Patty gets back from a ten-day trip to Alaska, Canada, and Portland tonight. However, she's forgotten to give me any flight information whatsoever, in spite of my asking for it several times, and I have absolutely no idea what time she gets in.
She sent me an email about 5pm Chicago time on an unrelated subject, which meant she wasn't on the plane yet then, and I still have yet to hear from her. I believe it's four hours to Chicago non-stop, so at the very earliest she could be conceivably landing just about now.
I have no desire to search the flight-tables however, to educate myself for some sort of guess. The current feeling gives me just a little taste of what it was like to await a loved one way back when there was no electronic communication of any kind.
You were lucky if you even knew that she was headed home, then sentenced to spend the days and nights in growing anticipation, reading and passing the angst-ridden hours as candles grew shorter and the wind howled outside against clouded window panes. And when you were finally absorbed in a task menial enough to completely rid your mind of her odyssey and whereabouts, the door creaked open subtly enough for the sound to be taken for granted...until familiar footfalls broke through your consciousness, and your heart tightened in your chest...
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
27.6.10
Brian's Dairyland
It was quite a bit shorter than the full 11 stages that began last Thursday in Shorewood and ended today in Waukesha. I also didn't get any chocolate milk or a spotted cow jersey, but my own tour of Wisconsin included plenty of cheese, Spotted Cow beer, and lots of fun racing.
After transferring all my gear from the I-Go Honda to the O'Hare rental and kissing Patty goodbye, I was on my way to Greenbush, Wisc. for the stage 8 road race in the Tour of America's Dairyland. Light traffic and a 7am departure netted me a great parking spot on the grass two full hours before race time.
Randy and Luke arrived as I spun and sweated on the trainer, even in the less humid, lower temperatures. It was going to be a perfect day for racing, in lots of sunshine, and I was very excited to be in the same 35+ Masters field as these experienced and wily vets. The only snag of the morning was finding a definite hole in my racing tubulars after hemming and hawing about a slow leak the night before. Oh well, SRAM was present for neutral support, just one more PRO aspect of an apparently very well run series.
Our 50ish-sized field rolled out on time, just behind the Pro/1/2 field, and neither Luke or I were familiar with the course, beyond what people had told us about from last year. But, even then, the 10-mile lap was reversed this year, so we'd just have to ride out and experience the first couple of laps and hope nothing got away before then.
The course profile went something like this, if memory serves:
A short uphill followed by a steep drop, then another up and down roller. Here, you had to be careful of the hot tar strips, very hard to see on the new blacktop. Very squishy, and your rear end fish tailed at the high speeds going downhill over them. Then a left turn and a false flat, followed by a quick drop, another fast left turn, a couple rollers, then downhill to a right hand hairpin turn. Here it got interesting with a series of uphill stairsteps which led to a fun downhill series of banking turns through thick forest (watch out for those potholes). This shot out onto rough chip and seal pavement through farm fields, which brought back the wind, and then turned left into it. The downhill speed quickly slowed and the pack bunched as riders looked to move up for the final series of downhill, banking turns, back through the trees and then into town.
Immediately riders were attacking but couldn't get away. The pack could chase too easily on the downhill, and there wasn't enough support that early on through the headwind. Much of the time the pace was downright comfortable and it seemed everybody was taking it pretty easy, saving energy for the hills or attacks later in the final laps.
Out on the chip and seal on the 4th lap, I was moving up when I heard Randy call me over. "Luke's off the front!" he semi-whispered. This caught me completely by surprise as I still thought he was behind me, but you all know how much I pay attention in races. Sure enough, there also must've been IS Corp in the break because they were up blocking and a dedicated chase was forming as soon as I moved to the front to do our part.
I sandbagged on two hard chase efforts, but coming through to start the final two laps, the break had slipped out of view, and the field's speed came down to almost leisurely for much of the next time around.
The final lap was a bit more competitive, especially up the rollers, where I really had to fight to keep my position and not to cramp. Through the twisty downhill section and out in the crosswind, Randy came by tapping my hip and we moved up to the front before the pack bunched up, where we held a great position. However, he was on the outside, while I remained up against the yellow, which was my undoing amidst the final argy-bargy of the last two miles. A lot of sketchy moves came past my left, squeezing me further and further and back.
If those guys really wanted to pull that shit for a 6th place $50 check, they could have it. I still had to go to work on Monday. Randy managed to hold his position and finish 7th in the field sprint, for 11th overall. I came in at the back for 37th, and heard Luke on the sideline giving me an encouraging yell.
4th place for him, out of a final five-man break. What a stellar result in such a talented and stacked field as an open Masters race! The man is crafty as hell, and can be counted on to find the one place on the course to make the move that counts. In this case, on those stair-step hills, and then leverage the wind and the blocking behind to get out of sight.
After saying our goodbyes over the requisite post-race Culver's, I was on my way to overnight in Milwaukee at my cousin Rick's place on the northwest side of the city. Friday I'd be headed back to Fon Du Lac, but tonight was dinner, beers, and visiting.
Rick met me at his house and we went and got some pretty good Mexican food, fish tacos for me:
After which we each got a haircut at his regular place, where they offered us a glass of wine while we waited, and I also got some locally roasted organic coffee. The woman who cut my hair, Christinia, was a triathlete and we talked bikes the whole time.
The next morning after Rick left for work, I spent a few hours at Milwaukee's successful local coffee chain, Alterra, over some housemade granola and a pot of French-press:
Then I departed for Fon Du Lac, the site of the series' stage 9 criterium, and to meet former teammate and good friend Rick Dearworth for lunch before the race.
The Fon Du Lac Grand Prix has been around for many years in one series or another, and is famous for it's fast speeds, with the long home- and backstretches. Today's trip past the start-finish would be blazing as well, with the tailwind down Main Street.
I was the only XXX-er in the field, along with a few other solo riders, including a Wisc.-based Pegasus rider who'd had some success in the series, and the venerable Voytek Glinkowski, of WBD-Allvoi. Verizon and IS Corp had several riders each, so I'd be watching their moves in the headwind of the backstretch.
It was a very dynamic race. Attacks were constantly going off in the wind, and the field was either chasing, or giving out the hangman's rope, and then chasing. I managed to be in a couple of early attempts and bridges, but midway through the race I found myself at the back recovering when the real assaults came.
Rick and Jared Rogers (who'd raced earlier) screamed at me to move up, but the chase was committed and wicked fast between laps 15 to go though seven or eight to go. I could only hang on to the end and try for another chance when, and if, it slowed. The good thing was that it was completely single file the entire time, so there was no rubberband effect, even at the end.
No brakes, just breaks.
(photo by John Gray)
Coming up on six to go, the field slowed just enough with indecision that I was able to move up and hear the announcer say, "Field prime! Set of tires to the field, starting with Triple X rider number eight-sixty-nine!" I had no intention of contesting a prime while leading the start of the lap, and after turn two I got out of the saddle for a medium intense effort to keep the pace up for the chase. I was waiting for the jump, and when none came, I looked behind and saw a huge gap.
Talk about the right place at the right time. IS Corp was blocking, the field was tired, and I'd just ridden away. I took the prime with five to go and started thinking about my chances to bridge up. I could see them about a quarter lap up, and I couldn't let the pack catch me.
(photo by John Gray)
The break was shedding a few riders, which I then caught, worked with for a half-lap or so, and dropped in the head wind. Approaching one to go, I was with one final rider, who, from the depths of my pain cave I can't remember, either bridged to me or I caught him.
Either way, I pulled though turns 1 and 2, and into the wind, then shook him off my wheel and fought his gap effort to come though turn four in perfect position for a pounce. Which I of course botched. I waited too long, with me just behind him; we started sprinting at the same time, and that's how we ended up, 7th and 8th.
"Sorry for screwing you," he said. "That's racing, dude. Great sprint!" I replied. I was pretty happy, feeling the 100% effort and having salvaged a top ten in a bridge attempt after having missed the move, not to mention avoiding having to go shopping for tires for a while longer.
Rick and I enjoyed a Spotted Cow together and watched the Women's Pro race from the AC comfort of the corner bar along the course, and then said our goodbyes.
I was in the town my parents grew up in, Kenosha, two hours later, despite all the construction and Summerfest traffic, to greet my dad and stepmom, and my aunt and uncle at their house. We enjoyed a classic lakefront Friday fishfry and cocktails and spent the night catching up.
After a morning active recovery ride to the lakefront, checking out the Superweek criterium course and getting some espresso, the next day we attended the family picnic in Madison. This long-running reunion includes Baers, O'Keefes, and Scharches, in addition to the Morrisseys. It was my dad's first time attending in probably 40 years, and it's been going on for longer than that. It was complete with several rounds of bocci and one dude bringing a full martini set up. But since I was driving, I had to wait until I got home for that much needed beer to end a pretty long day.
It was a pricey weekend to be sure, but a chance like that to merge family and racing can't be missed. I probably won't be racing again until the very end of Superweek, in Kenosha at the end of July. The Tour of America's Dairyland was an excellent series for the small portion of it that I experienced, and I definitely will try to plan next year's visit around the family picnic again.
After transferring all my gear from the I-Go Honda to the O'Hare rental and kissing Patty goodbye, I was on my way to Greenbush, Wisc. for the stage 8 road race in the Tour of America's Dairyland. Light traffic and a 7am departure netted me a great parking spot on the grass two full hours before race time.
Randy and Luke arrived as I spun and sweated on the trainer, even in the less humid, lower temperatures. It was going to be a perfect day for racing, in lots of sunshine, and I was very excited to be in the same 35+ Masters field as these experienced and wily vets. The only snag of the morning was finding a definite hole in my racing tubulars after hemming and hawing about a slow leak the night before. Oh well, SRAM was present for neutral support, just one more PRO aspect of an apparently very well run series.
Our 50ish-sized field rolled out on time, just behind the Pro/1/2 field, and neither Luke or I were familiar with the course, beyond what people had told us about from last year. But, even then, the 10-mile lap was reversed this year, so we'd just have to ride out and experience the first couple of laps and hope nothing got away before then.
