It was organized by Don Scott, the NBB’s “sustainability staffer” who has provided support to past Sustainable Biodiesel Summits. I have to say that from a distance it looked like a snoozer.

But sitting in that room was nothing short of electric. Although I had never heard of any of the speakers, they were a top flight crew who delivered climate change on a silver platter. I was blown away.

Lots of things intrigued me about the meeting. The first was the size. It was two to three times the size of any SBS, or Cooperative Biodiesel Conference I have ever attended.

The second was the audience. Some of the usual suspects where there, but by and large it was the Midwestern soybean crowd who appeared to be there for an education.

It was great. Climate change was not in question. It was hard hitting. It was wonderful. Don Scott and the NBB deserve a point for staging this day long session. By the way, the cost to attend (for non-conference goers) was $50.00. Impressive.

Unfortunately I had to head to Miami for the Grassroots Festival on Virginia Key. I caught a Disney bus for 30.00. Every other seat had a television screen which showed trailers for Disney films and I watched Nicholas Cage in Disney’s National Treasure.

As the sprawl of central Florida vanished in the rear view mirror, the excitement of Miami began to build. Last night was a blast—the festival is still rising from the earth—but today has brought intermittent rains. My tent has taken on water—and before this last deluge I was attempting to dry my sleeping bag on a makeshift clothes line I have strung across a couple of scrawny beach trees.

It would be easy to feel sorry for myself, except I am reading Behind our Doors, which is a riveting history of a Dutch family who hid Jews during World War II. Reading the story of Esther Warmerdam (as told by William Butt), I cannot help but think I have no problems.

The rain will stop. The dancing will begin. The birdlife is remarkable. Today I hiked through a nearby swamp in search of alligators. I came up empty, but Anna, one of Piedmont’s star interns, said she spotted a sixteen footer yesterday…

We have a lot in common. We speak the same language. We fight the same fights. At least the small producers do. Joe Jobe has often referred to this group as needing a “big tent,” and he is right about that.

When you go to a policy seminar the questions from the floor tend to come from Tea Party Iowans who want to bash on Obama’s lack of an energy policy. These are the same crew who thought Rick Santorum would make a fine president.

But time and again I bump into small producers. Guys who are wrestling with acid value and RIN sales and logistics problems. Our booth has been cooking. Enzymes are sexy. And we speak the language of the small producer. It’s been wonderful.

Tonight we did the town with our partners from Novozymes. We went to BB Kings Blues Club which felt like an authentic dive in the otherwise perfect Orlando. We took in Beautiful Bobby Blackmon and the 3-B Band. It reminded me of Atlanta’s Underground before it was discovered by the Travel and Tourism crowd.

On the cab ride back to our palm quarters Greg and I argued about the merits of Steam Punk vs. Disney vs. Rock and Roll. I miss pointless arguments with Greg.

Tomorrow I board a shuttle for Miami. I will shed my conference wear, get into some beach wear and work my way to Virginia Key. There I have a backpack, a tent, and a sleeping bag waiting for me.

In the back of my mind I know there is a “State of Bubble” meeting called for Thursday night. State of the Bubble brings in people from all over the project. Farmers and visitors, fuel makers, and members—folks converge from all over the place and each provides an update from their “corner of the bubble.”

Part of me wishes I could be there—where the food is wonderful and the company even better. Tomorrow I will stop at a roadside stand to score some grapefruit. I miss citrus on my “100 mile diet.” Last time I did that in Florida the product came from California. Tomorrow I board the Sunshine Shuttle. Forecast is for rain.

I’m a long way from the bubble. And it is other-wordly out here.

Part of me is looking forward to Miami. Jordan has asked me to represent Chatham County in a chess match against some fellow who builds life sized boards. Waiting for me in Miami is my top hat and a pair of rose colored glasses. Best of all, Tami is flying in. I really want to see her, but I know she really wants to see Chaka Khan. I’m looking forward to getting my Shakori on…

I walk from the room to the show floor past lush gardens and fishponds with waterfalls. And it’s cold. There are palm trees in the midst of a giant atrium, but someone has the air conditioning turned up too high.

Today I needed to get warm, so I decided to go outside. That’s not easy here. I found my way to a “transportation entrance” where a tour bus was idling waiting for the next wave of passengers.

Joe Jobe, the CEO of the National Biodiesel Board delivered a masterful plenary address. He talked about his passion for renewable fuels and took us for a tour of his childhood. It was an impressive multi-media affair that jazzed 1200 people in the room.

That buzz was immediately killed by the introduction of a series of drab petroleum marketers. It was basically a bunch of old, rich, white guys bellyaching about how tough they have it in the fuel business.

