Last Saturday was area H4's Toastmaster International Speech contest, one that, because of a lot of other things going on, I really didn't have the time for. But this time I had a speech that the area governor said I should enter in the contest, so I did. I even had it memorized!
Since I had it memorized, more than any other speech I've given, it followed what I'd written, included below, extremely closely. While I really didn't want to come in first because of all that I currently have going on, I had hoped to do better than fourth. Now I suppose is the right time to tell you how I know I came in fourth. Like the recently concluded Winter Olympics, they gave out medals for First, Second, and Third. Since there were only four contestants, I know I came in fourth.
An interesting side bar, I was the third speaker. The first speaker spoke on scooters; the second speaker spoke on scooters and motorcycles; and I spoke on motorcycles.
The speech: (modified somewhat from an earlier posting)
Why do I do it? Why do I ride a motorcycle? Other than a way to get fabulous helmet hair, let me tell you why.
I first thought about riding a motorcycle when I was headed off to college and was looking for cheap transportation. When I rode behind my cousin on one, I suddenly remembered that I was going to school in Ohio and because of the cold weather wouldn’t have been able to ride it for most of the school year anyway. Whew. [Draw hand across brow.]
About 15 years ago I finally convinced myself that it really was the weather that had stopped me from getting one. My wife claimed that even thinking about getting one was just a mid-life crisis. While I always agreed [Shake head no.] with my wife, I was secretly hoping that it was more like a pre- mid-life crisis. Whatever it was, I got my license, bought a motorcycle, and started riding.
It didn’t take long to ride over all of the closer “good” riding roads and after getting stung by a rather large insect on a particularly hot day I became a perfect weather rider. The day had to be cool enough to allow me to keep my jacket completely zipped up but not too cold. After a few attempts to commute into San Francisco from Fremont on the I-880 corridor I realized that I really liked BART even if the weather was perfect. Let’s just say that riding during rush hour was a little too exciting.
I bought my current bike in 2005. Due to a host of reasons, I really didn’t ride it all that much before last year but for some reason, last year I decided to ride across country.
Since I had never truly ridden a long distance, I rode down to visit my daughter and son-in-law a couple times for practice, 400 miles each way. I noticed something that never occurred to me on my shorter rides: Riding for a long time with no phone, radio, or iPod, only allowed thinking. [Circle finger at head in "crazy" signal.] Now, how I became a Twit is another story but it was on one of those practice rides that I got the idea that saying anything meaningful in a 140 character Tweet requires information density very much like poetry. My son-in-law suggested I call them “twoetry” or “twoems.” He also said something about Elmer Fudd. I don’t think he was referring to me.
When I finally started going cross-country, I did ride for a long time. My longest mileage day, 750 miles, was actually cut short when it started to hail. Even though I desperately wanted to get out of Kansas, which has to be the most boring state for motorcycles, I stopped. At least there wasn’t a lot of rain because with a lot of rain my chaps [Hold out chaps.] act a lot like downspouts and my blue jeans [Hold pockets of jeans.] act a lot like a sponge.
One morning I started late to let the rain pass and found myself riding late as well, which led to me composing my first, and so far last, limerick:
Riding late into the night,
With bugs who fought the good fight.
‘Though my visor is hurtin’,
Their salvation is certain.
Because they all saw the light.
Yes, the bugs are bad. I was glad that I had to get gas every two hours or so because that let me wash and squeegee my visor. [Bend over and mime using gas station windshield washer and squeegee on visor with helmet on head.]
Then there are the smells. You know the good smells are few and far between when “l’odeur du skunk” is one of the more pleasant smells. Other than diesel exhaust, which makes my eyes water and my nose itch, the worst smell I encountered was when I was trapped behind a hog hauler in St. Louis. At least I didn’t notice any diesel exhaust but then I was trying not to breath.
I also found out that there is no speed that makes 103 degrees feel anything cooler than HOT. Kansas, again.