The course profile went something like this, if memory serves:
A short uphill followed by a steep drop, then another up and down roller. Here, you had to be careful of the hot tar strips, very hard to see on the new blacktop. Very squishy, and your rear end fish tailed at the high speeds going downhill over them. Then a left turn and a false flat, followed by a quick drop, another fast left turn, a couple rollers, then downhill to a right hand hairpin turn. Here it got interesting with a series of uphill stairsteps which led to a fun downhill series of banking turns through thick forest (watch out for those potholes). This shot out onto rough chip and seal pavement through farm fields, which brought back the wind, and then turned left into it. The downhill speed quickly slowed and the pack bunched as riders looked to move up for the final series of downhill, banking turns, back through the trees and then into town.
Immediately riders were attacking but couldn't get away. The pack could chase too easily on the downhill, and there wasn't enough support that early on through the headwind. Much of the time the pace was downright comfortable and it seemed everybody was taking it pretty easy, saving energy for the hills or attacks later in the final laps.
Out on the chip and seal on the 4th lap, I was moving up when I heard Randy call me over. "Luke's off the front!" he semi-whispered. This caught me completely by surprise as I still thought he was behind me, but you all know how much I pay attention in races. Sure enough, there also must've been IS Corp in the break because they were up blocking and a dedicated chase was forming as soon as I moved to the front to do our part.
I sandbagged on two hard chase efforts, but coming through to start the final two laps, the break had slipped out of view, and the field's speed came down to almost leisurely for much of the next time around.
The final lap was a bit more competitive, especially up the rollers, where I really had to fight to keep my position and not to cramp. Through the twisty downhill section and out in the crosswind, Randy came by tapping my hip and we moved up to the front before the pack bunched up, where we held a great position. However, he was on the outside, while I remained up against the yellow, which was my undoing amidst the final argy-bargy of the last two miles. A lot of sketchy moves came past my left, squeezing me further and further and back.
If those guys really wanted to pull that shit for a 6th place $50 check, they could have it. I still had to go to work on Monday. Randy managed to hold his position and finish 7th in the field sprint, for 11th overall. I came in at the back for 37th, and heard Luke on the sideline giving me an encouraging yell.
4th place for him, out of a final five-man break. What a stellar result in such a talented and stacked field as an open Masters race! The man is crafty as hell, and can be counted on to find the one place on the course to make the move that counts. In this case, on those stair-step hills, and then leverage the wind and the blocking behind to get out of sight.
After saying our goodbyes over the requisite post-race Culver's, I was on my way to overnight in Milwaukee at my cousin Rick's place on the northwest side of the city. Friday I'd be headed back to Fon Du Lac, but tonight was dinner, beers, and visiting.
Rick met me at his house and we went and got some pretty good Mexican food, fish tacos for me:
After which we each got a haircut at his regular place, where they offered us a glass of wine while we waited, and I also got some locally roasted organic coffee. The woman who cut my hair, Christinia, was a triathlete and we talked bikes the whole time.
The next morning after Rick left for work, I spent a few hours at Milwaukee's successful local coffee chain, Alterra, over some housemade granola and a pot of French-press:
Then I departed for Fon Du Lac, the site of the series' stage 9 criterium, and to meet former teammate and good friend Rick Dearworth for lunch before the race.
The Fon Du Lac Grand Prix has been around for many years in one series or another, and is famous for it's fast speeds, with the long home- and backstretches. Today's trip past the start-finish would be blazing as well, with the tailwind down Main Street.
I was the only XXX-er in the field, along with a few other solo riders, including a Wisc.-based Pegasus rider who'd had some success in the series, and the venerable Voytek Glinkowski, of WBD-Allvoi. Verizon and IS Corp had several riders each, so I'd be watching their moves in the headwind of the backstretch.
It was a very dynamic race. Attacks were constantly going off in the wind, and the field was either chasing, or giving out the hangman's rope, and then chasing. I managed to be in a couple of early attempts and bridges, but midway through the race I found myself at the back recovering when the real assaults came.
Rick and Jared Rogers (who'd raced earlier) screamed at me to move up, but the chase was committed and wicked fast between laps 15 to go though seven or eight to go. I could only hang on to the end and try for another chance when, and if, it slowed. The good thing was that it was completely single file the entire time, so there was no rubberband effect, even at the end.
No brakes, just breaks.
(photo by John Gray)
Coming up on six to go, the field slowed just enough with indecision that I was able to move up and hear the announcer say, "Field prime! Set of tires to the field, starting with Triple X rider number eight-sixty-nine!" I had no intention of contesting a prime while leading the start of the lap, and after turn two I got out of the saddle for a medium intense effort to keep the pace up for the chase. I was waiting for the jump, and when none came, I looked behind and saw a huge gap.
Talk about the right place at the right time. IS Corp was blocking, the field was tired, and I'd just ridden away. I took the prime with five to go and started thinking about my chances to bridge up. I could see them about a quarter lap up, and I couldn't let the pack catch me.
(photo by John Gray)
The break was shedding a few riders, which I then caught, worked with for a half-lap or so, and dropped in the head wind. Approaching one to go, I was with one final rider, who, from the depths of my pain cave I can't remember, either bridged to me or I caught him.
Either way, I pulled though turns 1 and 2, and into the wind, then shook him off my wheel and fought his gap effort to come though turn four in perfect position for a pounce. Which I of course botched. I waited too long, with me just behind him; we started sprinting at the same time, and that's how we ended up, 7th and 8th.
"Sorry for screwing you," he said. "That's racing, dude. Great sprint!" I replied. I was pretty happy, feeling the 100% effort and having salvaged a top ten in a bridge attempt after having missed the move, not to mention avoiding having to go shopping for tires for a while longer.
Rick and I enjoyed a Spotted Cow together and watched the Women's Pro race from the AC comfort of the corner bar along the course, and then said our goodbyes.
I was in the town my parents grew up in, Kenosha, two hours later, despite all the construction and Summerfest traffic, to greet my dad and stepmom, and my aunt and uncle at their house. We enjoyed a classic lakefront Friday fishfry and cocktails and spent the night catching up.
After a morning active recovery ride to the lakefront, checking out the Superweek criterium course and getting some espresso, the next day we attended the family picnic in Madison. This long-running reunion includes Baers, O'Keefes, and Scharches, in addition to the Morrisseys. It was my dad's first time attending in probably 40 years, and it's been going on for longer than that. It was complete with several rounds of bocci and one dude bringing a full martini set up. But since I was driving, I had to wait until I got home for that much needed beer to end a pretty long day.
It was a pricey weekend to be sure, but a chance like that to merge family and racing can't be missed. I probably won't be racing again until the very end of Superweek, in Kenosha at the end of July. The Tour of America's Dairyland was an excellent series for the small portion of it that I experienced, and I definitely will try to plan next year's visit around the family picnic again.
3.1.10
Mighty fine 2009: the best that I could do
As I searched for the right words to begin this post, I was heading into the final sunrise of the year at 30,000 feet, having left the place of my birth far behind me. Looking back on 2009 I was at a loss to find any accomplishments that were truly momentous. Most were relative to the bike obsession only, achievements that are meaningless to anybody with hairy legs. I felt an immediate compulsion to declare 2010 the Year of Getting Something done. However, upon arrival in Chicago that night, amid good friends and wine, I realized that I'd already done it. I had started the year utterly alone in searching for deeper meaning, and that night I was ending it with new found purpose and a positive spirit to guide me there.
365 days earlier, New Year’s Day began epically enough, with a full body hangover and a kitchen that hearkened back to my college days standards of cleanliness. The night before we’d hosted a 12-course dinner to ring in the New Year and judging by the all the empty dishes I set about ignoring, it was a smashing success. I smiled briefly at the empty Jell-O shots on the floor.
First things first: coffee and recovery while I waited for Katy to wake up. The Dark Knight got me through until it was time to clean up the mess.
It wasn’t as bad as it looked and we mowed through the worst of the baked-on grease, dried cheese, and heavy pots pretty quickly. While she went back to bed, I settled into the remainder of the Winter Classic from Wrigley Field, smiling as NBC tried to drown out the chant of “Detroit sucks!” from the raucous crowd, in front of me a huge plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a gourmet Bloody Mary using the leftovers from last night, including the prime rib and stilton cheese. I found myself amidst the thick of an ice cold day where I'd not see the outside or even so much as a pair of pants, keeping my thoughts to myself as I watched movie after movie and delayed reality as much as possible.
And kept them to myself I did, all the way to the move out in late March which was as life-changing a day as I had ever experienced. Jack and I walked the mile and a half to my new apartment in Irving Park on a cool, spring evening at sunset and I wondered where else I was headed. I'd dreaded this day ever since I agreed to move in with Katy - not that I'd known it would end this way, but that it could - and here I was expecting the worst was still around the corner.
But what greeted me instead was clarity and simplification. Let me back up…
I was carrying with me, and still do, a heavy load of guilt for allowing my obsession with the bike to put such a gulf between me and the people I'd called friends since nearly 1999. Yet the late nights filled with cigarettes and alcohol no longer excite me because my mornings are much more important now. Would I rather wake up to nausea and a headache or the giddy anticipation of a soul-cleansing, five hour ride? I didn’t know what else to do than to make those relationships work as best they could under the circumstances while embracing the new friends I have.
But this last relationship wasn’t going to work under any circumstances. And moving into another apartment in less than a year had me second-guessing how important cycling competitively really was to me.
But that night as I walked into my new home, I looked down at Jack, who was of course looking right back at me. I then saw that our relationship was now another level completely. Back on January 1st we’d been contemplating sending him back to rescue…he just wasn’t working out…fitting in, we told ourselves…but in the end I just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t fair to him, he is just being himself: a hyper, food-driven, inquisitive, loves-to-cuddle 30-pound Rottweiler-terrier mix.
