Gasoline has a best-before date

I often feel like my posts ought to be some kind of insightful metaphor that parallels motorcycles with fatherhood or life events. In this post, there is no metaphor. I’m just sharing something I’ve learned.

Gasoline has a best-before date.

I've been scratching my head over what I perceive to be the stubbornness of my motorcycle, and the reason (or reasons!) it will not start.

I was recently asked how long the gasoline had been sitting in the gas tank. I did some calculations in my head, carried the 1, and came up with “October 2010”.

That may well be past the gasoline’s best-before date. According to the interwebs, gasoline does degrade over time although some sources admit that it is difficult to determine exactly how much time it takes.

What is the easiest way to tell? Gas gets darker over time. Do a quick visual comparison between the old gas and new gas. New gas should be a pale yellow. Mine was darker, like apple juice.

Convinced that fresh gasoline would solve all my motorcycle’s ills, I emptied out the gas tank, put in new gasoline and gave the ignition another jolt.

Nothing.

Well, it may not have solved the problem, but I learned something new and now I’ve shared it with you.

Just spreading the motorcycle maintenance love.

Weed whackers and the Piracha vocabulary

Whenever I try to talk about the weed whacker we just bought, it comes out as "whipper snapper". That's my father's doing. That's how he always referred to them when I was young. Granted, they were (or perhaps still are) sometimes referred to as whipper snippers. However, I have never heard anyone else refer to them that way.

Regardless, it was my father's way: re-purposing words or creating new ones. Another example: instead of asking for a sip of my drink, he'd ask for a swish. Mind you, it was never a sip. He'd drink half of the damned thing. Maybe that's why he never used the word "sip".

Whipper snapper.

It was charming when he said it.

I, on the other hand, just sound like a blubbering idiot.

How to survive a Pandora's Box of sharks with lasers

Shark with a laser beam. 
Picture: Wicked Lasers / Rex Features 

Pandora’s Box is a complex myth. For this post, I’m going to reduce it down to this: opening a Pandora’s Box is bad. And scary. And chaotic. It is more than we can handle. It’s like opening a can of worms, but instead of worms, there are sharks with lasers. I feel pretty confident that this overly simplistic explanation probably captures the layman’s understanding of Pandora’s Box. If not, well, now you understand how I’m going to use the concept.

Moving on.

It feels like I’ve been opening a number of Pandora’s boxes lately. Trying to replace a ceiling light in the kitchen has revealed that what should have been a simple and easy change in lighting is going to involve significantly more work. So much so that I may have to call in a bit of help from one or two people.

The same issue presents itself in my garage. Every component on my motorcycle that I fix reveals something else that is due for repair or replacement.

These troublesome, unexpected situations most often reveal themselves to me as physical, tangible, and overwhelming challenges, at least from the point of view of someone who is an amateur problem-solving almost-handyman. However, these challenges are not restricting themselves to only the physical realm. They also manifest themselves in the mental, intangible realm. For example, I opened a Pandora’s Box when I asked the question: do I really want to do a Master’s degree?

The question unleashed an onslaught of unanswerable questions that add doubt and insecurity into my life. I’m known for being a chronic navel gazer and this over-analysis of my life can be paralyzing and counter-productive. At the same time, it is occasionally worthwhile to revisit the path I’ve chosen to see if it still feels relevant and appropriate.

So, while Pandora’s boxes can be inconvenient and at times overwhelming, they also present opportunities. The complications that come with renovating the house and repairing my motorcycle are honing my problem solving abilities and my manual competence. (They are also expanding my collection of tools—of which, I won’t lie, I am becoming increasingly proud.)

The mental challenges that come with troubleshooting my motorcycle’s electrical system, or reassessing my academic path, are keeping my mind sharp for those moments when I have to deal with challenges that are not of my choosing.

I try to look at life as a continuous exercise in self-improvement and discovery. So long as I can keep that perspective, then the so-called Pandora’s Box is not something to be feared or avoided. It is something that can help me grow.

So long as it’s not a box of sharks with lasers.

Knowing when to say when

I’ve been struggling lately with what to do about my Kawasaki KZ650. It isn’t running and I don’t know why. I’ve looked into a couple of potential causes, but haven’t yet figured it out. It doesn’t seem to be electrical — I’m still getting a spark from the spark plugs. I managed (with some help from YouTube, discussion forums and a friend) to remove, disassemble, clean, reassemble and reattach my carburetor.