If you’ve ever ridden a motorcycle you know that taking your right hand off the throttle slows the motorcycle down, quickly. I was barely a quarter of the way across the country and already feeling the strain on my right arm and shoulder when a motorcyclist waved at me with his “right hand.” I immediately jumped to the obvious conclusion: He had cruise control. Two thousand miles later I got one of my own and quickly discovered that a constant throttle is nothing like a constant speed. If there were hills, downhill would be much too fast and uphill would lug the engine. I did get to use it for about 50 miles, in Kansas, until a truck tried to pass me. The truck provided enough of a windbreak that my constant throttle sped me up to keep me right beside it. After a couple of miles I took my cruise control off and let him finish passing. I don’t think it was the same truck that ran me off the road when I got to California.
Heat, rain, hail, bugs, smells, traffic, why am I riding a motorcycle? It’s fun. Besides, it truly is the best way to get helmet hair.
Showing posts with label toastmaster speech. Show all posts
Showing posts with label toastmaster speech. Show all posts
Monday, March 8, 2010
Friday, October 23, 2009
Tenth Toastmaster Speech...
Again with the qualifier that I don't really read it so what comes out is never exactly what was written...
My fellow Toastmasters and Honored Guests:
My speech tonight is “Inspiring. Who me?” It’s a personal story about the way I used to be and why I became better.
I now can admit to being a cynic most of my life, although, I’d rather you think of it as just being a healthy skeptic. My wife said that I should have been born in the “show me” state. In fact, it turns out that I do have some relatives living in Missouri—but I wasn’t born there.
How bad was I?
When I first read about a person who was convicted for his third strike and sentenced to 25 years for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his family, I thought: “Yeah, most crimes never have an arrest. A high number of arrests aren’t prosecuted or are dismissed for technical reasons. He probably committed other crimes.” Besides, it costs more to incarcerate someone for four years than it does to pay for a four-year state college.
I was the kind of person who would walk by a homeless panhandler, and there were and probably still are quite a few in San Francisco, and while trying not to breathe think I was doing something great by looking them in the eye and mouthing “sorry.” Besides, Newsom passed his “care not cash.” I didn’t care, at least not then, not really.
My greatest cynicism has always been reserved for politicians. By the time they get to any higher elected office, they had to have sold themselves to the big buck donors, the special interests, and their cronies. I don’t know why I’ve voted in every election since I became eligible to vote, since often I felt like I was voting for the least worst?
I’ve worked for over thirty years at various companies and at virtually every one of them compromises were always based on figuring out the “what’s in it for me” for each person involved. Very rarely was the “what’s in it for me” something for the good of the company or the environment or people in general. Thank goodness this was always for small things like credit or control and not contracting out hazardous waste disposal to some company that would just pour it down the nearest storm drain.
Cynicism has an outward manifestation. I commuted into San Francisco on BART for years, first from Fremont and later from Pacifica. Every weekday, twice a day, I could have looked around at all the numb expressionless faces but I didn’t. My numb expressionless face was usually buried in a book or work or a puzzle in the newspaper.
It’s easy to be cynical. Events happen almost everyday that are cheap attempts to manipulate someone. Recently we found out that the Balloon Boy who wasn’t was staged in an attempt to gain a reality show. It’s easy to expect the worst in people and always see what you expect.
It’s also easy to parlay these manipulation attempts into believing that all tearjerker stories are made up. Certainly many of the email chains of sob stories are. A cynic would even have doubts about whether the nine-year old boy dying from cancer truly made his “make a wish” a wish for world peace, or, think “what a wasted wish.”
On the other hand, it’s hard not to be cynical. People who look for the best in people are considered fools, or at best gullible—by the cynics. In my cynical reaction to the person who stole the loaf of bread, I never even thought of how hard it is for an ex-con to find a legitimate job.