And so I took him with me. By making that conscious choice to include him in my new life changed everything. With him now the central focus, and moving next door to my friend who owned the building I was living in, I quickly became part of a close group of friends, all part of the neighborhood, all with dogs.
I then realized my time off of the bike was much more important as the time on it, and as soon as I did, I began reaping the harvest from a newly balanced approach to life. But it wasn't just me - suddenly I was among friends who's schedule and pace of life jibed with mine. My neighbor Mark is a bikemate who comes on my Saturday rides with me, and the rest, Tina, Susan, Rob, Cari and Scott, Kayla and Janucz are always up for a backyard hang or beers and Mexican food at El Potosi down the street.
It's not that nobody else in my life has been this for me - I know I must sound ungrateful to anyone else reading this - but the timing just couldn't be better.
As Tina said at Susan's New Year's Eve party, "Brian, of course you've done something this year! Look around you - you have a posse now!" And Rob drove it home the following Saturday: "you're the glue, man. Before, I never really hung out at our neighborhood joints, and we certainly didn't do much like the dinner parties you throw." Indeed, the week I moved in I made a knockout risotto Milanese and invited them all over to stand in my kitchen and eat it. Nothing more formal than that. We were up until two and I put 15 wine bottles into the recycling. I repeated with rabbit stew the week before Thanksgiving.
It was a really warm feeling just then, to realize I have such supportive friends who are on such a similar wavelength as I. The guilt and regret are still there, always will be, but I have to go with what works best.
In 2009, I think I found my soul. Imagine what I can do in 2010 with that.
Now, a look back , 2009's Top 20:
1. Quality time.
2. ...and then going too far.
3. The new whip.
4. Leaving for San Luis Obispo (and more).
5. Back to Mt. Mitchell.
6. The breakthrough.
7. Almost...
8.. Sherman Park.
9. Jack goes mobile.
10. Tandemonium.
11. Shut up and ride, asshole.
12. My favorite race of the season.
13. 500th post.
14. Charm City invasion.
15. My first cross race.
16. Party pooper.
17. Race day hooky.
18. Stew.
19. The smile.
20. Home for Christmas.
365 days earlier, New Year’s Day began epically enough, with a full body hangover and a kitchen that hearkened back to my college days standards of cleanliness. The night before we’d hosted a 12-course dinner to ring in the New Year and judging by the all the empty dishes I set about ignoring, it was a smashing success. I smiled briefly at the empty Jell-O shots on the floor.
First things first: coffee and recovery while I waited for Katy to wake up. The Dark Knight got me through until it was time to clean up the mess.
It wasn’t as bad as it looked and we mowed through the worst of the baked-on grease, dried cheese, and heavy pots pretty quickly. While she went back to bed, I settled into the remainder of the Winter Classic from Wrigley Field, smiling as NBC tried to drown out the chant of “Detroit sucks!” from the raucous crowd, in front of me a huge plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a gourmet Bloody Mary using the leftovers from last night, including the prime rib and stilton cheese. I found myself amidst the thick of an ice cold day where I'd not see the outside or even so much as a pair of pants, keeping my thoughts to myself as I watched movie after movie and delayed reality as much as possible.
And kept them to myself I did, all the way to the move out in late March which was as life-changing a day as I had ever experienced. Jack and I walked the mile and a half to my new apartment in Irving Park on a cool, spring evening at sunset and I wondered where else I was headed. I'd dreaded this day ever since I agreed to move in with Katy - not that I'd known it would end this way, but that it could - and here I was expecting the worst was still around the corner.
But what greeted me instead was clarity and simplification. Let me back up…
I was carrying with me, and still do, a heavy load of guilt for allowing my obsession with the bike to put such a gulf between me and the people I'd called friends since nearly 1999. Yet the late nights filled with cigarettes and alcohol no longer excite me because my mornings are much more important now. Would I rather wake up to nausea and a headache or the giddy anticipation of a soul-cleansing, five hour ride? I didn’t know what else to do than to make those relationships work as best they could under the circumstances while embracing the new friends I have.
But this last relationship wasn’t going to work under any circumstances. And moving into another apartment in less than a year had me second-guessing how important cycling competitively really was to me.
But that night as I walked into my new home, I looked down at Jack, who was of course looking right back at me. I then saw that our relationship was now another level completely. Back on January 1st we’d been contemplating sending him back to rescue…he just wasn’t working out…fitting in, we told ourselves…but in the end I just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t fair to him, he is just being himself: a hyper, food-driven, inquisitive, loves-to-cuddle 30-pound Rottweiler-terrier mix.
And so I took him with me. By making that conscious choice to include him in my new life changed everything. With him now the central focus, and moving next door to my friend who owned the building I was living in, I quickly became part of a close group of friends, all part of the neighborhood, all with dogs.
I then realized my time off of the bike was much more important as the time on it, and as soon as I did, I began reaping the harvest from a newly balanced approach to life. But it wasn't just me - suddenly I was among friends who's schedule and pace of life jibed with mine. My neighbor Mark is a bikemate who comes on my Saturday rides with me, and the rest, Tina, Susan, Rob, Cari and Scott, Kayla and Janucz are always up for a backyard hang or beers and Mexican food at El Potosi down the street.
It's not that nobody else in my life has been this for me - I know I must sound ungrateful to anyone else reading this - but the timing just couldn't be better.
As Tina said at Susan's New Year's Eve party, "Brian, of course you've done something this year! Look around you - you have a posse now!" And Rob drove it home the following Saturday: "you're the glue, man. Before, I never really hung out at our neighborhood joints, and we certainly didn't do much like the dinner parties you throw." Indeed, the week I moved in I made a knockout risotto Milanese and invited them all over to stand in my kitchen and eat it. Nothing more formal than that. We were up until two and I put 15 wine bottles into the recycling. I repeated with rabbit stew the week before Thanksgiving.
It was a really warm feeling just then, to realize I have such supportive friends who are on such a similar wavelength as I. The guilt and regret are still there, always will be, but I have to go with what works best.
In 2009, I think I found my soul. Imagine what I can do in 2010 with that.
Now, a look back , 2009's Top 20:
1. Quality time.
2. ...and then going too far.
3. The new whip.
4. Leaving for San Luis Obispo (and more).
5. Back to Mt. Mitchell.
6. The breakthrough.
7. Almost...
8.. Sherman Park.
9. Jack goes mobile.
10. Tandemonium.
11. Shut up and ride, asshole.
12. My favorite race of the season.
13. 500th post.
14. Charm City invasion.
15. My first cross race.
16. Party pooper.
17. Race day hooky.
18. Stew.
19. The smile.
20. Home for Christmas.
28.8.09
Conrads in Chicago, Part 2: A Pieceful Day
The snoring briefly stopped for Matthew to stir at the clicking freewheel and snicker as I stood in my bike lycra amid the three of them, sprawled out in my living room like discarded laundry in growing daylight. It was 6:45 and the five drinks tossed back last night were apparently early enough...I felt strong and rested for my weekly Saturday morning ride.
65 miles and two out of four sprint "victories" later, I arrived home just before noon (would normally have been about 10:30 but our ride up to Evanston was marred by flat tires and newb unpreparedness) to see my dog, Jack, doing the snoring on the floor. The cousins had taken him to the park after grabbing brunch at The Abbey and run him into the ground. In fact on the way out, he'd simply sat down, refusing to walk anymore. They carried him home.
We had a 2pm date at Piece to meet Maggie, her friend Amanda, and her cousin Meg. I was beyond hungry from my earlier ride, and the half-pint of ice cream I ate for recovery immediately after only lasted so far.
Located on the edge of Wicker Park, near Six Corners, Piece is owned by Cheap Trick's Rick Nielsen, and brews award-winning beers and slings New Havem, CT style pizza. After catching Cheap Trick at the Taste of Chicago in 2007, a friend of mine and I went there for some pie. As he was relieving himself in the men's room, my friend realized he was standing next to Nielsen himself. Rather than impose at that personal moment, he waited to reach the sink before complimenting him on the Grant Park performance.
"Thanks!" Rick belched, and then added, "...was hot as fuck up there."
We were already on our second round of beers - with such names as "Worryin' Ale" and "Fornicator" (an IPA) - when Maggie et al walked in. Trying to get seven people to agree on a pizza would take longer than a UN resolution to pass, so we settled on two larges, a red for us and white for them. With the anchovies on one half and clams on the other, ours smelled slightly worse than a run-down fishing harbor, but it tasted wonderful. I ate more than my fair share, but it was pushed upon me since there was so much. The salty cheesy doughy meal perfectly filled the groove my hunger craved.
It was enough to keep the overall experience positive even with the slow service and three screaming babies behind us.
We then tried the newly-reopened iCream ice cream spot around the corner next to American Apparel on Milwaukee Ave. - made to order ice cream and yogurt with mixed results. The whole store resembles a nightmarish lab, done in an ashy-white color. The employees doing food prep are dressed in the same, head to toe. Each ice cream maker steams like the dry ice punch we used to drink at Halloween parties when kids, and the process is almost too complicated. Choose ice cream or yogurt, choose flavor(s), choose mix-ins and toppings. Seems simple enough until your eyes glaze over at the amount of possible combinations. Upon standing outside with my rather bland blueberry with strawberries, I realized I missed out on rootbeer, burnt sugar, and cream soda. Ironically it all sort of took the fun out of ording ice cream. We finished trying each other frankencreams and split up to catch game two of the weekend.
Much better seats this time around:
The Sox took this one, 5-3 to even the series. We each got a round of beers again, and after splitting the nachos, we all got out of there for about $30, not counting the seats, which the cousins had treated me to in exchange for the luxurious sleeping quarters. I think I got the better end of that bargain, but I'd make it up to them.
My phone, the piece of shit that it is, died mid-game. Since the dawn of digital address books, I've been unable to remember a single phone number. I briefly got it on long enough to get some important numbers for the night into Philip's phone, but it crapped out again before getting the last one I needed, permanently. We tried some creative outreaches through mobile Facebook on Matthew's phone from the next bar, but we never did in touch with anyone else.
