Science update - peas feeling pain, ferrets don't like treadmills.

The NYTimes' "Sunday Review" has always offered a weekly cocktail party primer for time-strapped folks looking to veer in unexpected directions. Very much along those lines this week was the article "If Peas Can Talk, Should We Eat Them?" Where else can you get a "neurobotany" poke in the ol' brainpan? As a result, I've got my next opener for a back-and-forth with chatty vegans. You might also find it fascinating, if you've ever wondered if vegetables might lean toward being a less-than-willing part of our food chain.

I also noticed some popular press repackaging of a scientific paper I never would have expected. Both the NYTimes (in Gretchen Reynolds' "Phys Ed" column in yesterday's "Science Times") and "The Economist" got all clever with a study focused upon running and the evolving human taste for "endocannabinoids" (science speak for that runner's buzz, oddly akin to what you'd get from toking up). Aside from the obvious switch flipped by the running angle ("Hi, my name is Eric, and I'm an addict..."), the choice of research animals for that study caught my eye. Ferrets. They put goshdarn ferrets on a treadmill - unsuccessfully, believe it or not. Aside from the mind's eye comic payoff, it was one of the few recent examples I've seen of weasels being used in research. Both takes are very much worth a looksie, especially if you get out there running and often wonder why.

A new loop, far away from my Old Milwaukee past.

This was full on Milwaukee morning. When I was younger, such a statement usually meant something entirely different than today. Call those Old Milwaukee mornings - in the obvious metaphorical and literal ways. But in this new Milwaukee sense, I was up way too early. My aim was to get in a run to wring out some of the junk ingested and wallowed in as a result of being four days deep into a road trip for research. And to mentally process some of what I'd gathered from sources yesterday. One of those interviews dealt with veterinary science. An awesome and amiable vet offered up a few hours of his overworked time to explain some of the issues at hand for very specialized animal industry populations. Fascinating stuff. Aside from the fact that I've got the working educational equivalent of a Seventh Grader. That's why God invented the iPhone's "voice memo" functionality, I suppose - record the lecture and cross-check thereafter. So I put that in the hopper along with a stew of other thoughts and hit the pavement on a foggy (in terms of weather) morning. Milwaukee as a cityscape isn't familiar ground for me, though. No matter how much I would like to claim that it is.  Thankfully, I took full advantage of a particularly masterful city loop offered up on MapMyRun. I've had luck with the saved loops there before (just search for a location and look for distance and you're essentially on your way). I've also been disappointed before. This time around, however, I glided into the perfect tour. I hit the road a few blocks away from the Art Museum and then spun around Downtown in such a way to come back along Brady Street (where the Old Milwaukee version of me would probably have headed in the direction of Wolski's), thereafter winding through the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee's campus, up to Shorewood to overlook (and learn about from the park signs) the submerged wreck of the SS Appomattox and back along the Lake Front to end up at the Art Museum. I offer that for those who know enough about Milwaukee to maybe nod approvingly. For all others, consider this a rave for MapMyRun. And Milwaukee, too.  A quick side note worthy of a mention - I passed by a place along Brady Street where I've returned to write before hitting the highway. DryHootch - it's a uniquely inspired coffeehouse/gathering place for military veterans and curious members of the public. Great mission, awesome icon for their place (an over-turned coffee cup made to look like a quonset hut) and downright serviceable coffee as well. I'm damn glad I had the time to come back here to get the story from the folks who run the place. That being said, I offer the full salute to all the above for getting me happily on my way to Madison.

Thanksgiving in Sconnie, post scriptum

I'm back home after a weeklong visit to the land of deer hunting and Packer loving. The things I saw in - or, rather, near - the woods opened the memory gates in ways grand and teeny tiny. One of my everyday urban activities that I brought with me was to go out running in the mornings, before the sun had risen. One time along my daily route, I saw a bald eagle perched in the highest branches of a tree right next to the prevailing county highway in my childhood neighborhood. Old Glorious swiveled her head to look down at me, passing a brief judgment before returning to all things otherwise more interesting far above the forest line. Another day, what could have only been a bat flew directly into me, striking the iPod earbud anchored in my right ear. As of now I see no need for rabies shots since not a mark was made on anything other than my previous sense of species superiority. My last morning conjured a memory like a lightning strike of the first season I was counted among the ranks of official hunterdom. I passed by the spot where I'd seen a truly majestic buck three decades ago. I told that story of the deer's nonplussed and safe run across an open field to my daughter as we drove back to the Twin Cities on our way out of the Northwoods. There were copious other lessons learned or at least hinted at during the past week - some for this book, others just for the sake of what might be humility. For example, I struggled with how to best cook a surprisingly decent hunk of fresh bear loin given to us by a family friend to add to our Thanksgiving bounty. No, it tasted nothing like chicken. The whole visit went something like that. Amidst nearly constant reminders to grasp anew things I've long since forgotten. Being reminded of that is one of the things I'm humbly thankful for this year.

Where the Wild Things aren't always that wild

One of the typical sights on my early morning runs around Seattle is that of urban raccoons. These city critters are nothing like the truly wild cousins I grew up seeing on our farm. There we knew raccoons brought with them distemper and other pesky ailments that often enough made the infectious leap over to other animals. When they were infected, they could be nasty. Otherwise, they'd generally disappear like smoke. The city version of this critter is an altogether evolved version of nuisance. Half the time I expect them to be wearing a headlamp and/or carrying cutlery. At least they also usually scamper off when I happen upon them. I couldn't help but notice an attitude shift in two of these masked bandits in a face to face to face bit of randomness earlier this morning. These suckers wouldn't budge when I clomped on by. They even seemed to weigh and measure me. The only thing missing was one of them stroking his or her chin devilishly. A frozen frame reaction surely isn't unheard of when it comes to such encounters. Not like this, though. These winter-fattened and fully-wooly varmits stood their ground. Maybe they were suffering from a sort of diabetic coma due to the discarded bushels of Halloween candy I imagine they're rooting around in. Or maybe they've taken to heart yet another "La Nina" year weather forecast for the Northwest. If so, they've got wetter, wilier issues to worry about than some dood running by more focused upon his iPod than any intention of harming them. Still, is it wrong to wish these nasty ringtails were at least a little more country and a little less rock 'n roll? Sorry, Donny and Marie - just trying to make something of a convoluted point here.