Even a cynic can be inspired. My loved ones are truly a joy that “inspired” me to endure work, commuting, even my own cynicism. Of course, they had to endure it too.
I’ve also been inspired by deadlines. I don’t know how many all nighters I pulled in college to write papers due the next day, well, later that same day.
I’ve been inspired by humor, not the Don Rickles’ kind of insult humor, not even most jokes as most jokes have victims, the butts of the jokes. Unless I threw them out, somewhere in a box I may have pages of such jokes that a friend gave me with blank lines where the “victim” is to go. My writing certainly improved with some humor—like this—that and a word processor that checks grammar.
While I have been inspired by some of my bosses, I wasn’t by the one who left a meeting with these words: “Be creative.” I can’t even remember what we were supposed to be creative about but I know we weren’t inspired or creative.
From time to time I’ve been inspired by words. I’ve handed out my favorite quote to quite a few of my direct reports because I’ve found these excerpted words from a book about the Scottish Himalayan Expedition inspiring: (Parts of it have been traced to Goethe.)
"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back-- Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now."
But what is my commitment? What is yours?
It was in the depths of my despair while commuting after the loss of my wife that an event occurred, which struck me so profoundly, right to my heart, that I credit it as the trigger that turned my life around. This event hasn’t been the only thing that has happened that helped but my life is significantly different, better now in large part because of what this event started. What’s amazing, it’s something that everyone can do.
As I just said, I was commuting with my dead commuter face on, surrounded by other dead commuter faces and someone smiled. It wasn’t even directed at me but the genuinely warm smile brought her face to life and that started me thinking.
I didn’t start smiling right away but my thinking did lead to my own improved outlook. It led to me joining Toastmasters. It led to me taking up meditation. While I still have my moments of despair and outright sadness, I’m making it a point to smile more in the hopes that I can pass along the gift I was given.
Mr. Toastmaster
My fellow Toastmasters and Honored Guests:
My speech tonight is “Inspiring. Who me?” It’s a personal story about the way I used to be and why I became better.
I now can admit to being a cynic most of my life, although, I’d rather you think of it as just being a healthy skeptic. My wife said that I should have been born in the “show me” state. In fact, it turns out that I do have some relatives living in Missouri—but I wasn’t born there.
How bad was I?
When I first read about a person who was convicted for his third strike and sentenced to 25 years for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his family, I thought: “Yeah, most crimes never have an arrest. A high number of arrests aren’t prosecuted or are dismissed for technical reasons. He probably committed other crimes.” Besides, it costs more to incarcerate someone for four years than it does to pay for a four-year state college.
I was the kind of person who would walk by a homeless panhandler, and there were and probably still are quite a few in San Francisco, and while trying not to breathe think I was doing something great by looking them in the eye and mouthing “sorry.” Besides, Newsom passed his “care not cash.” I didn’t care, at least not then, not really.
My greatest cynicism has always been reserved for politicians. By the time they get to any higher elected office, they had to have sold themselves to the big buck donors, the special interests, and their cronies. I don’t know why I’ve voted in every election since I became eligible to vote, since often I felt like I was voting for the least worst?
I’ve worked for over thirty years at various companies and at virtually every one of them compromises were always based on figuring out the “what’s in it for me” for each person involved. Very rarely was the “what’s in it for me” something for the good of the company or the environment or people in general. Thank goodness this was always for small things like credit or control and not contracting out hazardous waste disposal to some company that would just pour it down the nearest storm drain.
Cynicism has an outward manifestation. I commuted into San Francisco on BART for years, first from Fremont and later from Pacifica. Every weekday, twice a day, I could have looked around at all the numb expressionless faces but I didn’t. My numb expressionless face was usually buried in a book or work or a puzzle in the newspaper.
It’s easy to be cynical. Events happen almost everyday that are cheap attempts to manipulate someone. Recently we found out that the Balloon Boy who wasn’t was staged in an attempt to gain a reality show. It’s easy to expect the worst in people and always see what you expect.