That next bar was Margie's Pub. A first for me. A nice dive with nice people. Alberto was celebrating his 30th birthday and we had many $2 Old Styles in his honor. We actually started off with four boilermakers - which I unbelievably had to explain to the old bartender (you'd think those would be a staple in this place).
Mat showed up with Lori, his girlfriend who'd I'd not seen since Italy, and we had more Old Styles. We chatted and caught up, and they were soon on their way to meet more old friends on their week-long stay in Chicago from DC. We too said our goodbyes to them and Alberto and stumbled our way out the door, on the way to Resi's Bierstube.
Resi's is a favorite of mine. A classic Northcenter holdover from area's German roots. Kinda dirty and austere, with berber carpet and wood paneling, Resi's has a short but authentic beer list and serves some of the best Kraut comfort food in the city. Its beer garden is still one of the best kept secrets in town.
Late at night it's the best place to mingle with an unassuming crowd under soothing low light amidst the home country chatchkies while pounding some seriously heavy beers.
We started off with Spaten Optimater, a dark, malty, and yeasty 9 percenter served in giant glass steins:
...oh yes. Jagers, too. Well, four.
After finishing up with a round of whatever was on special, we hit the road at 2am for grub. We could have stayed out later but it had been a long day for all of us. No bus was coming, and the next burrito option was at California, less than a mile, so we started walking.
Along the stretch of Irving between Western and the river is a bunch of industrial buildings on the north side. As we passed an open window, Matthew pointed inside to some dude lying on a bed in the midst of a horribly messy office, watching TV. It was hard to if he was awake or not, but upon listening, he was watching an instructional video on how to make love to women.
We snickered quietly for a bit, and then I let out one of my trademark whistles, with two fingers in my mouth, the ones that make your ears ring and pisses everybody off. I didn't stick around to see it, but Matthew said Casanova-in-training came up off the bed by about three feet.
Burritos and tacos purchased, we found an immediate cab home, where upon we ate, drank the PBR in the fridge, and entertained ourselves with youtube.
65 miles and two out of four sprint "victories" later, I arrived home just before noon (would normally have been about 10:30 but our ride up to Evanston was marred by flat tires and newb unpreparedness) to see my dog, Jack, doing the snoring on the floor. The cousins had taken him to the park after grabbing brunch at The Abbey and run him into the ground. In fact on the way out, he'd simply sat down, refusing to walk anymore. They carried him home.
We had a 2pm date at Piece to meet Maggie, her friend Amanda, and her cousin Meg. I was beyond hungry from my earlier ride, and the half-pint of ice cream I ate for recovery immediately after only lasted so far.
Located on the edge of Wicker Park, near Six Corners, Piece is owned by Cheap Trick's Rick Nielsen, and brews award-winning beers and slings New Havem, CT style pizza. After catching Cheap Trick at the Taste of Chicago in 2007, a friend of mine and I went there for some pie. As he was relieving himself in the men's room, my friend realized he was standing next to Nielsen himself. Rather than impose at that personal moment, he waited to reach the sink before complimenting him on the Grant Park performance.
"Thanks!" Rick belched, and then added, "...was hot as fuck up there."
We were already on our second round of beers - with such names as "Worryin' Ale" and "Fornicator" (an IPA) - when Maggie et al walked in. Trying to get seven people to agree on a pizza would take longer than a UN resolution to pass, so we settled on two larges, a red for us and white for them. With the anchovies on one half and clams on the other, ours smelled slightly worse than a run-down fishing harbor, but it tasted wonderful. I ate more than my fair share, but it was pushed upon me since there was so much. The salty cheesy doughy meal perfectly filled the groove my hunger craved.
It was enough to keep the overall experience positive even with the slow service and three screaming babies behind us.
We then tried the newly-reopened iCream ice cream spot around the corner next to American Apparel on Milwaukee Ave. - made to order ice cream and yogurt with mixed results. The whole store resembles a nightmarish lab, done in an ashy-white color. The employees doing food prep are dressed in the same, head to toe. Each ice cream maker steams like the dry ice punch we used to drink at Halloween parties when kids, and the process is almost too complicated. Choose ice cream or yogurt, choose flavor(s), choose mix-ins and toppings. Seems simple enough until your eyes glaze over at the amount of possible combinations. Upon standing outside with my rather bland blueberry with strawberries, I realized I missed out on rootbeer, burnt sugar, and cream soda. Ironically it all sort of took the fun out of ording ice cream. We finished trying each other frankencreams and split up to catch game two of the weekend.
Much better seats this time around:
The Sox took this one, 5-3 to even the series. We each got a round of beers again, and after splitting the nachos, we all got out of there for about $30, not counting the seats, which the cousins had treated me to in exchange for the luxurious sleeping quarters. I think I got the better end of that bargain, but I'd make it up to them.
My phone, the piece of shit that it is, died mid-game. Since the dawn of digital address books, I've been unable to remember a single phone number. I briefly got it on long enough to get some important numbers for the night into Philip's phone, but it crapped out again before getting the last one I needed, permanently. We tried some creative outreaches through mobile Facebook on Matthew's phone from the next bar, but we never did in touch with anyone else.
That next bar was Margie's Pub. A first for me. A nice dive with nice people. Alberto was celebrating his 30th birthday and we had many $2 Old Styles in his honor. We actually started off with four boilermakers - which I unbelievably had to explain to the old bartender (you'd think those would be a staple in this place).
Mat showed up with Lori, his girlfriend who'd I'd not seen since Italy, and we had more Old Styles. We chatted and caught up, and they were soon on their way to meet more old friends on their week-long stay in Chicago from DC. We too said our goodbyes to them and Alberto and stumbled our way out the door, on the way to Resi's Bierstube.
Resi's is a favorite of mine. A classic Northcenter holdover from area's German roots. Kinda dirty and austere, with berber carpet and wood paneling, Resi's has a short but authentic beer list and serves some of the best Kraut comfort food in the city. Its beer garden is still one of the best kept secrets in town.
Late at night it's the best place to mingle with an unassuming crowd under soothing low light amidst the home country chatchkies while pounding some seriously heavy beers.
We started off with Spaten Optimater, a dark, malty, and yeasty 9 percenter served in giant glass steins:
...oh yes. Jagers, too. Well, four.
After finishing up with a round of whatever was on special, we hit the road at 2am for grub. We could have stayed out later but it had been a long day for all of us. No bus was coming, and the next burrito option was at California, less than a mile, so we started walking.
Along the stretch of Irving between Western and the river is a bunch of industrial buildings on the north side. As we passed an open window, Matthew pointed inside to some dude lying on a bed in the midst of a horribly messy office, watching TV. It was hard to if he was awake or not, but upon listening, he was watching an instructional video on how to make love to women.
We snickered quietly for a bit, and then I let out one of my trademark whistles, with two fingers in my mouth, the ones that make your ears ring and pisses everybody off. I didn't stick around to see it, but Matthew said Casanova-in-training came up off the bed by about three feet.
Burritos and tacos purchased, we found an immediate cab home, where upon we ate, drank the PBR in the fridge, and entertained ourselves with youtube.
25.8.09
Conrads in Chicago, Part 1: Charm City to the Windy City
Now that I've finally detoxed from the weekend and gotten back to my regularly scheduled homebodyness, I can finally give a wrap up from my cousins' visit from Baltimore. This morning I was pedaling Jack home from Maggie's at 5:30 after a brief but efficient 5 hours sleep when I first realized I felt pretty good. I think he did too. Jack really enjoys it down there in Lincoln Park, save for the constant El traffic outside her apartment.
As Matthew, Andrew, and Philip were arriving at Midway on Southwest last Friday, I was riding home from Northbrook to meet them at my apartment in Old Irving. Their first text came as I waited for the train through the Morton Grove station to pass, about 20 minutes from home. They'd landed safely.
Upon arriving home, I had another text that they were waiting for the train, and a warning:
"I hope you have LOTS of toilet paper."
They seemed to be having one of those magical El rides where everything syncs up, with no waiting. After less than 15 minutes, drinking a glass of Gatorade, I saw this picture pop up on Facebook:
That was just south of the Roosevelt Station. They were really moving.
I put a leash on the boy and grabbed a plastic bag and headed out to Athletic Field, just west of the Addison Blue Line to await they're arrival. I wasn't there long. Like three Sasquatch carrying overnight bags for a vacation from the woods, they came lumbering up Central Park.
Game time.
We dropped the bags off in the apartment and immediately left for Comisky Park. The Orioles were in town, and we'd been planning this weekend since my visit out to Baltimore in late April.
The rain held off and the game started on time; we arrived just after the 3rd inning started. We managed to get three rounds in, starting with four 20 oz Leinenkugel's that I spent $28 on. That always makes me feel like an asshole, but these days, that's relatively cheap. By comparison, at Camden Yards, a 24 oz Molsen Ice costs you $10.
If you can get over the vertigo from the angle of Comisky's upperdeck, they're really not bad seats at all; you get a very good view of all the action.
Philip and Andrew:
After the game we decided to keep it a relatively tame evening, as I had a 7am departure for the XXX Saturday ride the next morning. The Blue line was down between Clark/Lake and Western, so we opted to see a little extra of the city, via the Red Line to Irving, where we rode the 80 bus to a divy little Italian place at Kedzie most people don't even know is still open, Manzo's.
Two or three years ago I'd taken my dad to this place, and we were pleasantly surprised. Very cheap, and the food was better than you'd expect at that price. Very retro, with lots of berber and tinsel, but obviously not on purpose, it wasn't full. In fact, there only two other tables in there. Not caring how the place stayed in business, we loved the calamari, tolerated the steak, and were happy to pay less than $30 for a bottle of Mondavi. I figured we'd save Resi's for the next night, and take advantage of the best part of Manzo's, the ridiculously cheap bar.
