Oxford University is one of the most prestigious universities in the world and the list of people who went to Oxford reads like a whose who of important historical  people. They came from every possible disciplines such as politics (Indira Ghandi, Bill Clinton, Margaret Thatcher, William Gladstone), economics (John Locke, Thomas Hobbes) and literature (JRR Tolkien, Lewis Carroll, Oscar Wilde). The names continue: John Wesley, Sir Walter Raleigh, Andrew Lloyd-Webber, Stephen Hawking, C.S. Lewis, Adam Smith.

And now me. Yep, most people don’t know it, but I went to Oxford. I walked those same hallowed streets as some of the world’s best and brightest. I strode through the same gateways; pushed on the same doors. Heck, I even have a coffee mug that has the coat of arms of every college associated with Oxford.

Okay, so I wasn’t exactly a student there, unless you count reading all the historical markers around town and a brief walk through the Oxford University bookstore. I guess you could probably list my official Oxford classification as…tourist. I would like to study there and it has always been a desire to at least visit Oxford. It didn’t disappoint. In fact, it was nearly too much. Come to think of it, it was sensory overload caused by historical and architectural gluttony. I devoured the reality of 700-year-old buildings constructed from the cut stone of the Cotswolds and shaped to classic perfection, only to turn and face another as old and as historic.

And if these buildings could talk they’d bear witness to so many significant events. Think what Oxford Castle would say of its nearly 1,000 years of life and how it was established to remind the conquered Saxons of their resounding defeat at the hands of Normans. Or how about something much more “contemporary” as the 1555 martyrdom of Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley, two English reformers burned on Oxford’s Broad Street by order of Queen Mary I (Bloody Mary) for their refusal to renounce their Protestant beliefs.

Oxford is so much more than punting (and as my experience dictates I’m glad it is!), and as I’ve scanned through the pictures I took I think it will take some time to digest the magnitude of such a place. Pictures aren’t worth a 1,000 words because some need that many words of explanation, but I’ve posted a couple here and you can find more at my Flickr photo page. They still don’t do Oxford justice so if you want a better experience you just have to go to Oxford.

I did.

I love Venice, Italy, with the uniqueness of its watery corridors lined with incredible architecture steeped with history. Who can resist the opportunity of romantically drifting by the Piazza San Marco in a gondola with a loved one, while the striped-shirted piloto regales you with an original version of the Neapolitan classic, O sole mia.

Ah, Venice. Yep. I love Venice; or actually I guess I should say I love the idea of Venice. I’ve never actually been to Venice, unless you count watching somebody else’s YouTube clip from their vacation of them drifting romantically along Venice’s watery corridors listening to a piloto regale them with O sole mia.

But I have been to Oxford, England. And I have drifted along the River Cherwell. However, there were no Rudolph Valentino looking dudes in striped shirts with voices like Pavarotti serenading us with O sole mia, or any other song. There was no Piazza and no gondolas. There were, however, a number of misdirections that ended with the bow of the punt – or flat-bottom boat propelled by a long pole (operated by yours truly) – ramming the narrow river’s bank like an ill-fated beach landing. There was also the pole getting hung in low hanging trees or stuck in the gray, oozy mud – or both. Instead of the lilting sounds of a perfect tenor, my family nearly got the incoherent rantings of a West Tennessean. I would have snapped the pole across my knee in a fit of frustrated rage, but where do you snap a 16-foot pole? And even if I’d figured that out I’m reasonably certain the thick aluminum would not have yielded to my belligerence.

But it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

When a friend (yes, she’s still a friend – mostly) recommended we give it a try it sounded like a good idea. And once I read the description on the Website it was an absolute must do.

At Magdalen Bridge Boathouse you have the opportunity to spend the day enjoying the beautiful River Cherwell as it passes historic oxford colleges, the botanic gardens and tranquil English countryside. Set off from the boathouse and glide past the famous Botanic Gardens. Drift quietly through Christ Church Meadows, where Lewis Carroll was inspired to write Alice Through the Looking Glass. Pass St Hilda’s College gardens, Magdalen College Tower, traveling through English countryside down to the river Thames.