It’s also easy to parlay these manipulation attempts into believing that all tearjerker stories are made up. Certainly many of the email chains of sob stories are. A cynic would even have doubts about whether the nine-year old boy dying from cancer truly made his “make a wish” a wish for world peace, or, think “what a wasted wish.”
On the other hand, it’s hard not to be cynical. People who look for the best in people are considered fools, or at best gullible—by the cynics. In my cynical reaction to the person who stole the loaf of bread, I never even thought of how hard it is for an ex-con to find a legitimate job.
Even a cynic can be inspired. My loved ones are truly a joy that “inspired” me to endure work, commuting, even my own cynicism. Of course, they had to endure it too.
I’ve also been inspired by deadlines. I don’t know how many all nighters I pulled in college to write papers due the next day, well, later that same day.
I’ve been inspired by humor, not the Don Rickles’ kind of insult humor, not even most jokes as most jokes have victims, the butts of the jokes. Unless I threw them out, somewhere in a box I may have pages of such jokes that a friend gave me with blank lines where the “victim” is to go. My writing certainly improved with some humor—like this—that and a word processor that checks grammar.
While I have been inspired by some of my bosses, I wasn’t by the one who left a meeting with these words: “Be creative.” I can’t even remember what we were supposed to be creative about but I know we weren’t inspired or creative.
From time to time I’ve been inspired by words. I’ve handed out my favorite quote to quite a few of my direct reports because I’ve found these excerpted words from a book about the Scottish Himalayan Expedition inspiring: (Parts of it have been traced to Goethe.)
"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back-- Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now."
But what is my commitment? What is yours?
It was in the depths of my despair while commuting after the loss of my wife that an event occurred, which struck me so profoundly, right to my heart, that I credit it as the trigger that turned my life around. This event hasn’t been the only thing that has happened that helped but my life is significantly different, better now in large part because of what this event started. What’s amazing, it’s something that everyone can do.
As I just said, I was commuting with my dead commuter face on, surrounded by other dead commuter faces and someone smiled. It wasn’t even directed at me but the genuinely warm smile brought her face to life and that started me thinking.
I didn’t start smiling right away but my thinking did lead to my own improved outlook. It led to me joining Toastmasters. It led to me taking up meditation. While I still have my moments of despair and outright sadness, I’m making it a point to smile more in the hopes that I can pass along the gift I was given.
Mr. Toastmaster
Sunday, March 29, 2009
For goodness snakes alive
The snake turned up again, thanks to the cats, except this time it was very much moving. Since I wasn't on my way out the door, I grabbed it and tossed it in some rather tall ground cover in my back yard. Of course, the cats went outside immediately and it wasn't too much later that I saw them playing with it on a paved area. While I didn't go out and rescue it, I do hope that it got away unscathed enough to live well.
My Fellow Toastmasters and Honored Guests:
As I was going out to get my paper on Valentine’s Day, I almost tripped over the box. There it was, the gift my sister had called about earlier that week. It was only later that I realized that “That Darn Pedometer” must have arrived the night before on Friday the Thirteenth.
I managed to hold off setting it up until after breakfast. But then, even though I had a critical errand to run, getting food for lunch, I found myself reading instructions and entering information into a pedometer. The last step was the difficult part. I first had to find one of my four tape measures. Then I had to use it to measure ten steps and multiply, add, divide, convert units, using what turned out to be higher math, to calculate the length of a single step. By that time the setup function had timed out so I had to reread the instructions and finally was able to enter the length of my step, two feet ten inches.
However late, I was finally on my way to get food and went as fast as I could, for any law enforcement present, that is, as fast as was legal, directly to the store and did my buying. Unfortunately, on my way home, I had my new toy with me and its pull was irresistible. Instead of turning left and heading home to put my just purchased food away, I turned right and parked in an ocean access parking lot to go walking on a paved path along the coast.
