Acclimation

As a kid living in Madison, Wisconsin, I was naturally a Green Bay Packers fan. During neighborhood football games, I dreamed of someday replacing Bart Starr as the Packers quarterback, but that was a short-lived dream.
I wanted to play football. "You're too scrawny," said Coach Scents, the junior high coach. "You should go out for track."
"You're too small," said coach Clement in high school. "You should try wrestling. You'd do well in the light weights." Admittedly, I was small, but light weights? I lost interest in football, redirecting my enthusiasm to motorcycles, a passion still with me today.
In 1983, I rode my motorcycle to Colorado with my dog Harry. We were camping near the Continental Divide, on the Guanella Pass, outside Georgetown. I carried a tent with me but preferred sleeping in the open air; the stars in the mountains are spectacular! Campers in the Rockies had to park a minimum distance from the road, so I rode my bike a little into the open area and camped on the ground next to my bike. Even summer nights are cold in the mountains; having the right camping gear was necessary.
I had a zero-degree sleeping bag and a mat and blanket for my dog. I unrolled my bag and laid out Harry's bedding. The wind was calm, so I hung my jacket on the mirror, then took off my shoes and slid them under my motorcycle. I crawled into my sleeping bag, and Harry laid on his mat. I covered him with his blanket, then slid down into my sleeping bag and pulled the drawstring until there was about a two-inch opening left for air. With Harry curled up next to me, we both stayed warm.
Harry kept pushing closer and closer until, eventually, he was on top of me. By daybreak, I was having a hard time breathing with his weight on my chest. "Harry, what are you doing? Get off me," I complained while trying to nudge him to one side or the other, but Harry wasn't budging. I loosened the drawstring and pushed open the top of my sleeping bag; that's when the snow fell on my face. "This isn't good," I told my trusty canine.
There I was: at an elevation of almost twelve thousand feet, in the mountains, on a motorcycle with a dog, and five inches of fresh snow on the ground. "We're in a predicament here, son," I reported. It wasn't very cold, but it would be challenging to get down the mountainside in the snow.
I shook the snow from my sleeping bag, Harry's mat, and blanket and stuffed them into a saddlebag on my bike. With the mild temperature, the snow was already melting, and the outside of my coat on the mirror was I put on an extra flannel shirt, then my coat. I buckled my helmet chin strap, then pulled my gloves from my coat pocket. Fortunately, my gloves stayed dry inside my pockets. "Get on, Harry," I said, and he jumped into the backseat. "Here we go," I said.
The back tire spun slightly in the snow, but we got back to the road without much trouble. "It's all downhill from here," I joked with my dog, but Harry wasn't laughing.
I kept the pace nice and slow as we started down the mountain. Even though I tried to go slow, the heavy bike picked up speed. It was kind of scary, but what was really frightening was the first hairpin turn ahead of me.  
The bike was still gaining speed. If I applied more pressure to the brakes, the wheels locked up, and the bike continued to cut through the snow like a razor. I was probably only going fifteen or twenty miles per hour, but I had no control of the bike. As I approached the turn, it felt like I was going at least a hundred. I reached behind me and pushed Harry off the motorcycle. "By God, if I'm going over the mountain's edge, he doesn't need to go with me," I said.
When I pushed Harry, my movement caused the bike to wobble and fishtail. The back wheel locked, and I went down on my side. I envisioned myself going over the edge. When I came to a rest, I lay there for a moment, confused and unsure if I had gone over the edge. Harry ran up next to me. "What just happened," I asked as I got up. I looked at my bike lying on its side with a berm of snow in front of it. "It's like I wiped out in slow motion," I answered myself. "The motorcycle pushed snow like a plow until the bike stopped. That was a pretty neat trick," I said as I looked to heaven. I still had several more hairpin turns to negotiate.
I got on my knees and dug the snow out from under the bike with my hands, and then stood the motorcycle upright. "Let's go, Harry." We climbed back on the bike and started down the hill again.
I tried to keep the pace slow, but the bike still picked up speed against my will. If I got going faster than I was comfortable or approached a hairpin turn, I would call out, "Harry, get off," and he would jump off the bike without me pushing him. Then, I would turn the handlebars slightly while locking the rear brake and gently lay the bike down in the snow. It took a while, but we were finally out of the white stuff about halfway down the mountain. When we returned to Georgetown, I was grateful that the roads were dry and the sun was shining.
