vacation was my first experience driving in continental Europe. For the most part I enjoyed driving "Giulietta", my rented midsize Alfa Romeo. But on the first day of the trip, trying to reach our family home in Normandy, we had a bit of trouble.

After a long day of driving, we were within 15 minutes of St. Fraimbault, approaching the town of Ambrieres-les-Vallees. The roads in France frequently transition from four-lane divided highways to barely two lanes winding between buildings that predate the automobile. As the road enters the town, it narrows quickly. Just then, an 18-wheeler turned a corner ahead and came barreling up the hill in my direction. Afraid to pull in too close, I left the car too far to the right and my right front tire hit the curb at the spot where the road narrowed. I felt the tire instantly give out. Luckily there was a convenient place to pull over. We put the temporary tire on and were soon on our way to St. Fraimbault, with no real harm done but with the driver's anxiety level a bit elevated.

The next day presented the challenge of getting a tire replaced in a country where things often work a little differently, without wasting a day of vacation. I dropped my friends off in the picturesque medieval city of Bagnoles and drove to the outskirts of town to a tire shop.

I fully expected this to be a test of my French skills, as I wouldn't expect an auto mechanic to speak English. Luckily, I had been preparing for this moment my whole life. Since my youth, my family has played "Mille Bornes", a French card game based on the theme of a 1000-km road trip. Some cards carry mileages that you can play on yourself to make progress towards the finish line. Other cards can be played defensively on other players to impede their progress, including "panne d'essence" (out of gas), "accident", "limite de vitesse" (speed limit) and, crucially, "crevé" (flat tire).  We brought this game over to the house in France and have been playing recently. So I was prepared as I approached the mechanic.

 "J'ai un crevé," I said.

He motioned to me to show him the tire.  He took a quick look and frowned.

"Le pneu est morte," he said. (The tire is dead.)

That was one of the few things the mechanic said that I understood. He was a twitchy fellow that muttered to himself as he worked. He walked to the back of his shop to where the tires were stored. I think he started with the new tires. Proceeding to his collection of used tires, he pointed to one and I understood that it was the same tire as the newly deceased. He told me to come back in a couple hours and it would be ready. This would give me enough time for a leisurely lunch in Bagnoles with my friends--the best possible scenario. I handed him the keys to the car. He gave me a puzzled look and said something that I didn't understand a word of. At that point it finally dawned on me that he had the wheel and didn't need the car. He probably thought I was a fairly dense Englishman with poor driving skills.

Returning from lunch, the tire was ready to mount. After a brief and ineffective discussion about who was going to mount the tire, it became clear that he wasn't particularly interested in doing that, so I put my pit crew to work again.  Luckily this was the last defensive card played on me for the trip.

Paris

I'm finishing up a week of vacation in Paris. I don't know what I can say about Paris that hasn't been said more eloquently by someone else, but I love this city. Every time I visit, I appreciate it a little more.

I don't know why this matters to me, but I like to blend in with the locals as much as possible (without actually purchasing a striped shirt and a beret.) So I'm secretly delighted when someone asks me for the time and dismayed when someone starts speaking to me in English before I even open my mouth to butcher some French. I get a little of both.

Sometimes I'm just out of sync with Paris no matter how hard I try.  A few nights ago I went out with my brother and some friends for dinner around 8. We went to a little square very near my apartment here in the Marais that has about 6 sidewalk cafes.  It was a gorgeous June evening and all of the tables outside were already taken. I asked one of the waiters for a table. I didn't understand his answer but his body language said "sorry, can't help you." But I saw their tables inside were completely empty so I asked about "a l'interieur". That hadn't occurred to him but he was happy to let us have an indoor table, so we sat down there right away. The next night, another perfect one, we showed up at 7:30 to another local restaurant with the place almost empty and asked for a table. The hostess asked if I had a reservation. When I said no, she shook her head and sighed, "well, ok, but you'll have to sit outside".  So we were too late to get a table outside, then too early to get a table inside. Or something like that.

They probably stopped for coffee as well.

I haven't been traveling much lately so this blog has gone silent but I found something that belongs here.

While cleaning out my storage closet I found a journal that I wrote during a family trip through Scandinavia in August, 1988. It's not that different from this blog--very terse explanations of our adventures interspersed with attempts at humor.

"Yesterday we took a train into town and saw the ruins under Christianborg Palace, went on a boat tour, saw the present Christianborg palace, walked through Stroget shopping mall, climbed the steeple of a church, and went to Tivoli Gardens."

I guess I thought that day in Copenhagen was so interesting that it warranted its very own run-on sentence. On the other hand, sometimes I will take a whole paragraph to describe a mini-golf course.

My favorite entry is on the left. It says a lot about my childhood, specifically that it was pretty great. It also contains a reference to the title of this blog.

Get back

My 2 months have come to an end. I'm heading back home tomorrow night, with a brief stop in Santa Barbara to visit my brother. Other people keep telling me "I can't believe it's been two months already." But to me it's been a long two months...and that's a very good thing. Months passing by like a blur is not what I want. I think time slows down when you travel, or just experience a bunch of new things, and that's what it's been like for me. So mission accomplished. 1/3 lb actual-beef hamburgers and live NBA playoffs in HD, absence has made the heart grow fonder. See you soon.

Stick around on the blog, by the way. I have a few more posts in me, once I get home and settle in. I went to Hong Kong last weekend which was a blast, and there are some more Taiwanese things that I still want to write about.

Tomatohead at work

I'm the one on the left.