Fortunately, the day was downright chilly—for my groceries left setting in my car, that is. I, however, was cold in spite of my walking while dressed in a hooded sweatshirt, fleece vest, wind-breaking shell, and gloves. Even though I saw people substantially less clothed than I was, I had to duck into a fast food restaurant to get out of the wind to unzip enough of my layers to check my pedometer. It was disappointing. If I had turned around and walked back to my car I would have been substantially short of the 10,000 steps my sister said I should walk every day. I continued walking until I had to turn around. Another step would have taken me down a steep cliff and into the ocean.
As I had been doing on my pre-pedometer walks, I documented this hike through an occasional picture but it turns out that “that darn pedometer” has an aerobic function. To trigger it and ensure the best health benefits of walking all I had to do was walk for ten or more minutes at a pace of 120 steps, or so, per minute. Frequent picture taking stops halt the aerobic effect. This was the last hike I’ve been on where I’ve taken pictures.
When I got home, put my groceries away, and ate my late lunch, I started doubting my calibration. I remembered there was a trail nearby that had a sign up at the end that said it was exactly one mile. (Thus, my walking in and out should register as two miles on the pedometer.) Since it was “nearby,” I decided to walk to the trail. I learned three things: The trail was further away than I thought, well over a mile; the pedometer is calibrated to within 1/100ths of a mile over two miles at my stride; and my tennis shoes weren’t made for walking. I now had blisters on both heels.
The next day it was raining and my only walking was around my 1,400 square foot house. Now that I was wearing a pedometer, I found out that my steps are normally shorter indoors. Not so this day. My step was to say the least, abnormal. You know the kind of step where you realize that you are about to step in something you definitely don’t want on the bottom of your shoe so at the last moment you extend it? I no longer wear “that darn pedometer” in the house and am back to walking normally.
Since the rains didn’t let up, I decided to walk in the rain lulls if I could or in the rain if I had to. This meant that I would have to stick with paved or well-graveled walkways. After wrenching my back by stepping into a driveway cutout, I started looking down. This led to my getting whacked on my head by an overhanging branch of a small tree. I would like to say that “that darn pedometer” at least has taught me to be more aware of my surroundings, I certainly am aware of that tree and do watch for the unexpected sidewalk drop-offs, but still, it’s a baseless accusation to say that I sometimes have gotten lost in thought and have walked right by my house.
I’ve learned a few things about myself that I may not have learned without “that darn pedometer:” it takes me at least an hour and a half to walk 10,000 steps; I am willing to walk literally in circles to reach 10,000 steps (with my favorite place to do so the 95 step circle at the end of that mile trail); and I am never ever again going to drink anything with caffeine in it before I go on a walk.
(I find that I am walking to places that I never would have thought to walk to before. I find that I take the long way. I’m spending hours—walking.) Why am I dodging pummeling plants, back damaging drop-offs, and avoiding the far to frequent evidence of well-fed dogs? “That darn pedometer” makes me.
One more thing, in spite of all my complaints, it has enriched me. I’m not talking about my improved fitness, although I am fitter, I’m saying it has truly enriched me—so far I’ve found 51 cents on my hikes with it.
Yesterday was the area speech contest. The right person won from my area and it wasn't me, which is somewhat a relief. When they were introducing the speakers, the toastmaster asked each a question from the brief bio questionaire they had us fill out. My question was on the Marilyn Westbrook Garment Fund, which allowed me to expound a bit on Marilyn, lymphedema, and the reason/necessity for the fund.
Since I won't be giving the speech again, I thought I would append it. Without further ado, here is "That Darn Pedometer:"
My Fellow Toastmasters and Honored Guests:
As I was going out to get my paper on Valentine’s Day, I almost tripped over the box. There it was, the gift my sister had called about earlier that week. It was only later that I realized that “That Darn Pedometer” must have arrived the night before on Friday the Thirteenth.