This is where you applaud and I take a bow. Unfortunately, a clean carburetor doesn’t seem to resolve the problem either.

A few friends have been pressuring me to dump the bike, move on and buy something more reliable: something that was built in this millennium, for example. I am reluctant.

A trusted friend threw a question at me that left me feeling a tad sheepish: “What is your challenge threshold?” At first, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what she meant. I then realized that I hadn’t identified an exit strategy for the bike. I never identified at what point I would call it quits with my Kawasaki.

Ironic, considering the title of this blog.

Part of the allure of having an older bike is that I will be constantly challenged. Inevitably, each and every piece of that bike will need to be replaced or repaired, forcing me to learn how to do just about everything to my bike. And that challenge excites me. I want to see how far I can push myself. I want to feel the intimidation of tackling something that is beyond my level of competence.

I feel this every bit as strongly as I feel the need to climb onto the bike, start it up, pull out of the driveway and cut through the wind.

That said, there are practical limitations. I am not made of money. I need to be realistic about how much it is going to cost me to not only get this bike running again, but get it running and looking the way I want it to. However, I have never set a budget.

Also, I do not have an unlimited amount of time to spend on the bike. In fact, I barely have any time to spend on the bike. Our priority this summer is to focus on home renovations and I’ll likely be back to school in the fall to start my Masters program.

The questions I need to ask myself are simple: How much money is too much money and how much time is too much time?

The answers to those questions will provide my exit strategy for the Kawasaki. They set both expectations and restrictions. An exit strategy also has the added benefit that if I do indeed need to dump the Kawasaki, it will not leave me feeling like a quitter, or like I couldn’t meet the challenge.

An Ode to Theodore

I remember a world that was upside down.

Walking on ceilings instead of the ground.

Our clothes were right silly,

We wore striped mismatched socks.

Our genders were flipped,

Girls in suits, men in frocks.

Our thoughts nonsensical, our reasoning obtuse.

Oh, where have you gone, our beloved Dr. Seuss?

Bracing for impact - a fumbled football experience

When I was about nineteen, I was just starting my third season as a football coach. My first two years were spent coaching eight to twelve year olds and in my third year of coaching I made the jump to fifteen and sixteen year olds.

I was a bit nervous to join a group of coaches who had already been coaching together for a number of years.  I was the new guy, even though I was coaching with the same football club.

It didn't take long before I started having disagreements with one of the other coaches. Suffice it to say, I had ethical issues with his coaching philosophy. Dealing directly with him on the issue was not working. The head coach was not interested in my point of view. And an appeal to the president of the football club provided no results. I felt I had no choice: I quit in protest, on principle.

A few weeks later, I happened upon the parents of one of my former players at the supermarket. They berated me, right there, in the checkout line. They told me that their son, who I had enjoyed coaching at the younger level, and who was now playing at the higher level, was only continuing to play because I was there. He didn't like the other coaches, but felt that I provided some kind of safe space for him. When I quit, so did he.

Ouf. That was difficult to hear. He was such a dedicated player. He always worked hard, he never complained, and his talent grew each year that I worked with him. His parents understood why I quit, but they felt that my actions, in the end, did nothing to help their son.

I've been thinking about this experience lately. I've been thinking about it in the context of my need to feel like I'm having a positive impact on others.

Recalling this experience reminds me that it's great to have principles, but they can carry a cost. There should be a distinction between having my principles guide my actions versus dictate my actions. In other words, my principles shouldn’t default to quitting when the conditions don’t agree with me. Granted, everyone has a threshold for compromise. In retrospect, I think I had set my threshold much too low.

I don’t know if that player was better off having left football and perhaps it was an inevitable outcome. Maybe quitting was the right decision for him. I’ll never know, but that’s not really the point. I think it is unreasonable to assume that I am solely responsible for him quitting and there is little point in laying blame.

However, if I had known that my presence was having an impact, that may have deterred me from quitting and motivated me to advocate more forcefully on behalf of the players. My point is that I wasn’t aware of the impact of my presence on the field. I was not and am not aware of any lasting impact that I may or may not have had on any of those kids.

If it is important to me that I have impact, and I am willing to accept that any impact will more than likely be unknown to me, then the possibility that I can have an impact must be more important to me than the uncertainty that may come with whether or not I am successful. It requires that, in the absence of evidence, I have faith.

I think I can live with that.

What's in a name?

For me, probably more than you realize.