The roads were dry, but I was wet from being on my knees while digging the snow with my hands and laying on my side when putting the bike down; and when you're wet, you're cold. Harry and I rode to the gas station, and I used their men's room to change into dry clothes.
After changing clothes, the cashier grumbled something about the bathrooms being for customers only, so I bought a large cup of coffee and a sandwich. I took Harry's food and water bowls outside to the motorcycle, and we sat on the curb to eat breakfast. Although we still had a couple more days, after the morning's ordeal, Harry and I decided to head toward home.
Driving east on I-70, I turned the radio to News Radio 85, KOA. It was mid-morning Sunday, and all the talk on the radio was about the Denver Broncos. All the scuttlebutt was about some new snot-nosed Stanford University quarterback drafted by the Baltimore Colts but refused to play there. The quarterback wanted to be traded to a West Coast division team, and if Baltimore didn't trade him, he would accept the option of playing baseball for the New York Yankees. "And so today rookie quarterback, John Elway, will make his debut before Broncos fans in this first preseason game here at home in Mile High Stadium," the announcer reported. I had never been to a professional football game and thought it might be fun.
We made our way into the city and found the football stadium, and I got a single ticket. Fans were really intrigued seeing Harry on the motorcycle with me. Some friendly people tailgating in one of the parking lots, inviting me to park my bike in their space with them. They offered me a hamburger from their grill and a beer. (I declined the brew and opted for a Coke.) They really liked Harry, the dog riding on a motorcycle, and offered him a hamburger.
During the pre-game festivities, we played football in the parking lot. Every time I ran for the ball or chased another player, I found myself winded; it was hard to breathe. My new friends had no problems breathing. I thought something was wrong with me. "You're not used to the high altitude of Denver," one of the ladies told me. "It takes a few days to get acclimated," she said. It was the first time I'd become familiar with the term acclimated.
I huffed and puffed every time I exerted myself; I couldn't keep up with these guys, who were all older than me. Fortunately, it was getting close to game time.
Harry was accustomed to traveling with me. He would stay with the motorcycle while I went to the game, but I fastened his leash to the bike to ensure he didn't wander off. I placed his mat next to the bike and tucked his blanket under the seat, making a tent to be sure he had a shaded area. I filled his bowl with fresh water and then headed into the stadium.
I was breathing hard inside the stadium as I climbed the steep steps to find my seat. I was buzzing with excitement in the new environment, my first time ever being in the stands of an NFL game. The green field with white lines looked surreal, far more brilliant than I'd ever seen on a televised game. The colors, sounds, people, and vibrancy in the air all had me awestruck.
The people didn't pay much attention when the stadium announcer introduced the visiting team; they even booed some players. "And now, here's your Denver Broncos starting lineup!" The crowd came alive; everyone stood up, cheering as he called out the names, and players ran from the tunnel onto the field. "And, your new Denver Broncos, starting quarterback, number seven – John Elway!" The crow exploded. It sounded like deafening thunder as 75,000 fans stomped their feet on the metal stands. A few people booed the rookie over his controversial way of getting to a West Coast division team.
When the game was over, the Broncos defeated the Seattle Seahawks, and the crowd was ecstatic. I was one of them.
Back in the parking lot, Harry was off his leash playing with our new friends. "What did you think of the game," one lady asked me.
"Wow," I said. "I took the hook, line, and sinker. I am officially a Denver Broncos fan." Several guys patted me on the back, saying, 'Atta boy,' 'Welcome,' 'We're the best fans in the league.'
I looked at Harry. He always wore a red bandana around his neck, but one of the ladies bought him a Denver Broncos kerchief and tied it around his neck, too; how fitting. "I guess Harry is now a Broncos fan, too."
"See," the one lady said. "It didn't take you two very long to acclimate." We all shared a good laugh about that. But acclimation isn't always that quick.
Last December, I helped with a project in Florida for two weeks before Christmas. I acclimated to the beautiful weather almost instantly. After the holidays, Melissa returned to Florida with me for two months to continue helping with the work. January was also nice, but by February, the temperatures were getting a little too warm for me, and it was so humid!
A friend who relocated to Florida told me, "I got used to the heat pretty quickly, but you'll never get used to the humidity, and I've been here for seventeen years." I could believe that.
This year, I came to Texas for three weeks to help my sister with some work around her house. The weather has been pretty nice so far, with only a couple of hot days (Upper 80s). I would stop over and visit the crew next door, who were building a garage on the neighbor's lot. The workers were all Mexican, and a couple did not speak English, but that didn't stop us from communicating.