I managed to hold off setting it up until after breakfast. But then, even though I had a critical errand to run, getting food for lunch, I found myself reading instructions and entering information into a pedometer. The last step was the difficult part. I first had to find one of my four tape measures. Then I had to use it to measure ten steps and multiply, add, divide, convert units, using what turned out to be higher math, to calculate the length of a single step. By that time the setup function had timed out so I had to reread the instructions and finally was able to enter the length of my step, two feet ten inches.
However late, I was finally on my way to get food and went as fast as I could, for any law enforcement present, that is, as fast as was legal, directly to the store and did my buying. Unfortunately, on my way home, I had my new toy with me and its pull was irresistible. Instead of turning left and heading home to put my just purchased food away, I turned right and parked in an ocean access parking lot to go walking on a paved path along the coast.
Fortunately, the day was downright chilly—for my groceries left setting in my car, that is. I, however, was cold in spite of my walking while dressed in a hooded sweatshirt, fleece vest, wind-breaking shell, and gloves. Even though I saw people substantially less clothed than I was, I had to duck into a fast food restaurant to get out of the wind to unzip enough of my layers to check my pedometer. It was disappointing. If I had turned around and walked back to my car I would have been substantially short of the 10,000 steps my sister said I should walk every day. I continued walking until I had to turn around. Another step would have taken me down a steep cliff and into the ocean.
As I had been doing on my pre-pedometer walks, I documented this hike through an occasional picture but it turns out that “that darn pedometer” has an aerobic function. To trigger it and ensure the best health benefits of walking all I had to do was walk for ten or more minutes at a pace of 120 steps, or so, per minute. Frequent picture taking stops halt the aerobic effect. This was the last hike I’ve been on where I’ve taken pictures.
When I got home, put my groceries away, and ate my late lunch, I started doubting my calibration. I remembered there was a trail nearby that had a sign up at the end that said it was exactly one mile. (Thus, my walking in and out should register as two miles on the pedometer.) Since it was “nearby,” I decided to walk to the trail. I learned three things: The trail was further away than I thought, well over a mile; the pedometer is calibrated to within 1/100ths of a mile over two miles at my stride; and my tennis shoes weren’t made for walking. I now had blisters on both heels.
The next day it was raining and my only walking was around my 1,400 square foot house. Now that I was wearing a pedometer, I found out that my steps are normally shorter indoors. Not so this day. My step was to say the least, abnormal. You know the kind of step where you realize that you are about to step in something you definitely don’t want on the bottom of your shoe so at the last moment you extend it? I no longer wear “that darn pedometer” in the house and am back to walking normally.
Since the rains didn’t let up, I decided to walk in the rain lulls if I could or in the rain if I had to. This meant that I would have to stick with paved or well-graveled walkways. After wrenching my back by stepping into a driveway cutout, I started looking down. This led to my getting whacked on my head by an overhanging branch of a small tree. I would like to say that “that darn pedometer” at least has taught me to be more aware of my surroundings, I certainly am aware of that tree and do watch for the unexpected sidewalk drop-offs, but still, it’s a baseless accusation to say that I sometimes have gotten lost in thought and have walked right by my house.
I’ve learned a few things about myself that I may not have learned without “that darn pedometer:” it takes me at least an hour and a half to walk 10,000 steps; I am willing to walk literally in circles to reach 10,000 steps (with my favorite place to do so the 95 step circle at the end of that mile trail); and I am never ever again going to drink anything with caffeine in it before I go on a walk.
(I find that I am walking to places that I never would have thought to walk to before. I find that I take the long way. I’m spending hours—walking.) Why am I dodging pummeling plants, back damaging drop-offs, and avoiding the far to frequent evidence of well-fed dogs? “That darn pedometer” makes me.
One more thing, in spite of all my complaints, it has enriched me. I’m not talking about my improved fitness, although I am fitter, I’m saying it has truly enriched me—so far I’ve found 51 cents on my hikes with it.
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