I'm taking $5 top shelf cocktails here, people. We walked in, dialed Willy Nelson, Led Zepplin, and the Beatles on the jukebox, and enjoyed a few martinis and some calamari, while watching the Cubs lose to L.A.
These guys are some of the funniest people I know. Matthew, the oldest, is generally pretty quiet until he drops some heavy observation on you - about sex, alcohol, politics, philosophy, or some mix of them. Andrew's sense of humor is to generally make you look at him funny, mispronouncing common words or telling you long, rambling stories about how he twisted his elbow cleaning the toilet. And Philip spends most of his time making fun of things you say, and trying to knock your hat off. They all make fun of each other, and are probably the three closest siblings I know, in my family and out. Andrew and Matthew own a condo together, and all three of them play on several softball teams together.
I can't think of a better picture to sum up their relationship than this one I found on Matthew's facebook page:
At Manzo's:
We said goodbye to our gracious bartender, and shuffled outside. Our luck with the CTA was continuing, as almost immediately another 80 bus rolled right up taking us home.
As Matthew, Andrew, and Philip were arriving at Midway on Southwest last Friday, I was riding home from Northbrook to meet them at my apartment in Old Irving. Their first text came as I waited for the train through the Morton Grove station to pass, about 20 minutes from home. They'd landed safely.
Upon arriving home, I had another text that they were waiting for the train, and a warning:
"I hope you have LOTS of toilet paper."
They seemed to be having one of those magical El rides where everything syncs up, with no waiting. After less than 15 minutes, drinking a glass of Gatorade, I saw this picture pop up on Facebook:
That was just south of the Roosevelt Station. They were really moving.
I put a leash on the boy and grabbed a plastic bag and headed out to Athletic Field, just west of the Addison Blue Line to await they're arrival. I wasn't there long. Like three Sasquatch carrying overnight bags for a vacation from the woods, they came lumbering up Central Park.
Game time.
We dropped the bags off in the apartment and immediately left for Comisky Park. The Orioles were in town, and we'd been planning this weekend since my visit out to Baltimore in late April.
The rain held off and the game started on time; we arrived just after the 3rd inning started. We managed to get three rounds in, starting with four 20 oz Leinenkugel's that I spent $28 on. That always makes me feel like an asshole, but these days, that's relatively cheap. By comparison, at Camden Yards, a 24 oz Molsen Ice costs you $10.
If you can get over the vertigo from the angle of Comisky's upperdeck, they're really not bad seats at all; you get a very good view of all the action.
Philip and Andrew:
After the game we decided to keep it a relatively tame evening, as I had a 7am departure for the XXX Saturday ride the next morning. The Blue line was down between Clark/Lake and Western, so we opted to see a little extra of the city, via the Red Line to Irving, where we rode the 80 bus to a divy little Italian place at Kedzie most people don't even know is still open, Manzo's.
Two or three years ago I'd taken my dad to this place, and we were pleasantly surprised. Very cheap, and the food was better than you'd expect at that price. Very retro, with lots of berber and tinsel, but obviously not on purpose, it wasn't full. In fact, there only two other tables in there. Not caring how the place stayed in business, we loved the calamari, tolerated the steak, and were happy to pay less than $30 for a bottle of Mondavi. I figured we'd save Resi's for the next night, and take advantage of the best part of Manzo's, the ridiculously cheap bar.
I'm taking $5 top shelf cocktails here, people. We walked in, dialed Willy Nelson, Led Zepplin, and the Beatles on the jukebox, and enjoyed a few martinis and some calamari, while watching the Cubs lose to L.A.
These guys are some of the funniest people I know. Matthew, the oldest, is generally pretty quiet until he drops some heavy observation on you - about sex, alcohol, politics, philosophy, or some mix of them. Andrew's sense of humor is to generally make you look at him funny, mispronouncing common words or telling you long, rambling stories about how he twisted his elbow cleaning the toilet. And Philip spends most of his time making fun of things you say, and trying to knock your hat off. They all make fun of each other, and are probably the three closest siblings I know, in my family and out. Andrew and Matthew own a condo together, and all three of them play on several softball teams together.
I can't think of a better picture to sum up their relationship than this one I found on Matthew's facebook page:
At Manzo's:
We said goodbye to our gracious bartender, and shuffled outside. Our luck with the CTA was continuing, as almost immediately another 80 bus rolled right up taking us home.
2.4.08
Hump Day
Courtesy of How To Avoid the Bummer Life:
-----------------------
This could come in handy:
I was actually looking for Mel Brooks doing his comedy routine for Emperor Dom, "Politics, Politics, Politics, Politics, Politics!" I'm just wondering how much longer this primary season is going to drag on. That bowling joke was the last straw. However, how ironic is it that for all the jockeying to be the earliest primary election (and even more so that Huckabeast garnered the early headlines), Pennsylvania is the huge player now. Good things come to those who wait.
And as glad as I am that we have no where to go but up in this election, I am really not looking forward to having to make a choice between any of these three. Obama is mostly platitudes and zero experience, and after 17 years of voting, I've come to realize "change" never, ever, happens. Not to mention, with the Resco thing, I believe he is nowhere near as clean as he claims to be. Clinton? I'm really just getting tired of her smug sense of self-entitlement, and she is absolutely the prefered choice of the establishment in this election. I am actually leaning more towards McCain, believe it not. I believe he is the cleanest candidate from corruption, and his stance on improving U.S. Foreign Relations is spot-on, yet I have no idea how he plans to do it on prohibiting water-boarding alone, since he certainly plans to keep us in Iraq for at least 4 more years. As well, his remedy for what is now being called the New Great Depression by some is to have less regulation?!?
(Whimper.)
--------------------
I am really looking forward to racing in Beloit on Sunday. Burnham Racing (Vitamin Water-Trek) is holding their first race at The Blackhawk Farms Raceway. While not on a motorcyle, thankfully, I plan on racing smart, attacking as hard as I can, and being in the sprints at the end of both the 4/5s race and the 3/4s. There will be a lot of really strong, ambitious cats racing with me, and of course many teammates, and I am going to use this race as a chance to really rev the engine, take some chances, and see what I can do, egg on my face or not.
Blackhawk Raceway (thanks CBR):
-------------------------
I can't believe the Asheville Camp is only a week away! Next week, Thursday 4/10, I fly to Asheville, NC with a select group of teammate for a racing and climbing camp in the mountains of Western Carolina and along the Blue Ridge Parkway. I've been really aching for a chance to do this trip, and now it's finally happening! A teammate of mine took a cycling vacation there a couple of years ago. We'll be climbing Mt. Mitchell, the highest mountain east of the Mississippi, and in four days we'll have equaled the climbing we did in eight during the camp in San Luis Obispo.
As well, this will be a bittersweet venture back to a home of sorts. My father has lived in North Carolina for almost 30 years, and in Asheville for the last seven, with an earlier stint in the mountains back in '79 to '83 in nearby Spring Creek. My stepmom got her dream job in Rockingham at the community college there, and is already serving as the Univserity President. My dad is awaiting my sister to finish high school, but the house is already sold, and as early as April 18th they could close. This will likely be my last trip to Asheville with family.
So I hope to make the most of it.
-----------------------
This could come in handy:
I was actually looking for Mel Brooks doing his comedy routine for Emperor Dom, "Politics, Politics, Politics, Politics, Politics!" I'm just wondering how much longer this primary season is going to drag on. That bowling joke was the last straw. However, how ironic is it that for all the jockeying to be the earliest primary election (and even more so that Huckabeast garnered the early headlines), Pennsylvania is the huge player now. Good things come to those who wait.
And as glad as I am that we have no where to go but up in this election, I am really not looking forward to having to make a choice between any of these three. Obama is mostly platitudes and zero experience, and after 17 years of voting, I've come to realize "change" never, ever, happens. Not to mention, with the Resco thing, I believe he is nowhere near as clean as he claims to be. Clinton? I'm really just getting tired of her smug sense of self-entitlement, and she is absolutely the prefered choice of the establishment in this election. I am actually leaning more towards McCain, believe it not. I believe he is the cleanest candidate from corruption, and his stance on improving U.S. Foreign Relations is spot-on, yet I have no idea how he plans to do it on prohibiting water-boarding alone, since he certainly plans to keep us in Iraq for at least 4 more years. As well, his remedy for what is now being called the New Great Depression by some is to have less regulation?!?
(Whimper.)
--------------------
I am really looking forward to racing in Beloit on Sunday. Burnham Racing (Vitamin Water-Trek) is holding their first race at The Blackhawk Farms Raceway. While not on a motorcyle, thankfully, I plan on racing smart, attacking as hard as I can, and being in the sprints at the end of both the 4/5s race and the 3/4s. There will be a lot of really strong, ambitious cats racing with me, and of course many teammates, and I am going to use this race as a chance to really rev the engine, take some chances, and see what I can do, egg on my face or not.
Blackhawk Raceway (thanks CBR):
-------------------------
I can't believe the Asheville Camp is only a week away! Next week, Thursday 4/10, I fly to Asheville, NC with a select group of teammate for a racing and climbing camp in the mountains of Western Carolina and along the Blue Ridge Parkway. I've been really aching for a chance to do this trip, and now it's finally happening! A teammate of mine took a cycling vacation there a couple of years ago. We'll be climbing Mt. Mitchell, the highest mountain east of the Mississippi, and in four days we'll have equaled the climbing we did in eight during the camp in San Luis Obispo.
As well, this will be a bittersweet venture back to a home of sorts. My father has lived in North Carolina for almost 30 years, and in Asheville for the last seven, with an earlier stint in the mountains back in '79 to '83 in nearby Spring Creek. My stepmom got her dream job in Rockingham at the community college there, and is already serving as the Univserity President. My dad is awaiting my sister to finish high school, but the house is already sold, and as early as April 18th they could close. This will likely be my last trip to Asheville with family.
So I hope to make the most of it.