Now do you see from whence came visions of Venice – UK style? The exception being that I half expected to see Cheshire Cat grinning from the river bank, or when asking which direction I was to navigate, having the King of Hearts tell me, “Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” But it wasn’t like that at all. I banged us under the bridge, against parked punts and into others who were no more qualified than I to punt; and some who I felt reasonably sure could very well have been chasing Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit instead of Lewis Carroll’s.

Once clear of all obstacles other than the persistent river bank which kept navigating itself directly at the punt’s bow, I propelled our boat (sort of) forward with confident uncertainty. My daughter wanted to help, so she floated a dwarfed-size paddle through the current in the water alongside. Of course I did what any self-respecting man would do: I blamed our constant misdirection on her paddle serving as a rudder forcing us to the river’s edge (Totally absurd, I know, but since I’ve already invoked the absurdity of Lewis Carroll I feel I can throw myself on the absurdity of absurdity to rescue even a shred of seamanship here). At $26/30 minutes, a brief glance at my watch solidified my mission: circumnavigate the small island in the river and return the boat within the 30 minutes to limit the financial disaster meandering and unscheduled beach landings would cause.

I forged ahead, fought the trees and willed the punt to it’s resting place. As I was handing the pole back to the guy who launched us I asked, “So how many times out before I navigate it like you guys?” “At least twice,” he said, without so much as a respectful pause. “Well that’ll never happen,” I thought to myself, as he added, “But actually, you did quite well for a first timer. Most people can’t get it around that quickly.”

Okay, so maybe that could bring me back, I thought; and let’s face it, the girls had fun despite my constant mumbling. But, the truth? I’ll take a punt on punting. Next time I think we’d try the paddle boats.

Or better yet, just go to Venice and let the Valentino-Pavarotti dudes do all the rowing and singing.

I sat on a wooden railing smacking at a ham sandwich, my mountain bike leaning against the other side. A friend of mine and I had just finished an arduous climb up the steep side of Leith Hill and were enjoying the view across the South Downs with about a dozen other mountain bikers.

And that’s when they sauntered through. Two horse riders, strolling up one side of the hill, through the throng of bikers and casually down the other side, casting a pseudo-regal persona over messy and muddy bikes and riders. While in our midst they tossed condescending glances down from their high horses as if to say, “What boorish, common little people.”

Since becoming a mountain biker I’ve come to realize there is a culture clash here in the UK between five distinct groups of people: Horseback riders, mountain bikers, street bikers, walkers and runners.

Horses and horseback riding here in Surrey goes beyond the casual pasture horse whose back is slightly swayed with age. No,  horses here are posh, and posh people ride posh horses, and posh horses graze in posh pastures. (Maybe posh horses don’t actually graze. That sounds too…..common. Maybe posh horses “snip succulent pasturage”). No western saddles here. Riders use proper saddles and wear polyester stretchy pants covered with knee-high boots. Atop, I’ve seen supple brown leather gloves, tweed jackets and of course all don black helmets. There is many an equestrian training facility in the area and when the horses roam beyond paddocks they take to bridleways. These happen to be the same byways on which mountain bikers are allowed to ride. When the two cultures meet along secluded pathways there is a real sense that the desire expressed by equine people is that the bike people yield, submit, be cast aside….just simply go somewhere else, preferably France. If horseback riders were music they’d most certainly be one of Mozart’s finer concertos.

I mentioned France. France has its own variation of posh horse riders called “road bikers.” These are they who spend thousands of dollars on bicycles that are the equivalent of a Ferrari. They spend nearly as much on the tight little singlets and tight little shorts like the Tour de France guys wear. In fact, I’m convinced these Lance Armstrong wannabes truly believe they are in perpetual preparation for the next year’s event. Here in the UK, the pompous glances these velocipede drivers cast toward auto drivers – for whom the roads were actually made – seem to communicate, “Did you have permission to bring your auto onto this very wide, paved bicycle carriageway?” If road bikers were music they’d be Top 40 pop for sure: a lot of fluff, glitz, glam but very little substance. Can somebody say Lady Gaga?