I was on booth duty today. Whether or not I qualify as a “booth bunny” is open to debate. But our booth was hopping. Lots of people came to see the legendary Rachael Burton (NBB’s biodiesel researcher of the year). Lots of people came to see Piedmont. Lots of people came to learn more about our enzymatic processing technology—which is piping hot right now.

By dinner my feet were sore and I was exhausted. I thought I would get Leif to exit the resort and grab something to eat. Instead we found ourselves in the company of twenty or more colleagues. Randall Von Wedell. Bob and Kelly King and the Pacific Biodiesel crowd. Will Smith was there.

I promised him I would not tell Bob Armantrout that Will had been in Raleigh without visiting our side of the lake.

We converged on a Columbian restaurant in Celebration. That’s the Disney planned community that defines homogeneity and ultimate creepiness. Everything in Celebration is picturesque. Except perhaps the abandoned movie theater with its fully lit and empty marquee, its vacant box office, and its posters advertising Celebration in every window.

These are old friends. Colleagues. And there are lots of them. When you have been wedged into a roller coaster car with the same people for almost a decade, you develop a kinship.

The fly-by-night operators are long gone. The shooting stars have expired. Those still standing are still gathering to meet, and there is a genuine feeling of kindred spirits.

In some ways it was a day of renewal for me. David Thornton is here with his students from Clemson. Greg Austic has joined us from Michigan. And we are beset with interest and old friends from around the country. I can’t walk to the water cooler without stopping for a ten-minute flap with Bob McCormick from NREL. I can’t finish a session without ducking out to have a few laughs with Brian Potter of Potter oil.

At dinner I had a fascinating conversation with Carlo of Bently Biofuels. They have an amazing back-story that Carlo tells with relish and aplomb.

It’s impossible to end a day like this without reflecting on how well Piedmont is regarded in this community. I think we might have migrated from marginal hippy idealistic shit disturbers to members of the biodiesel establishment. Like everyone at this conference we are survivors. Our existence confers a certain degree of credibility upon us.

Tonight I found a quiet courtyard where I could write. I can’t see the full moon because of blinding spotlights illuminating the perfect grass. And I once again joined in with the Rhode Island/Vermont/Connecticut biodiesel crowd. By now they accept me as an annoying tag-along.

We had a rip-roaring conversation about our battles with “big fat.” It is amazing how similar the stories are from every region of the country.

No telling what tomorrow will hold…

I missed the alligator feeding. Again. I missed it the last time I came to NBB in Florida too.

Tonight at the annual Superbowl party I bumped into a bunch of people I know. And a bunch of people who know me.

Standing at the bar, waiting for a local beer to come my way, I bumped into Jim Malloy from Malloy Biodiesel in Rhode Island. He’s a distributor who built a house out of cob with the help of hundreds of volunteers. And he’s a guy who has steered his multi-generation family oil distribution business in the direction of sustainable fuel.

Jim completely “gets it.” He’s a current day Scott Nearing, without the uptight rules and regulations.

And I bumped into Mike Haas from the USDA. He’s the guy who once brought me a vial of squirrel fat for us to turn into fuel. I once made the claim in the press that I could “make fuel from a dead squirrel.” Mike was backing me up on that.

Todd Hill from Promethean Biofuels is here. He’s founded a “business to business” cooperative and is a long time survivor in this industry.

I had a great conversation with Don Scott, who manages sustainability for the National Biodiesel Board.

A common thread that winds through many of these conversations is the influence Piedmont has offered. Jim does a lot of outreach and education on his energy reduced lifestyle. And he tells me he dropped the use of Powerpoints because of us. I stand by my claim that Powerpoint is the death of public speaking, and I have no doubt that Jim can deliver a talk based on raw charisma.

Both Todd and Don have been to Piedmont, and both credit us with informing their thinking on sustainability, and on community scale production.

It’s weird. I wouldn’t think a Superbowl party in Orlando would be an affirming event for me. I don’t follow football. And I don’t frequent big fake resorts. But I have to say it is edifying to be constantly encountering friends of our project while simply waiting for a beer.

The trade show starts tomorrow. We’ll see how I feel after a day of booth duty, after which I generally find both my feet and my back begging for a break…

Their start point is a series of massive generators which are producing 3 megawatts of electricity from methane at the landfill. They take the waste heat off of the generators to power their 100K/year biodiesel facility.

The facility is gorgeous. It’s daylit, and new, with everything in a straight line. Simple. Elegant. Easy. We’ve done some work for them. We provided some tanks, and some designs, and some guidance. Some of our stuff has probably been helpful. And some of our work has been dead wrong.