16.10.07
The All-American Boy Series - Part XIII: "The Weekend"
Author's Note: back in my myspace blog days, I had a long running series called the All-American Boy. Basically just funny anecdotes from my life. Everything from a passed field-sobriety test at Damen and Harrison at 4am to my mom's surprise birthday last year. I'll post the previous ones here retroactively soon, but here is a new installment.
A few years ago, I got a call from my brother, telling me he was coming down to visit.
His favorite band of all time, Anthrax, was playing at the House of Blues and he'd just purchased to tickets to the show and airfare to come stay in Chicago for the weekend. He'd be here on a Friday night, the show was on Saturday, and he would stay through Monday. It was to be a weekend I'd never forget, that started innocently enough and became one for the ages.
It started serendipitously enough. I had just started my training to become a Certified Personal Trainer and had also been dating a woman for a few months. The night my brother arrived I'd been out in the far south side, at an airport Hilton by Midway, attending a two-day conference sponsored by NASM as part of my training. The timing couldn't have been more perfect as I left the train to walk to my apartment and my brother called, saying his bus was just about the arrive at the stop I'd given him.
We literally met outside as we both walked up to the iron gate of my building, and hugged, and gave each other all sorts of brotherly greetings. He looked good. He'd always been a big guy since high school. Seeing him there in my living room, tall and broad, grinning above his scraggly long goatee, gave me a warm feeling. The knowledge that we were in for a magical weekend, no matter what happened.
We opened a bottle of wine, cooked a couple of steaks and some veggies, and visited and drank into the night.
I overslept my alarm for the next day's training by Midway - the trip was Red Line to Orange, and then the Hotel Shuttle from Midway. Although since I was late, I grabbed a taxi. During the first break I called Kat, my girlfriend, to let her know the plan for the evening. I was going to be done and back downtown around 6, and I was meeting Duff at the House of Blues for dinner and the show. The weekend had come on so suddenly I wasn't able to give Duff much idea for spending the day in town other than the Museum Campus. But Kat had offered to spend the day with him, so after talking with her, she called him, apparently.
Once I was back downtown and changed, I met them at the HOB restaurant for dinner. Duff had jumped on the Damen bus at Foster and Ashland and met Kat in Roscoe Village at Kitsch-in, a funky little cafe at the corner of Damen and Roscoe. From there they went to the Museum Campus - Duffy was a fish collector at the time and wanted to see the Aquarium - but the line was too long at the Shedd, so I they walked around for bit, hit the Field Museum instead and explored Grant Park.
It was very nice of her, and Duff had a great time. Kat seemed to enjoy his company. He's pretty much a large teddy bear with limited-listening skills, so if I like hanging out with a talker with very good manners open to all options and no where to go, my brother is your date.
After dinner it was time for the show, and Kat agreed to met us later. The crowd there to see Anthrax and Dio was definitely the bands' hardcore fan base. There's a Seinfeldian theory: your manner of dress is from the best year of your life. Once you hit that year, your style - clothes, hair - stayed that way. Apparently 90% of this audience hit that year around 1985. The only thing that changed about their clothes was that they had gotten bigger. These people were so morbidly obese the same audience back when Anthrax was a major act would've been twice as big. Center parts, bleached blonds, and acid washed jean jackets. It was all there.
Three were some hits I remembered. "Spreading the Disease." "I Am The Man." "Antisocial." But there rest was warm-over Nu-Metal that apparently Anthrax wasn't even above copping in order to keep today's generation of lower-IQ music fans at attention. The crowd was wired though, and it helped Anthrax was filming a video. The audience hammed it up with tongues and metal hand-signs.
Dio was about to start, and we weren't about to hang around for that. I'd had enough of the 80's arrested development. I called Kat, let her know we were on our way out and she met us up at a bar I'd worked at a year ago in Lincoln Park, Lilly's Tavern. A dirty, cramped little place, my friends of the band Penthouse Sweets were playing. I'd bartended there a few months there a year ago. It's a rat-infested hole that serves primarily under-age Depaul students $2Bud Light drafts and provides a place to get high upstairs.
Always on the edge of running out of beer because she never paid her suppliers on time, the bar's signature drink was an $8 Long Island Ice Tea that was built like an outhouse. She premixed pitchers of Rum, Vodka, Tequila, Gin, and Triple Sec, and left one on the bar. You simply poured it over a pint glass filled with ice, and topped with lemonade and Coke. She even advertised it in the window as the best deal in Lincoln Park: "8 shots!" It was routine to serve someone three and then have to throw them out. Occasionally someone would think the pitcher was filled with water. The resultant look on their face was worth the wasted liquor.
We stayed for a while, greeting more friends, and watching Lou and Loren play. Duff had settled into a good night of Chicago drinking. He knew everyone's name and appeared to be a Chicagoan through and through. Although, to anyone who would listen, he'd talk non-stop about Alaska We soon decided to move it on up to my neighborhood, and saved the best part of the night for Simon's in Andersonville.
Simon's was my favorite bar in Chicago for years. The clientèle was chill and relaxed, cool and funny. The jukebox had one of the best mixes in the city and there was always a seat. The light is low and it's always inviting, especially at Christmas when they have glog. Duff and I drank Jameson while othere drank cheap beer and we laughed and had a great time until closing. At some point before they chased us out I lost my brother. I assumed he'd cornered somebody to talk at about Alaska. I found him as they were throwing us out, near the front, talking to some long, dark-haired woman. I left him there as Kat and I were going across the street with Nadine so she could give me my birthday present - which had been the week before.
After opening it, I heard by brother's voice from across the street.
"Hey! Where's the Green Mill?"
Kat's face immediately lit up at the prospect of my brother going off with this chick, for him and the fact that we could have my apartment to ourselves for a bit. I told Duff it wasn't far, and even closer to my place. Kat and I went home, and Duff headed off with some pick-up for a classic 5am Chicago night at one of the most famous bars in the city.
Cut to the next morning, around nine. I'm in bed awake, Kat is next to me still asleep. I nudge her. "Did you hear Duff come in?" She just groaned. I got up, fully expecting him to be on the couch as I went to the toilet, but it was empty.
"He's not here yet," as I got back into bed. I wasn't worried, really but my unease grew as the hour went by and no Duff. He'd left his cell phone on my coffee table. I lay there unable to go back to sleep, waiting, until finally I heard the front door click open.
I got up and saw him come in. We stood in the hall, outside of my bedroom, and he told me that after the bar, she'd taken him back to her fathers Wrigleyville condo and they'd fooled around until just after 8, and then he took off. But he had no idea about the bus or train system. He still recognized Addison Street however, so he walked west from Halsted Street all the way to Damen, a mile and a half, to find the Damen bus. Once there he waited another 30 minutes until it arrived. He could've just jumped on the Clark Street bus and been home in 15 minutes.
"Well?" I asked. "Was it worth it?"
He nodded. I laughed, questioningly...
"She let me put it in her butt."
Once I picked myself up off the floor, I went back into the bedroom, and he took a shower. Kat was fully awake now, and her hands were up around her mouth while she giggled like a 10 year old. I knew she was something special when she saw the beauty of my brother getting laid on his trip down here, and even more so for the extra curricular stuff.
She spent the day at home, and Duff and I kicked it down at the Shedd. The line was long, it was worth it, so he could see it all again (we used to visit the Shedd when we were kids like it was going to Church - on family vacations to visit Grandma.) We got home in time to change, and then catch the Red Line down to State and Grand for dinner with the three of us at Shaw's Crabhouse on Hubbard St.
A lot of people like to bag on Shaw's. Sure, it's a Lettuce Entertain You place, essentially a chain. All of their joints are 40's type retro places. But Shaw's is special to me. It's menu is far beyond that of a typical themed restaurant, and really, it's not themed at all. It's a seafood place, with an inviting interior and a menu that changes daily. The waitstaff are incredibly knowledgeable, they know the specials backwards and forwards, and my dining experience there just two weeks prior for a work lunch meeting had me making reservations there again that night.
And miraculously we ended up with the same waiter I had at the working lunch. Who was a big part of the reason I came back. We met after having a cocktail in the bar, and Kat snapped this pic of my bro and I:
We sat down and Michael came over and gave us the spiel. We all ordered drinks, and then Kat ordered salmon, myself the halibut, and Duff, of course, got a 20 ribeye topped with $6 worth of blue cheese. It was a wonderful dinner. Expensive, but worth it to have Duffy there enjoying it with me and Kat. Michael was with us all night long, asking us about Alaska, and making jokes with us. He comped us dessert and a round of drinks, and we gave him nearly a 40% tip.
As we were leaving, Michael came out to thank us, and we told him no problem, it was the topper of a fantastic weekend. My brother clarified: Saw my favorite band, broke a 2 year dry spell...
"And she let me put it up her butt."
Once Michael got up off the floor, he said goodbye and we left.
I said goodnight to Kat and Duff and I went home. He was on a plane the next morning, and the weekend came to a close. But it lasted in my daydreams at work that whole week, and it's repercussions were even felt months later.
Postscript:
The following Valentine's Day. Kat and I are at Shaw's for dinner. Upon arriving at the restaurant, we realize to ask for Michael's section and he's working that night, so there they seat us. After walking with Kat back to our table, I excuse myself to run to the men's room. As I stroll back through the restaurant, I pass Michael, and we recognize each other instantly. After 5 months, he looks me in the eye and says, "Alaska." Upon returning to our table, Michael is sitting there, talking with Kat.
He then told us that he took our story to the entire kitchen, and my brother is probably now the most famous patron in the history of Shaw's Crabhouse.
Ah, the power of a great story.
A few years ago, I got a call from my brother, telling me he was coming down to visit.
His favorite band of all time, Anthrax, was playing at the House of Blues and he'd just purchased to tickets to the show and airfare to come stay in Chicago for the weekend. He'd be here on a Friday night, the show was on Saturday, and he would stay through Monday. It was to be a weekend I'd never forget, that started innocently enough and became one for the ages.
It started serendipitously enough. I had just started my training to become a Certified Personal Trainer and had also been dating a woman for a few months. The night my brother arrived I'd been out in the far south side, at an airport Hilton by Midway, attending a two-day conference sponsored by NASM as part of my training. The timing couldn't have been more perfect as I left the train to walk to my apartment and my brother called, saying his bus was just about the arrive at the stop I'd given him.
We literally met outside as we both walked up to the iron gate of my building, and hugged, and gave each other all sorts of brotherly greetings. He looked good. He'd always been a big guy since high school. Seeing him there in my living room, tall and broad, grinning above his scraggly long goatee, gave me a warm feeling. The knowledge that we were in for a magical weekend, no matter what happened.
We opened a bottle of wine, cooked a couple of steaks and some veggies, and visited and drank into the night.
I overslept my alarm for the next day's training by Midway - the trip was Red Line to Orange, and then the Hotel Shuttle from Midway. Although since I was late, I grabbed a taxi. During the first break I called Kat, my girlfriend, to let her know the plan for the evening. I was going to be done and back downtown around 6, and I was meeting Duff at the House of Blues for dinner and the show. The weekend had come on so suddenly I wasn't able to give Duff much idea for spending the day in town other than the Museum Campus. But Kat had offered to spend the day with him, so after talking with her, she called him, apparently.
Once I was back downtown and changed, I met them at the HOB restaurant for dinner. Duff had jumped on the Damen bus at Foster and Ashland and met Kat in Roscoe Village at Kitsch-in, a funky little cafe at the corner of Damen and Roscoe. From there they went to the Museum Campus - Duffy was a fish collector at the time and wanted to see the Aquarium - but the line was too long at the Shedd, so I they walked around for bit, hit the Field Museum instead and explored Grant Park.
It was very nice of her, and Duff had a great time. Kat seemed to enjoy his company. He's pretty much a large teddy bear with limited-listening skills, so if I like hanging out with a talker with very good manners open to all options and no where to go, my brother is your date.
After dinner it was time for the show, and Kat agreed to met us later. The crowd there to see Anthrax and Dio was definitely the bands' hardcore fan base. There's a Seinfeldian theory: your manner of dress is from the best year of your life. Once you hit that year, your style - clothes, hair - stayed that way. Apparently 90% of this audience hit that year around 1985. The only thing that changed about their clothes was that they had gotten bigger. These people were so morbidly obese the same audience back when Anthrax was a major act would've been twice as big. Center parts, bleached blonds, and acid washed jean jackets. It was all there.
Three were some hits I remembered. "Spreading the Disease." "I Am The Man." "Antisocial." But there rest was warm-over Nu-Metal that apparently Anthrax wasn't even above copping in order to keep today's generation of lower-IQ music fans at attention. The crowd was wired though, and it helped Anthrax was filming a video. The audience hammed it up with tongues and metal hand-signs.
Dio was about to start, and we weren't about to hang around for that. I'd had enough of the 80's arrested development. I called Kat, let her know we were on our way out and she met us up at a bar I'd worked at a year ago in Lincoln Park, Lilly's Tavern. A dirty, cramped little place, my friends of the band Penthouse Sweets were playing. I'd bartended there a few months there a year ago. It's a rat-infested hole that serves primarily under-age Depaul students $2Bud Light drafts and provides a place to get high upstairs.
Always on the edge of running out of beer because she never paid her suppliers on time, the bar's signature drink was an $8 Long Island Ice Tea that was built like an outhouse. She premixed pitchers of Rum, Vodka, Tequila, Gin, and Triple Sec, and left one on the bar. You simply poured it over a pint glass filled with ice, and topped with lemonade and Coke. She even advertised it in the window as the best deal in Lincoln Park: "8 shots!" It was routine to serve someone three and then have to throw them out. Occasionally someone would think the pitcher was filled with water. The resultant look on their face was worth the wasted liquor.
We stayed for a while, greeting more friends, and watching Lou and Loren play. Duff had settled into a good night of Chicago drinking. He knew everyone's name and appeared to be a Chicagoan through and through. Although, to anyone who would listen, he'd talk non-stop about Alaska We soon decided to move it on up to my neighborhood, and saved the best part of the night for Simon's in Andersonville.
Simon's was my favorite bar in Chicago for years. The clientèle was chill and relaxed, cool and funny. The jukebox had one of the best mixes in the city and there was always a seat. The light is low and it's always inviting, especially at Christmas when they have glog. Duff and I drank Jameson while othere drank cheap beer and we laughed and had a great time until closing. At some point before they chased us out I lost my brother. I assumed he'd cornered somebody to talk at about Alaska. I found him as they were throwing us out, near the front, talking to some long, dark-haired woman. I left him there as Kat and I were going across the street with Nadine so she could give me my birthday present - which had been the week before.
After opening it, I heard by brother's voice from across the street.
"Hey! Where's the Green Mill?"
Kat's face immediately lit up at the prospect of my brother going off with this chick, for him and the fact that we could have my apartment to ourselves for a bit. I told Duff it wasn't far, and even closer to my place. Kat and I went home, and Duff headed off with some pick-up for a classic 5am Chicago night at one of the most famous bars in the city.
Cut to the next morning, around nine. I'm in bed awake, Kat is next to me still asleep. I nudge her. "Did you hear Duff come in?" She just groaned. I got up, fully expecting him to be on the couch as I went to the toilet, but it was empty.
"He's not here yet," as I got back into bed. I wasn't worried, really but my unease grew as the hour went by and no Duff. He'd left his cell phone on my coffee table. I lay there unable to go back to sleep, waiting, until finally I heard the front door click open.
I got up and saw him come in. We stood in the hall, outside of my bedroom, and he told me that after the bar, she'd taken him back to her fathers Wrigleyville condo and they'd fooled around until just after 8, and then he took off. But he had no idea about the bus or train system. He still recognized Addison Street however, so he walked west from Halsted Street all the way to Damen, a mile and a half, to find the Damen bus. Once there he waited another 30 minutes until it arrived. He could've just jumped on the Clark Street bus and been home in 15 minutes.
"Well?" I asked. "Was it worth it?"
He nodded. I laughed, questioningly...
"She let me put it in her butt."
Once I picked myself up off the floor, I went back into the bedroom, and he took a shower. Kat was fully awake now, and her hands were up around her mouth while she giggled like a 10 year old. I knew she was something special when she saw the beauty of my brother getting laid on his trip down here, and even more so for the extra curricular stuff.
She spent the day at home, and Duff and I kicked it down at the Shedd. The line was long, it was worth it, so he could see it all again (we used to visit the Shedd when we were kids like it was going to Church - on family vacations to visit Grandma.) We got home in time to change, and then catch the Red Line down to State and Grand for dinner with the three of us at Shaw's Crabhouse on Hubbard St.
A lot of people like to bag on Shaw's. Sure, it's a Lettuce Entertain You place, essentially a chain. All of their joints are 40's type retro places. But Shaw's is special to me. It's menu is far beyond that of a typical themed restaurant, and really, it's not themed at all. It's a seafood place, with an inviting interior and a menu that changes daily. The waitstaff are incredibly knowledgeable, they know the specials backwards and forwards, and my dining experience there just two weeks prior for a work lunch meeting had me making reservations there again that night.
And miraculously we ended up with the same waiter I had at the working lunch. Who was a big part of the reason I came back. We met after having a cocktail in the bar, and Kat snapped this pic of my bro and I:
We sat down and Michael came over and gave us the spiel. We all ordered drinks, and then Kat ordered salmon, myself the halibut, and Duff, of course, got a 20 ribeye topped with $6 worth of blue cheese. It was a wonderful dinner. Expensive, but worth it to have Duffy there enjoying it with me and Kat. Michael was with us all night long, asking us about Alaska, and making jokes with us. He comped us dessert and a round of drinks, and we gave him nearly a 40% tip.
As we were leaving, Michael came out to thank us, and we told him no problem, it was the topper of a fantastic weekend. My brother clarified: Saw my favorite band, broke a 2 year dry spell...
"And she let me put it up her butt."
Once Michael got up off the floor, he said goodbye and we left.
I said goodnight to Kat and Duff and I went home. He was on a plane the next morning, and the weekend came to a close. But it lasted in my daydreams at work that whole week, and it's repercussions were even felt months later.
Postscript:
The following Valentine's Day. Kat and I are at Shaw's for dinner. Upon arriving at the restaurant, we realize to ask for Michael's section and he's working that night, so there they seat us. After walking with Kat back to our table, I excuse myself to run to the men's room. As I stroll back through the restaurant, I pass Michael, and we recognize each other instantly. After 5 months, he looks me in the eye and says, "Alaska." Upon returning to our table, Michael is sitting there, talking with Kat.
He then told us that he took our story to the entire kitchen, and my brother is probably now the most famous patron in the history of Shaw's Crabhouse.
Ah, the power of a great story.
20.8.07
The Family Label
Stop lights, your job, and your favorite TV shows may change, but your beer and your family are forever. The Conrad Reunion (otherwise known as Cheese and Crackers 2007) comes but once a year, and the chance to have a cold one with my Uncle Jack and cousin Rick at the Trivial Pursuit game is the penultimate. Nothing gets in the way.Not even the training. The family force is unstoppable. We arrived at my Aunt Judy's new condo in the Southwest Milwaukee 'burbs on Friday night. It seemed serendipitous at first: awaiting Rick and I were giant plates of linguine, homemade-homegrown pasta sauce, crusty loaves of the fresh baked bread and bowls of homemade-homegrown pesto to smear on it. Friendly faces to greet us, wine glasses to tempt us, and the ice cold Old Style sang my name from inside the fridge.
It was almost useless from the start to resist.
I was planning on being up for a training ride at 6:15 to make one of either two training rides in Milwaukee the next morning. There was the Transition Cycles ride out of Pewaukee, but I knew I had to bike 13 miles one of the city's busiest state highways to get there, so I was already rationalizing not making that on my ride up with my parents, just in from Alaska, that afternoon. I had also made a call to Rainbow Jersey Cycles earlier that day and heard about a ride that left from Atwater Park, just north of the city along the lake, possibly at 9am(ish).