There are many ways to pronounce the name Tariq and I’ve been called just about all of them. I’m particularly sensitive about the pronunciation of my name, but it has only been recently that I began to understand why.

A few years ago, I tried to help my colleagues by posting a page just outside my office that explained the pronunciation of my name. It was partly just to be cheeky and fun, but I really wanted to make a point.

It looked something like this:

Proper pronunciation of Tariq

The first syllable “Tar” is pronounced like this:
car, tarmac, tartar, tarantula, tardy, target.

The second syllable “iq” (like Rick, tick, sick, chick.)

Despite posting this outside my cubicle and drawing people’s attention to it, there were a few people who never got it right. Instead, they continued to refer to me as “Tear-rick” or “Tah-reek”.

I will gladly concede that pronunciation of some words is difficult for people who speak other languages and are not used to making these kinds of sounds. For example, it seems to be particularly difficult for some Francophones to pronounce my name properly. I can live with that.

Granting that some people will undoubtedly have difficulty in pronouncing certain words, names or combinations of syllables, I think my experience is related more to effort, mindfulness and respect than it is to the supposed difficulty of my name. In other words, if you’re not pronouncing it right after being corrected, it is because it doesn’t matter to you.

It matters to me.

What’s worse is that once I’ve corrected people on how to pronounce it properly, some people will occasionally mispronounce it on purpose in an attempt to be funny. It’s not funny. What was unfortunate is that I could never articulate why it isn’t funny.

Today, I think I can.

I am half-Pakistani. If you didn’t know that, you also wouldn’t know it by looking at me. I look Caucasian. I could be easily mistaken for being Spanish, or Italian, or Greek. I have some natural tan to my skin, but nothing to the extent that would lead anyone to believe I have Pakistani blood. In fact, there is little that would identify me as half-Pakistani. I don’t speak Urdu. I am not Muslim. I was born and raised in Canada as a Roman Catholic and I have a Canadian accent. So, how would anyone know?

My name, that’s how.

I have few connections to my Pakistani side. My father passed away in 2006, so I feel like my connection is weaker still. Except for my name. It is the one visible identifier I have that connects me to him. For that reason, I will admit, I can sometimes act like Gollum, protecting my name as something precious.

When someone mispronounces my name out of laziness, they are, in effect, dismissing who I am. When someone makes light of the mispronunciation of my name, they are, in effect, dismissing who I am.

I am hoping that by sharing why it is important to me, perhaps people will empathize and respect it for that reason. But at the same time, people shouldn’t need to know the reason.

I have been told by people close to me that I am being too sensitive. That if I simply didn’t bring it up, then people wouldn’t poke fun, or that I’m taking it too personally. In effect, I should shut up about it, and grin and bear it.

I came across this website that describes the concept of microaggression. While it is a concept that is often used to describe racial discrimination, it really describes something much larger about the dismissiveness and marginalization that comes from these forms of microaggression. I recommend you take a quick look at how it is defined and the kinds of impacts it can have on others.

I am not trying to blow the discrimination horn here. Instead I’m trying to bring light to what I think is more troubling for my situation: the notion that I shouldn’t be bringing this up; that I shouldn’t be making a fuss.

I accept that some people choose not to care. I accept that some people may shrug this all off as unimportant. That does not mean that I should not care. One person’s lived experience, as a good friend of mine argues, should never prescribe behaviours or strategies for others. With that in mind, I’m not requiring that everyone care. But I am asserting that it matters to me.

Here’s a wake-up call: North America accounts for slightly more than five per cent of the world’s population and is declining relative to the rest of the world. If you think my name is difficult, that other 95% of the world doesn’t likely have names like Jack and Jill. And it’s not like I find non-Western names easy to pronounce. When I taught English in China, I found my student’s names to be particularly difficult to pronounce correctly.

But I always tried to be mindful of it, and make the effort.

And that’s really all I’m asking for. I’m not calling out any particular individuals. I’m not asking people to tiptoe around me. I’m not asking that you get my name exactly correct the first time, or all the time. I recognize that some people I know have another friend named Tariq who pronounces it differently. It’s natural that there will sometimes be a mix-up. I don’t want anyone to feel like they are in danger of offending me at any given moment. I don’t even need an apology if someone mispronounces my name. If you don't know how, just ask.

I’m just asking that people be mindful and make an effort.

Tar like car. iq like Rick.

Tariq.

It really is that simple.