I went up today to get the tour, and to do some consulting, and to do some back crawl on behalf of our design-build group.

What I found there was remarkable. Apart from their co-generation plant they have hundreds of acres in canola in the ground, along with a complete oilseed cleaning, drying, and crushing facility.

In many ways they are living the dream. Yet at the same time, their facilities are not yet spinning like tops. The money has been spent, the equipment is in place, and now the pressure is on to deliver economic performance. I was blown away by their project.

At lunch Jeremy recoiled at my use of the term “anomaly.” I feel like successful biodiesel projects require feedstock anomalies, and I feel like they have one under development.

For me “anomaly” is not a pejorative term. Perhaps a better word would be “niche.”
But I do think that for biodiesel to succeed it needs to find its own ecological niche where it can survive despite the vagaries of global commodity markets.

I believe that in Industrial Evolution I likened our project to a mussel. Something that clings to a rock for survival—part of its life spent trying not to be bashed into oblivion by high powered waves, and part of its life in serenity, trying not to be eaten by a sea bird.

Jeremy’s preference is for “replicatability.” And I can see that. That’s something that foundations want. Maybe Colleges desire as well. But I’m not sure it is something that is destined for the biodiesel landscape.

The best example of perfect replication might be the McDonald’s French fry. It is basically horrible the world over. But it is the same. It is successfully replicated.

I’m not sure things replicate in nature. I think that each project is different, and each is flavored by varying influences. Which means a biofuels program at Central Carolina Community College will be different from a biofuels program elsewhere. And a community scale biodiesel project in Louisville will be different from one in Pittsboro.

And I suppose that is because there are humans involved.

If this were simply renewable BTUs, it would be drop dead simple.

I came home from Catawba County jazzed by possibilities, impressed by the resources they had deployed, and delighted by the fact that they are bringing to fruition so many ideas that have been merely talked about in the biofuels community for lo these many years.

My trip to the Catawba EcoComplex inspired me. And it steeled my resolve toward improving the ecological performance of our own project…

Paul called from the lab around 5:00 to release our first product of the year from the terminal. Starting a delivery shift at dusk on a wintry Friday night had low appeal.  I was discharging on the subject when I backed the truck into the terminal to do the first pull of the evening.  Paul was there.  “Someone might thank you for this,” he said, remarking that he was below a quarter of a tank and would need a fill this weekend.

My first drop was in Moncure.  We keep that tank at B100 year round.  That’s what the Moncure users want.  I’m conflicted on the topic.  Sometimes I think they are a bunch of weirdos. And sometimes I admire their conviction.  Whenever I fill up in Moncure I am one of the users worthy of admiration.

From Moncure I returned to the terminal.  It was cold and dark and our terminal is not lit.  Rats.  Another night with the flash light in my mouth.  Refilling the truck with bio was a snap—I could probably do that with my eyes closed.  This time of year we adulterate most of our locations to B80, which meant I had to figure out the petroleum part.

That meant jump starting our aged short truck that is packed with dino diesel and topping off the load.  I got a hand from Mike who was at the plant late tending his tilapia project.  He kept an eye on the antique auto shutoff down below while I filled from the top.

I filled the Pittsboro tank with B80 and headed into the night toward Raleigh.  And a funny thing happened on the way.  The truck radio is dead (again), but I found some ear buds and snapped in a playlist from my phone.  It had been a long day, and I was zoning out to my usual roots rock favorites as I sped across the lake.  I started thinking about the creation of the B100 Community Trail and of all the drivers that had gone before me.

Driving for Piedmont has included a number of adventures.  We’ve had clogged fuel filters and tow trucks and blowouts and a roadside fire.  Many people have hauled various loads, from used cooking oil to reactors and tanks to fuel to our mega heavy Clean Technology Trailer across many nights.  We’ve used company trucks and personal trucks and trailers of all descriptions.

So instead of feeling “hard done by” I felt like I was merely carrying on a rich tradition.  And I thought of all those members on “empty” that were waiting for the tanks to be filled again.  It was humbling.

It’s why we came.

Last night at the Plant we had a “State of the Bubble” meeting.  Those from Piedmont in attendance kept mentioning “meaningful work.”  It struck me that nothing is more meaningful than filling tanks on the trail.  A lot of people worked really hard to deliver this batch of perfect fuel to the terminal.  It seemed like a little thing to move it out of the terminal and into the world.

I’m guessing a lot of us went to the  Mayor’s house tonight for Mary’s going away party.  It was on my list, but by the time I got back to the plant I had been banged about by the hose a few times and was ensconced in that “late day biodiesel film” that demands a shower and some high quality soap.