Scampering along the sides of narrow roads and sidewalks are runners. Now I want to be careful here. Until just a few years ago and a hip surgery I was churning out about 35-40 miles a week so my heart beats this people group. Let’s face it; runners are cool. They glide through pedestrians and dart across roads. Admittedly this gliding and darting annoys pedestrians and motorists, but who cares. By the time the profanity forms in the mind and transfers to the lips, the runner is out of range. (Another reason runners are cool is the shoes. I love the shoes). Runners are classic rock, no doubt about it, and that’s cool too.

I mentioned pedestrians, which is a fancy way of saying, “walkers.” I admit, even though I’m excited to see people out exercising I was pretty condescending to walkers. “Runner wannabees” I’d call ‘em. There is a sense of superiority when as a runner you blow past a walker and think in the most patronizing tone possible, “walker.” I wanted little to do with walkers….until that hip surgery I mentioned…and now I is one. I don’t know, maybe God’s way of humbling me – by making me a walker. Anyway, I don’t really walk when I walk, I trek, and trekking for some reason makes me think of John Denver, and since I like John Denver….trekking is cool.

The bane of all these people groups seems to be mountain bikers. Mountain bikers are mongrels; creatures not legitimately created to share bridleways but certainly not pedigree enough to classify themselves as true bikers. They terrorize walkers and the dogs who walk with walkers. The irony is mountain bikers really could not care less. In fact, many would probably embrace the rebel without a cause (clue?) mantra. Mountain bikers really aren’t supposed to be on footpaths so I asked a guy who owns a mountain bike shop whose cheapest bike is about $700, “So where do you ride.” His response: “Wherever the hell we want.”

Alrighty then. The guy was definitely thrash metal. Addicted to Pain comes to mind.

I will have to say, I’m a kinder, gentler mountain biker. I yield to posh horses and their posh riders, I don’t terrorize the walkers (too much), and I try not to call road bikers in their little stretchy outfits sissies (mostly because I don’t want to get beat up by a dude in tight shorts). In fact, I spend most of my time just trying to keep from hitting a tree root and launching myself over the handle bars and into the woods where injury awaits.

Or worse: landing in posh horse poop.

They drew first blood, not me. If it is a war they want they’ve come to the right place.

Those immortal words of Johnny Rambo reveal my current state of mind. One look at my yard and you’d understand why I’ve decided to seek a more terminal solution to eradicating the moles that have decided my yard is now their yard. As they are discovering, they’ve made a fatal mistake in judgment. Unfortunately lethal solutions are hard to come by in the UK. I can smoke them out with Castor oil bombs (worked for three days but I think in the end just made them mad), or use an organic, ecofriendly mole repellent that disolves in water and that you apply through a sprayer (useless, moles rutted right under it an hour after application).

I could try the sonar option where I drive this probe in the ground, feed it four D-sized batteries and the frequency supposedly drives them crazy then drives them to the neighbors yard. What a waste. Thing costs $30 and word is the moles become used to the frequency and return – possibly deaf, but more determined than ever to turn my yard into a subterranean freeway.

So, I’ve opted for a more lethal solution, but for effective application of lethal strategies, I sought advice from someone experienced in these matters. Someone who has proven his prowess in dealing with subterranean rodents. Someone, who has the mind…of an animal.

Carl Spackler.

I’ve taken Carl’s advice and stepped up my attempt to crush my enemy. I struck a blow last week when I patiently stood sipping a cup of coffee as the waning light began to dip beyond North Downs. Suddenly, I saw the ground twitching about 15 feet in front of me. I calmly placed my mug on the deck box, slipped quietly in the shed and grabbed my spade. I stalked the spot, squatted on one knee and rehearsed the thrusting action I intended to use. Finally, and with adrenaline surging through my body, I raised the shovel and thrust it into the ground with the determination Queequeg would have thrust a harpoon into the side of Moby Dick.

