I woke up pretty early this morning. I had trouble figuring out just how early because my laptop, tablet and my radio each reported different times and I had no recollection of which time zone either thought that it was in. I finally had the wherewithal to find my mobile telecommunications device, which, because it is connected to a cellular network knew both the time and its time zone. It was before 6:00 Mountain Daylight Time. I knew this because Knoxville’s WUOT was still playing music before Weekend Edition, which starts at 8EDT.
I stayed in bed for a while, fussing with computers (trying to get my music server in Knoxville to work properly–I finally prevailed), and writing a bit. I took a shower, because I could, and headed for the coffee shop that I frequented when I stayed here last.
I had a tasty breakfast sandwich and eavesdropped on undergraduates talking about their love angst while I wrote.
Next I was off to REI, where I bought a stuff sack and a travel towel to replace ones that had been misplaced, a small bike lock cable to replace one that I had damaged by its being drug on the ground, and a little container for lotion, because I like the other ones that I have. This was a highly successful mission.
My attempt to make my furnace work was decidedly less euphoric. I first looked for the instructions that I used to install it. No joy. I opened up the furnace and noted what the power cable looked like. Then I found that same wire at the auxiliary battery and it was missing a fuse. Score. I had found the problem. I guessed that a 10 amp fuse that I had on hand would be within acceptable parameters. I turned on the switch. No joy. And on it went. Several times I found something that I thought was surely the solution, only to have my hopes dashed. The voltage at the thermostat is 1.2 volts, about a tenth of the 12 volts or a quarter of the 5 volts that I would have expected. I took pictures of everything to send to the guy who ostensibly fixed it to see if something is somehow not plugged in right.
After spending over an hour not making my furnace work, though, I was not unhappy. It will not be that cold tonight, and even if it were to get cold, I still have a zero-rated sleeping bag.
In the work that I have been doing in anticipation of having people pay me to be a life coach, I have read that our fight-or-flight reflexes get triggered for all manner of situations that, in fact, pose no immediate danger. Somehow, this really helps. Almost the only time that I can remember being in an actual fight-or-flight situation was when my house was on fire, and even then, there was no reason to run. This simple realization has brought me considerable peace. So when I failed to make the furnace work, it was no cause for concern, alarm, wailing, or gnashing of teeth. I can send an email to the guy that sent me the parts, and move on. I will not freeze to death, even if I sleep in Walden in sub-freezing climes. I have no problems that warrant real concern.
Since I learned this technique, I have wanted to be in a situation in which I was anxious, scared, or angry, to really try it out. Sadly, I have experienced only happiness.
With my furnace reassembled, I asked the Google for a brewery and headed to Odell Brewing Company. I arrived there to learn that they are not open on Sunday. Still, not a problem; there are at least another six breweries in Fort Collins. Minutes later, I arrived at Pateros Creek Brewing Company and parked right in front of a bike store. I pulled the bike off the camper and took it in to fill the tires. I could now park somewhere suitable for staying the night and bike around town. Or bike to a car pars store as I had once in Colorado (of course then, I did almost die, sort of). Life is good.
I had a red ale and some pretzels while writing a bit, and decided to find some place that had beer and food. Man cannot live on beer alone, even with a small egg sandwich for breakfast. I headed to Equinox Brewing Company. I had quaffed the first glass in their standard flight before realizing that they do not serve anything that counts as food.
At Equinox I listened to two bartenders talking about how they could bring bags from home for customers to use to carry out t-shirts and other swag purchased on site. “I would totally be willing to do that,” said one. “Whenever I bring bags and leave them down under the register, they totally get used,” said the other. It was right out of Portlandia.
A couple at the bar recommended Choice City Butcher, a real live butcher shop with twenty taps of hard-to-find beer. There I ordered a pastrami Reuben and a Duchesse De Bourgogne, a Belgian brown ale aged in oak. The couple from Equinox joined me and bough me a beer.
With my belly full, I headed back to Funkwerks, the bar that I had closed down the night before. It was 7PM, and I was going to close it down again (at 8PM). There I had a conversation with a man about my age about his son’s college plans.
Next I talked to the beautiful redheaded bartender about the pros and cons of working in rehab counseling or a really cool brewery. The issue was further complicated because working rehab counseling allowed her loans to be forgiven. It would be one thing to throw away an education, another to throw away a load of cash.
I helped put chairs upside down on the tables, bid her farewell, and walked out to the parking lot where I retired to Walden. As I tucked myself in to my soft sheets, I giggled about just how great it is to live in a camper.