I spent a whole day cutting, gathering, stacking, and piling brush and yard waste to burn the following day. I texted my friend Bob Henricks: "I'm lighting the fire at 5:00 am. Would you like to bring a mug and join me for morning coffee?" It didn't take Bob long to respond: 'Wow! God's not even up at 5 am. I'll pass on that, but I will get in touch with you tomorrow morning.' I laughed out loud at his response. "See, this retirement business makes a guy soft," I told myself.
I sent Bob another text, "I would love to have you join me at 7, 8, or 9… Whatever works for you. The fire will still be burning." Then I set my alarm for 4:30 am.
I got up as soon as the alarm sounded. There would be no hitting snooze this morning; I was excited to get the fire lit on time. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and said my morning prayers. Then, I made a cup of coffee and stepped outside. It was pitch black!
"God, are you awake," I asked. "Did you forget to start the new day? Where is the dawn?" Not hearing a reply, I called again softly, "God, are you there?"
Finally, a voice from the dark sky replied, "I'm sleeping. What do you need?"
Apparently, I had acclimated to the 70-80° days. The warmer temperatures tricked my body into thinking it was summertime by northern Minnesota standards. The voice spoke again, "It's March, Tom. March is still winter. I'm not turning the light on until 6:30. Now go back to bed." 
Instead, I took my coffee and sat on the back deck; it was a good time for some prayer and meditation. "What now," the voice said.
"Oops, I was just saying some prayers," I explained.
"Okay," said the voice. You talk; I'll listen and get back to you a little later." I was good with that. At 6:00, dawn broke, and I lighted the fire.
The morning was mild, and as the flames blazed, it got sweltering, working near the fire. I remember that day Harry and I rode down the mountainside, cold and wet. "Boy, I sure could have used some of this warmth back then," I said.
The fire burned quicker than I anticipated. I had stacked several large piles of 12' bamboo shoots the day before. Wow! I thought pine popped a lot when burning. Every time I threw another load of bamboo on the fire, it sounded like I had tossed in a pack or two of Black Jack firecrackers. At 7:20, I texted Bob, "She's going down fast. Come see how the bamboo burns." Bob finally came over a little after 9, "Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty," I teased.
Bob helped me drag more branches from the tree line to throw on the fire. Then, I started raking and burning leaves. It was hot, dusty, and dirty work, but I enjoyed it and kept the fire going until after 7 pm.
At one point, I carried my leaf rake next door and handed it and my work gloves to a painter, and then I took his paint sprayer. Although he didn't speak English, he knew what I was getting at. "No, no, no," he said, taking his paint gun from my hand and returning my rake. Then he said something in Spanish, and the crew laughed, and others commented more. Although I did not understand a word they said, I knew they were having fun teasing me, and I laughed along with them. Another worker translated, "He said you're working too hard to take your rake and go away." We all shared a good laugh about that.
Pointing at the sweat on my brow, the foreman teased me, "You Minnesota boys haven't acclimated to our Texas weather. This isn't hot – this is a nice day for working." We all laughed about that and then returned to work.
The next morning brought a big change in the weather, with the temperature dropping to 45° at 8 am – a temperature I am well accustomed to. My Mexican friends were all bundled up in hoodies, wearing stocking caps and gloves. Naturally, I went next door wearing a flannel shirt with no hat or gloves. I gave a little tug on the foreman's black stocking hat in the driveway. "What is this," I asked.
"It's my hat to keep my head warm," the foreman said. "It's freezing out here."
"This isn't freezing," I laughed. "This is nice weather for working. It seems you Texas boys haven't acclimated to this lovely Minnesota weather." We shared a good laugh about that, and then I pointed to his stocking cap again, "By the way, that isn't a hat," I said, reaching inside my shirt. I pulled out my rabbit-fur-lined bomber cap with the big ear flaps like a magician would pull a rabbit from a top hat; I slapped it on, pointed to my head, and said, "THIS, my friend, is a hat!"
We all laughed a lot about that. The crew guys started making comments and laughing. I couldn't understand their Spanish, but I knew they were having fun teasing their boss, and I laughed along. The foreman looked at me and asked, "Haven't you got some raking to do?"
"Nope," I said. "I'm going to take down a tree in the front yard today," then went on my way.
Traveling around the country, it’s necessary to adjust to different climates, humidities, elevation changes, and such. But I've never needed to acclimate to the people – and language barriers have never interfered with communication.