And it worked! I struck a fatal blow. The sense of satisfaction at my kill left me feeling more as if I’d gone on safari and killed a lion with my bare hands. I was tempted to pull a Henry VIII and put the carcass of my enemy on a pike and publicly display it as an example to other moles as to whose dominion this really is, but decided not to gloat until I was certain the problem was solved.

Unfortunately, it isn’t. I hear moles travel in pairs and unfortunately I believe the bereaving mole remaining in my yard has decided to make my life – or at least my yard – one big rut. Frankly the challenge is not the mole. The challenge is finding a terminal solution in the bleeding heart country of England. When asking at garden centers for something lethal, I’ve gotten shocked expressions. “You barbaric Colonist!” I can practically hear blurting from their minds. “How can you be so cruel to such a tiny creature.”

Easy. Look at my yard.

After a significant amount of searching I opted for the only terminal trap I can find.A claw trap. (There are a number of lethal options in the states and I’ve used the harpoon trap with GREAT result, but unfortunately is not available in the UK). So far it has been useless. I stand a better chance of waiting for the mole to emerge and chasing it around the yard flailing at it with a shovel.

So, the war rages on and when the growing number of people ask me how I’m making it against my yard rodents, like Rambo I respond, “day by day.”

She was so close yet seemed to care so little. My daughter was one beanbag away from landing all three bags in hoops placed at various distances but the last toss skipped through the ring and without a care in the world she meandered to the back of the line. Not a, “RATS!” or a kick of the ground. Not even a, “C’MON, pull it together next time, will ya!” There was skipping and water sipping and visiting with friends.

“Why is she skipping and water sipping and visiting with friends?” I asked myself, exasperated by her lack of a competitive killer spirit on her first Sports Day here in the UK. Sports Days are common place in schools here and consist of beanbag tosses, and rope skipping, egg and spoon relays and other such intensive contests. “Why isn’t she focusing on the next toss?”

And that is when the subtle thought entered my mind that my daughter may simply be content to have fun sometimes and not be competitive all the time (if that is even possible!). I quickly chased the idea from my mind and began helping her understand that if she tossed the beanbags instead of throwing them she’d have more control and possibly score three out of three. I got that, “Whatever, dad” look.

Now let me just state I’m NOT one of those parents. You know the type, they shout through the backstop at the umpire during a T-ball game, or shadow the coach constantly telling him why their kid ought to be moved to a more strategic position. I set out three years ago when my daughter played on her first soccer team to encourage participation and fun.  It never crossed my mind that there are people in this world who somehow have managed to separate competition/winning and fun, so imagine my surprise when my kiddo didn’t particularly like the games, but simply loved being at practice with her teammates.

“My name is Chris,” I could just see myself meekly say with lowered head to an ex-jock, win-at-all costs Competitive Dad’s Anonymous support group. “I have a great kid, exceptional in math and reading, respectful to her mom and I and to other adults, who enjoys music and art and friends and dress-up and butterflies and strawberries and trampolines, but most times when it comes to competition is content to….participate.”

Funny thing is, my daughter is competitive. She hates losing at board games and loves nothing more than to beat her daddy at, well anything and everything. The smallest thing is a competition. Backgammon is a Battle Royal. Beating me is fun. Losing brings on the waterworks. I’ve tried to tell her, “There’s no crying in Backgammon!” I’ve even heard myself say, “Try your best and if you lose that’s okay. It’s about having fun competing.”

And come to find out that is what Sports Day in the UK is about. Teachers spent most of their time encouraging five, six and seven year old boys and girls to stick with it, keep trying, “keep chin up.” Enjoy the competition. And fortunately these fine teachers weren’t interrupted by any of those parents. I don’t think there was a child who will look back on this day and say they didn’t have any fun, including my daughter, who gave Sports Day two thumbs up.

She’ll never remember that third beanbag that skipped through the hoop, and I need to learn to celebrate the two she landed.