I parked the truck, returned the flashlight to the lab, put the distribution clipboard in its place by McCayne’s desk, hung the keys in the key locker and headed for my car.  The moment after I fired it up the “low fuel” bell rang and I was reminded that like so many others, I too was wishing the fuel was flowing.

I pulled over to the Pittsboro dispenser and put 13.8 gallons into my 14 gallon tank.  It was one last reminder of how grateful I am that the Trail is stocked again…

I was fascinated.  I’d never encountered ginkgo fruit before.  There was a lone ginkgo tree at the park on my block growing up in Canada, but I always assumed it was only valuable as an exotic leaf for my collections.

Apparently we only plant male ginkgo trees.  Because if we plant female trees, they will mate, and stink.  Fascinating.  I scooped a glass full of Andrew’s ginkgo nuts and brought them home with me.  This morning I cleaned them, and boiled them, and shelled them.

They came out green, with a flavorless taste and the texture of soy-or edamame.  I read on the net that, like soy, they would absorb any flavor around them.  So I sautéed them in butter with garlic, and they were exquisite.  We had guests in town for Thanksgiving, and my ginkgo nuts were devoured by the first wave of breakfast enthusiasts.

Ginkgo is prized in Asian cultures.  The benefits of eating it range far and wide.  It’s an aphrodisiac.  It improves brain function.  It’s good for the skin.  It’s low in fat and high in starch.  Apparently it brings good luck.  Why doesn’t everybody eat this stuff?

Today Arlo and I headed to Raleigh, with Andrew’s guidance, to score some ginkgo of our own.  We parked at the curb and walked through the fallen leaves to a point where we both caught a whiff of the disgusting ginkgo odor.  We were delighted, and began filling our containers with fruit.

Apart from smelling like vomit, apparently the fruit bears the same chemical as poison ivy and causes some ginkgo collectors to break out into a horrific rash.  Both Arlo and I have horrible reactions to poison ivy, and we both brought gloves, but neither of us used them-for fear they would be permanently destroyed by the smell of vomit.

When we were finished we loaded the trunk with fruit and headed to Krispy Kreme to wash our hands.  Since we were already nasty from the ginkgo harvest, we bought a dozen original glaze for the ride home.  We thought it best to be nasty inside and out.

Tonight we boiled and shelled some ginkgo nuts and Arlo carmelized them with cinnamon and sugar.  They were horrible.  We had read they were highly valued in deserts-but not that way.  We roasted some in the oven in olive oil and salt-like we do with  the peanuts that we grow.  They came out tasting like corn nuts-empty and worthless.

Arlo was not impressed with the garlic infused ginkgo nut he tried at breakfast.  Tonight he downed a flavorless boiled nut and found it disgusting.  And he didn’t care for the cinnamon and sugar version he created.  After three nuts, and a lot of work, he announced his lack of interest in this food.  He loved the “usufruct” aspect of the project.  And he is without a doubt an “adventure eater.”  But we have yet to prepare the ginkgo nut to his liking.

By the end of the day he was quoting the negative side effects of ginkgo.  Little things like heart palpitations, anxiety, and restlessness.

We put some shelled nuts in the freezer for another time, and we took some boiled nuts over to Bob and Camille’s.  They had lent us a bucket for the trip to Raleigh, and we felt they could use some ginkgo nuts in their diet.  Here’s hoping they find the perfect recipe.

Over on our side of the creek, we are still working on it…

The other night I was meeting a truck which came late.  My task was to vacuum up about 3000 gallons of contaminated methanol that had been sitting in totes in the yard for over a year.  Having finally found a home for it, everyone on project was eagerly looking forward to its departure.  The driver was late.  It was dark.  We needed the space.  We needed that methanol to leave town.  It called for a late shift.

When the truck was loaded I took the flashlight out of my mouth and stopped by the kitchen to say hello to the Proust group.

And I was blown away.

Here were about a dozen folks, inspired by Proust, (and Judy) and devoted to their own work.  I sat around and chatted for about an hour.  They had published a book of their work, and they gave me a copy.  It was marvelous.  Filled with their poems, and essays inspired by Marcel Proust and one another.  It was remarkable.

It made me think differently about writer’s groups.  They were passionate.  And inspired.  And truly grateful for the use of our space.  So grateful, in fact, they put our logo on their t-shirts.

I couldn’t believe it.  Everyone was wearing a black t-shirt, with a picture of Proust on the front, and everybody’s favorite quotation was on the back.  It was hysterical.  And there, at the bottom of the shirt was our logo.