"You have to get up at 6am to do what?"
We, us cyclists who hang out with mostly non-cyclists, have heard this reaction many times. And if you are musician - or engage in any other extra curricular that requires late night and weekend action - you know the marginalized feeling of explaining why you're about to head to bed on a Friday night. Riding 70 miles on a Saturday morning to the average person definitely does not seem like something which to sacrifice a Friday night out with friends.
But we know differently. Hitting your stride at 8:30, 20 miles in, pulling 12 teammates up a long false flat, your bike computer in for repairs, and the pain your legs and no one attacking past is the only feedback you have. Nothing feels better as you move off and they come past, each thanking you for taking them up.
Don't get me wrong, there is a balance. My friends mean a lot to me, and I will make room. Those of us who struggle to find this balance got into this sport pretty late in life, hence the mostly non-cycling friends. You certainly don't want to come home from a team ride some fine Saturday afternoon and find out they've all given up on you. But we still fight the fight so that we can reach for everything we want. Because there's nothing worse that regret. No matter how much it sucks to get up at 6am to ride, or how nervous you get at the starting line, what keeps you going is the knowledge of how good you are going to feel at the end. Or, pulling your teammates and friends up a long hill.
But family brings a different weight to bear. You just can't get up from a conversation with your mother whom you see only once a year to go leave for bed. And sitting on a back porch, reminiscing about years and reunions past as the sun sets, another beer and handful of the cheese and crackers seem to be just the perfect thing in all the world. You only see them once a year, and cycling is such a cumulative sport. The family wins. You will ride the day after. I won't see many of these family members again for months.
So I woke up at 6:15 to turn off the alarm, and finally got up around 7:30. I filled my bottles with water and my jersey pockets with gear, and rolled out around 8:15. I'd mapmyride but when I tried earlier, the satellite pics were out of date and much of the second part was out of date. I headed east to the lake on Center, and turned north once I reach Humboldt Boulevard. After a mile or so I found Milwaukee's great Oak Leaf trail and rode that to Santa Monica, then west on Silver Spring, to Green Bay Road.
I got in several tempo intervals heading through Milwaukee's north side and the north 'burbs. Traffic was very light, and I at one point I past a pack of older cyclists geared up and heading south. Heart still pounding, I shouted across the highway, "Where you headed?"
"Alterra Coffee!" was the reply.
Then I decided they looked to be moving slower, and they had several (married?) couples off the back, and as much as the temptation for conversation was, I opted to continue drilling it north. That is, until I reached a merge with Highway 100 and the traffic load got considerably sketchier. There I had to ease my way past a set of entrance/exit ramps so I turned around at the next mall parking lot and headed back south along the same route.
I actually passed Silver Spring this time and caught another section of the Oak Leaf trail as well as the group of coffee riders I passed earlier. I rode behind them, but soon stopped to check my map. I got my bearings and remembered a coffee shop at the corner of Humboldt and Center and made that my immediate goal. I pulled up to Fuel Cafe and gave the counter girl a look that said, "OK if I bring this in here?" I got the nod and came in for a couple espressos, a cookie, and the remaining Clif Bar in my pocket.
It was as hipster-friendly as any Humboldt Park or Pilsen coffee shop here in Chicago. Even more so because smoking was allowed. It was wooden, worn, and weary looking, yet clean, save for the tobacco haze. 20 minutes later I pulled up and rolled out, heading south and then east to the Lake on North Avenue, picking up the bike trail again at Oakland. I went past the lakefront grounds, then in the midst of Irishfest, down around the harbor entrance, and through the third ward, in search of the Hank Aaron State Trail. The wind was blowing out of the Southeast, and it was a grey slate sky that matched the water.
I eventually found my coffee seeking friends at Alterra Coffee, Milwaukee's answer to Intelligentsia. I got some directions and another double espresso, and took off. A left, two rights, and another left, and I was heading west through the Menominee River Valley, winding my way to Miller Park and beyond. I finished my on the Menominee River Parkway, back to Burleigh Road and back to Rick's house just a bit after 11am. And there was the feeling. Of not one ounce of regret, and so glad, solo or not, that I rode. Especially noting the rain just beginning to fall and 2200 calories my computer said I burned during.
Two hours later we headed off to Uncle Bob's and the official reunion and platefuls of bratwurst and a cooler full of Old Style. The reunion went on, and everyone asked me how the ride was. I was much happier to be able to answer that question than to talk about my job for the 5th time that night. Trapped inside as the rain came down made it a little harder to escape the idle chitchat and the awkward conversations, but for the most part it was wonderful to see everyone, and satisfied weariness settled in like the sunset, aging with the evening.
A fun moment came when my mom's cousin Kathy put me on the phone after I responded to a conversation about her son's reading assignment that The Grapes of Wrath was one of my favorite books of all time.
"It's not about his writing ability, and get over the crappy metaphors," I told him. "You are reading the words of a person who experienced the Westward Migration and the Great Depression first hand. A lot of people get the same enjoyment out of Hemingway as well. They don't like his terse, perfunctory style, but his prose is history alive of the American expatriates of the early 20th Century."
That sums up my family reunions, whether it's a simple weekend with Rick and Uncle Bob, or the entire living tree shows up to fill an entire backyard, or kitchen, weather prohibiting. Lively conversation, huge laughs, awkward moments and lost tempers alike. It supersedes everything. And that's how the weekend worked out so perfectly. That a great ride was able to fit so neatly in between, it all seemed meant to be.
18.8.07
Wisconsin Roots
Beer Run.
B Double E Double R U N, Beer run!
B Double E Double R U N, Beeeeer ruuuuuuun...
All we need is a ten and a fiver
A car and key and a sober driver
B Double E Double R U Ennnn, Beer run.
Up in Milwaukee this weekend. Overslept my club ride I found, so I did 50 solo miles this morning and have been at my uncles since 2pm on a steady IV of Old Style and bratwurst.
Riding back to Chicago from Kenosha tomorrow, in the rain, it's looking like.
Good times.
B Double E Double R U N, Beer run!
B Double E Double R U N, Beeeeer ruuuuuuun...
All we need is a ten and a fiver
A car and key and a sober driver
B Double E Double R U Ennnn, Beer run.
Up in Milwaukee this weekend. Overslept my club ride I found, so I did 50 solo miles this morning and have been at my uncles since 2pm on a steady IV of Old Style and bratwurst.
Riding back to Chicago from Kenosha tomorrow, in the rain, it's looking like.
Good times.
16.6.07
Chicago: Inside Out
My brother visited Chicago last week. He arrived on Tuesday morning. We relaxed for a bit, drinking coffee and unpacking. Once on the go, we took a trip to my bike store, and then walked over to introduce him to the wonders of Hot Doug's. We're both big meat fans, so, natch.
We chilled at home for a while, then headed to the White Sox game, versus the Yankees.
We headed home after the bottom of the 8th, when it was pretty clear the Sox weren't going to pull one out. I was up early for a 30 mile ride while Duff slept in. We hit breakfast at the Golden Nugget, and then headed downtown. I figured it would be cool to hit the Architecture Cruise if we could get tickets, and we were in luck.
We headed for a walk in the loop, next...
...stopping at Cereality for a snack...
...and then to Cal's for a drink...
...and then finally out to Little Italy for drinks and dinner at Rosebud. I wish I had pictures of our martinis and my plate of gnocchi but I ran out of batteries. Duff came to rehearsal after with us and then we headed home for sleep. I woke up at 2am to hear Duff stumbling around looking for the bathroom. I found this on the coffee table. It was purchased just that evening, and I had one glass.
Friday, while Duffy was in Indy for the weekend, Ethan and I hit Bluesfest:
We chilled at home for a while, then headed to the White Sox game, versus the Yankees.
We headed home after the bottom of the 8th, when it was pretty clear the Sox weren't going to pull one out. I was up early for a 30 mile ride while Duff slept in. We hit breakfast at the Golden Nugget, and then headed downtown. I figured it would be cool to hit the Architecture Cruise if we could get tickets, and we were in luck.
We headed for a walk in the loop, next...
...stopping at Cereality for a snack...
...and then to Cal's for a drink...
...and then finally out to Little Italy for drinks and dinner at Rosebud. I wish I had pictures of our martinis and my plate of gnocchi but I ran out of batteries. Duff came to rehearsal after with us and then we headed home for sleep. I woke up at 2am to hear Duff stumbling around looking for the bathroom. I found this on the coffee table. It was purchased just that evening, and I had one glass.
Friday, while Duffy was in Indy for the weekend, Ethan and I hit Bluesfest:
23.5.07
Dee Cee? Doo-Zee.
(The following is a repost from 2006.)
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| The All-American Boy Series, Part VII: "Dee Cee? Doo Zee." So I just flew in from Baltimore and boy is my liver...gone.
The next morning, after shits, showers, and coffee, we headed to Georgetown and the neighborhood the Exorcist was filmed in. Driving through you instantly recognized the streets and aura of the area, feeling that you were in the movie, any minute expected to see a couple of nuns walking down the street against a brick wall, their robes flapping in the fall wind. The church in the movie was right next door to the house by the way. The stairs were immediately recognizable, and there were others already there snapping pictures. Several residents took ours. They didn't seem annoyed in the least at us, who must have been the 500th tourists that week. I would've been annoyed at me.
Andrew, Me, Philip: After the game, the idiocy began in earnest. We said goodbye to John, and the rest of us decided to head out and go Duckpin Bowling in north Baltimore. If you are from Wisconsin, you might know this as minibowl. However, first we had to get there. As the establishment we were heading to was BYOB (best idea in bowling. Ever.), we grabbed three 12-packs of the local version of Old Style: National Bohemian, AKA Natty Bo, and jumped in the back of Rudy's little brother's pick up. (Worst idea in bowling. Ever. Cue the banjo and baying blue-tick hound.)
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drained 
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