I headed home amazed.  Amazed by a committed group of writers devoting a year to Proust and their own work, and delighted that Piedmont had played a role. That night I passed on my normal routine and read “In the Kitchen with Proust.”

At Piedmont we don’t spend a lot of time or energy on branding, co-branding, product placement, or any sort of brand marketing for that matter.  We just do our thing.  If no one is using the kitchen-help yourself.  And voila, we accidentally loom a little larger on the backs of the Proust fans….

One of our scrap fat suppliers is a nutraceutical plant.  They start with algae oil.  And fish oil.  And they put omega-3 fatty acids into little capsules which show up on the shelves of health food stores for lots of money.  I’m guessing algae oil is worth about 500.00/gallon right now, which is why it has yet to arrive as a biodiesel feedstock.

We get lots of it.  Whenever they are changing product runs they send about 4000 gallons of sunflower oil through their three inch lines as a purge.

We buy the dregs.  It comes in with water, and sunflower oil, and the last few drums are completely solid.  Fish oil.  Algae oil.  Solid goo.

For years we have been vacuuming out the drums, dewatering the material, and spinning the oil into fuel.  And for years we have been setting the solids aside.

I’ve been working in “Production” for the last couple of months.  One of the ways that I have been welcomed to the crew is the assignment of “solids.”  Whenever someone has a mystery drum that cannot be converted into fuel it becomes my job.

I typically lop the top of the drum off with a trusty Sawzall and go to work.  Fish goo liquefies at 110 degrees.  We bought band heaters and an immersion heater and I have been turning it into a liquid and drizzling it into our plant.

It is fiendishly complex stuff from a material handling standpoint.  When you dump it hot into our cold metal trough, it leaves a thin layer behind, which means the trough backs up every couple of weeks and needs to be shoveled out by hand.  When you pump it directly into our 160 degree settling tank it clogs the hose when you are finished.

When siphoning it from one drum to another, to lighten the amount of fishy liquid in each steamy pour, a mouthful of goo will send you running for your toothbrush, generally with the dry heaves.  And it behaves the same in your mouth as it does in pumps and pipes and troughs.  At 98.5 it coats your entire mouth and makes it impossible to spit.

I was at the plant on Saturday, rendering my daily barrel when Ray stopped me to say there was a couple in the yard looking to buy fuel.

I went out to greet them in my oily steel toed boots and my hot goo splashed garments. As is frequently the case these days, I smelled like fish.

They were seminary students from South Carolina who were passing through in their VW Beetle TDI.  They had just been to Larry’s Beans to load up on locally roasted coffee, saw our B100 dispenser and found their way to the plant.

We talked about fish fat, and sustainability, and as I filled greasy carboys in their trunk I asked, “When is the faith based community going to enter the fight against climate change?”

I decried the fact that whenever our community meets at a church to fight the impending landfill, the snacks are served on Styrofoam plates and aluminum cans go directly into the garbage.

“Have you guys made the shift from ‘dominion’ to ‘stewardship?’” I asked.

They were at a Lutheran Seminary, and they assured me that people of faith are “getting it” quickly. It was a delightful conversation.  They were young.  And engaged.  And inspirational.

They paid their fuel bill and I happily trudged back to work.  Striking up a conversation about religion with complete strangers was a nice break from shoveling fish fat.

Mind you, while I was filling them up, Ray found four more barrels of solids in the yard. He brought them to me on a forklift and said he would have tied a ribbon around them, if he had one long enough…

Just because one of his calendar events is when the Energy Information Administration publishes new regional diesel pricing doesn’t make him a bad fellow. In fact, I am a fan of John.

Today I read his email with interest.  He wrote: “Averaged over the past 12 months, our Piedmont Biofuel is cheaper than petroleum diesel. That means that if a member joined the co-op one year ago today and filled up only with our fuel, then that person would have saved money on fuel costs compared to buying only petroleum diesel at the regional price.”

Wow.  How much money you save is of course limited to how much fuel you buy.  Members buying 1 gallon per week would save 1.00 per year.  After purchasing their 50.00 membership, that would leave them only 49.00 in the hole.

Our average member burns 10 gallons per week.  But we do have contractors, and delivery companies, and other businesses which  consume much more fuel than that.  Even with the membership fee  we are saving some people money.

Guys like John would be running on B99.9 even if it were more expensive.  And many of our members are so glad to be “off the petroleum grid” that they don’t care what the price is.  But it is nice to think that we are close to an economic argument for running around on our fuel…

Check out this graph which John made of Piedmont pricing over time.  I thought it was fascinating: