"It never gets any easier. You just go faster." ---Greg Lemond "Don't buy upgrades. Ride up grades." --- Eddy Merckx "You drive like shit." ---The Car Whisperer
I insist. It will change your life. Like a good Indian Summer can change your year.
Right around Labor Day I lost my job. Right around Labor day we notice a bit of a cool, the leaves begin to change, the day is a bit shorter, all the signs that summer is over. But the heat comes back, with a cool breeze which steals the sweat from the back of your neck as you sip a nice Pinot Grigio, holding on for one more week.
"It's a done deal." And with those four words, my Indian Summer is coming to an end. With the offer I am expecting next week - and the position is certain to put me where I am expecting, salarywise - I'll be rejoining the ranks of the 9-5ers.
Just as the cold comes on for real like the ice box door closing shut and the lights going out.
I'll most likely be hanging up my apron and box-cutter, moving to the sublist for the waitstaff at the restaurant, begin commuting like a normal Joe again. Even more so, in fact. I'll have a car, definitely be riding less to work - I'll even be working in the suburbs, and probably getting lunch at Chili's.
Summer is over.
Gone will be the Tuesday-Thursday endurance rides with Mark, meeting at the Russian Cafe to flirt with the waitress over hot coffee and a ham and cheese croissant, and then heading south and back on casual conversation. Gone are the slow mornings over more coffee and actually getting to listen to Eight Forty Eight on NPR. Gone are the fun nights at the bar, joking with patrons and making fun of them to my coworkers, milking the check, and walking out with a wad of tax-free cash.
Gone will be the just-now-nascent wine knowledge I have begun to acquire. The fun of simply talking and tasting wine all day long. And getting paid for it.
Discovering wine like this:
How is this not the most perfect harmony of interests for a guy like me?
Yet also gone will be the managers at the wine store talking to me like I'm a 7 year old. The fat woman standing in the Barolo aisle asking where the Yellow Tail is. That's retail for you.
Gone will be the table of the 4 teenagers paying in quarter's and leaving a 5% tip. Gone are the 10 trixies ignoring you as you stop by to check on the table but then tapping your shoulder to give you a 5 drink order after you've moved on to the next table. That's waiting tables for you.
Here again, with the cold, and the fleeing tourists, is normalcy. The good kind. Benefits. Direct deposit. A big, fat raise. On which to afford a plane ticket to see my family. Consistent hours. On which to plan my weekend - to race, to gig out with my bands, to go on dates, to go see a band, or a ball game.
For as beautiful and fun as it is, Indian Summer just delays reality. Winter is a time to get stuff done. This is not to say everyone's Indian Summer is waiting tables and working retail while they interview. For some it is perfect - and if I had more experience at it I could've begun working at a better paying restaurant and began living the lifestyle on a permanent basis. But it wasn't to be and I needed the money and the structure - plus I had marketable skills with which to get that structure.
And now it's all led me to Winter. And will get me through it to the reality and beauty of a true Summer.
So I'm sitting here, unable to stray too far from the toilet. Picked up a bit of food poisoning last night. I missed riding yesterday and today with the vomiting and cramps. Still had to go to rehearsal last night and to work this evening at the bar, however. I've never had food poisoning before. It was pizza. I eat anchovies all the time on my pie, and this tasted just as good, but shortly after I was lying under a blanket, unable to move off of my couch. Three hours later is was all coming up. I felt much better, but then headed to rehearsal, and started feeling chills. Slept until 10 am this morning and now the problems are with my other end.
Yet I'm still due to head out to Northbrook for a second interview at 1 and hopefully clinch this sucker. I may have to clinch something else while I'm at it. Even if it doesn't work out, I'm pretty satisfied where I've ended up.
I've had to switch a few things to make it work, but at least I'm happy and enjoying myself. The bar is a great place to work, and on a good night is pretty worthwhile. During the week I'll be working at Sam's Wine and Spirits as a Wine Consultant at their new South Loop location. It's going to be a fantastic store, with a wine and bottled beer tasting room and a rooftop party deck. The clientèle will be plentiful and wealthy, as is life in the South Loop. Currently I am working at the Marcey St. location in the Clybourn corridor, until the new store opens. It's pretty simple work.
Stock wine. Face wine. Talk wine. Taste wine. I still can't believe I get paid for it.
Now if I can just get some insurance. Not a good position for a bike racer to be in, I think.
Epic days and epic nights. Weekends, and the month. 2008 is the Year of the Rat, and although it is technically next year on my birthday, the Year rolled in on the heels of my ride back from Evanston on last Sunday night, thunder rolling in the distance and finally soaking me to the skin as I arrived at my door shortly after midnight. Lightning flashed on the blowing leaves, like a camera-shot, showing green in the night, as though it were a negative in my eyes.
Smile.
Where do I begin?
...rats are leaders, pioneers and conquerors...
Last month began, as I so meticulously cataloged, with my layoff from my corporate job, and my life tumbling head over heels down the stairs and out the set of the creaky doors, spilling out into the sunlight. I took advantage of the daylight, and never took a faltering step. The very same week, less than two days later I was up before dawn to ride and train, bringing pain to fight the pain. Very soon after, I completed the race of my life, and began interviewing for jobs I never would have considered myself qualified to take. Including waiting tables.
How could I have ever thought I would be in this position 5 years ago? I wouldn't have occurred in the most delusional fantasy, much less that I would be good at it, or that I would like it.
A rat's natural charm and sharp demeanor make it an appealing friend for almost anyone...
At first the training was degrading, menial. Following around a server, being told the most basic tasks -, so obvious, that of course I would never have thought of them - of serving. And to smile though it all. The rudeness, the complaints, the too-fast pace, 5 tables sitting down at once, and going home with nothing but a $4.50 an hour wage, a free meal, and no tips. That is training at a restaurant. Fortunately, it only lasted 3 days, and then I was thrown to the lions.
And like Daniel, didn't fight them, but swallowed my pride (heh heh heh) and joined them. I have come to enjoy everything about this job, and my new identity as a server. It has made me much more humble, thrifty, independent, and not afraid to ask for help. And much more generous and understanding. The last two qualities I feel I have never been short on so I feel that is saying something.
The highlight of my new job however, came just this past Thursday night. It was one of those, yes, epic nights, as my friend Luke likes to say. It was Cubs Night, Game 2, highly anticipated after the nail-biter the night before, and I was closing. The best tables for money, right by the bar. Those people aren't there to eat dinner, tell their kids to stop playing with their food or send back the soup. They are there to drink. My new boss was sitting right at the middle table, as well, racking up a huge tab, including 2 bottles of wine. But when the ladies came in, the night was not looking as promising as I'd hoped, as many of the tables, had camped out, waiting out the long game with water instead of beer, not paying for their prime real estate.
But, the ladies came and rescued me. A bachelorette party of 12 came and sat in the back room, and it was inexplicably given to me. I already had the prime tables, but I drew first blood when they opened the party room up. It was round after round of shots, some on the tab, but several in a row of comped drinks, as the bartenders tried to get rid of some old, cheap alcohol. The tab grew longer and longer.
At one point, as I brought in another round of blow-job shots, the girls asked me to settle a debate. What is the proper "motorboating" technique?
A "motorboat" - since a visual is way better than a description:
"Do we push 'em together or leave them apart?"
I knew where this was going immediately, and stayed quiet, just smiling. It didn't work. "Would you do it on her?" And pointed to the girl at the table who appeared to have cantaloupes under her sweater. "Ohhhh, no," I laughed. "Are you serious?" Melon-girl was most enthusiastic that I motorboat on her. "Noooo, noo, nonononono," I protested, laughing. "Really?!"
Another girl screamed, "her boobs are a size G!" I looked at Melon-girl, who nodded sheepishly. I confirmed that they were absolutely serious. "Should I have you sign something that I won't get sued?" This brought waves of laughter, and Ellen just pulled her neckline down. When would I have a chance to do this on a set of G's again? The pictures were all too late, if I had waited for the flash to go off, I would had my face in her tits for at least 10, long, beautiful seconds, an eternity in which any number of other employees could've walked in, not the least one of the all-female managerial staff. But, I swear, true story. Later, when I walked in with another round of shots, the top was off. Girls just wanna have fun.
They left me more than a 30 per cent tip on a pretty big bill, and combined with my manager's tip on her 100 per cent comped tab, it made my night pretty worthwhile for the lack of sleep.
Rat in general should guard themselves against hedonism, as it may lead to self-destruction...
The actual birthday on Monday was an amazing one, the best I think I've ever had. It included an 80-mile solo ride down just past 145th street, past the south-side city-limits, a team-meeting, a rehearsal, and a last-minute change in plans to meet up at Quencher's. Good-friends, new-friends, old-friends alike. Quencher's kicking us out couldn't keep us down, and we loaded up and headed to Underbar. Rudy dropped us off at 4:30 in front of her apartment. She called in sick when the alarm went off about 4 hours later, and we had a leisurely lunch across the square around 1.
They are charming, passionate, charismatic, practical and hardworking...
And Friday, following my very successful (hopefully) interview in Northbrook, networked through a teammate, I helped him install his new bike rack on his car after he drove me back to the city. We shared a couple beers, cursing over stripped screws, bruised thumbs, and the dying daylight. We planned to drive out to the Fall Fling road race the next day in Rockford.
He left on a date, and another teammate invited me over for wine and pizza as a birthday dinner. He is a wine rep by profession, and is helping me network in that area. I love wine, and the chance to have fun night chatting and BSing over some bottles I'd never find on my own was too good to pass up. We drank too much, ate too much, and I got home too late. A great night. I rationalized that I didn't want to sit in traffic 4 hours to ride in a 40 mile race, when I could sleep an extra hour, not drive anywhere, and get in 80 miles, and still be home in time to get a nap and not be late to work. It was a grand ride, missing the usual suspects - at the race, but it was scorcher, and I met several new potential teammates. I certainly began to feel the benefits of my new training plan on the bike, since having hired the coach. We rode very hard, and had at least 5 sprints.
They are energetic and versatile and can usually find their way around obstacles, and adapt to various environments easily...
The interviews are coming in fast and furious, and hopefully growing to a critical mass. As of Friday, I will have had at least three in seven days, barring any new ones popping up on the schedule. 2 of them could potentially double my salary.
Hopefully all of them will let me continue working at the restaurant.
If all this can happen in one month, just think of what a year will bring.
I do not want to give this up. How does one keep the keep the unemployed lifestyle whist actually employed?
My teammates seem to manage, although I have never tried to work from home. I wonder if I would have the discipline?
Tuesday morning I was sitting at Beograd cafe in Irving Park, a quaint little Euro-style cafe just around the corner from my apartment, complete with a quicky-mart style grocery store attached to it. Mark from xXx and I asked them to unlock the patio furniture, and chilled out, watching the rush hour traffic go by, enjoying a cup of coffee and ham & cheese croissant while flirting with a cute Russian waitress. We rode for two hours through a glorious morning on an uncrowded bike path down to the Cultural Center and back. The rest of the day was spent job hunting, napping, and in rehearsal, capped off with a beer at Cleo's afterwards with my new "best friend," Traci.
Up early enough Wednesday for coffee and a good breakfast before getting to work. It was slow but I still made $50, not bad for a lunch shift deep in Chicago's northwest side at a pub & grub place. Last night I headed out for a easy session with another teammate, Big Erik through the north shore burbs along the trail leading to Chicago's Botanic Gardens, then back through the streets of Glencoe, Wilmette, and Evanston.
This morning I again rode with Mark and was joined by team El Presidente Bob at Fullerton. I love this time of year. The path-letes are gone for the most part, the Fred's have packed it in, as well, and the "scenery" is out in full color - and not the leaves. Trixies training for the marathon. Just looking mind you, never hurt anyone.
I had an interview this morning with Paul Kozy of, yes, Kozy's Cyclery. Not what I was expecting, and I'm not sure what else to expect. I thought it was going to be a corporate gig, but it seems his corporate operation is pretty grass-roots, for the size of their operation. I would love to sell bikes on commission, but then you are salesman, and not a biker. It would definitely cut into the hours. And as my personal goals these day are decidedly bike-related, I'll be interested to see how this works out. I still would very much like to work at a bike store, however.
It's all a jigsaw puzzle, and soon I will need some financial security, but right now I am not complaining one bit. I hope I can get the best of both worlds.
Maybe I will design a clothing line...(hint, hint...keep checking back...)
Sorry for the lack of posts lately. I really appreciate all you reading this blog out there and I promise I'll get this back to regular postings. Since my lay-off my life has literally flipped 180 degrees. Lots of interviews this week, and therefore research, and I'm waiting tables in the meantime down the street.
But Sunday was the Team Time Trial ABR Championship, and it was a religious experience. So please stay tuned. I will get a new entry in today, and get back on schedule.
A change in the angle you look at the painting. Adjusting the equalizer a bit. Or hearing somebody else's side of the story. Otherwise known as a change in perspective.
How many ways has my first week of unemployment been the best week of my life? The more I think about it, the more way I count.
First, just seeing the neighborhood during the day again. Seeing the crazy homeless woman screaming profanity that would make a sailor blush at the Sun-times hawker as she muscles her shopping cart halfway onto the curb. Halfway on, halfway off, she turns around to shoot out a giant, bloody loogie at the paper guy. But, the wind catches it, sending it onto the hood of the car waiting at the light. I looked at it's driver, but he just half-smiled at me and sat there. David himself wouldn't have dared sling so much as a pebble at that woman.
I have too long been only down on the Mag Mile during the day, surrounded by waddling tourists and sweating suburbanites looking for absolutely nothing new or out of the ordinary. And the Mag Mile obliges. It's safe, flat, with pretty colors and nothing is scary. Rarely, at least. But in the depths of Chicago's neighborhoods during the daylight hours lurks inspiration that will take you to dizzying heights and depressing lows, all in a single block.
At 6:30 am yesterday morning, after my 5am team time trial practice ride, I sat at the Starbucks (safe as well, I know, but after a 90 minute ride at near 90% - all before the sunrise - I need some familiarity) at Irving and Damen, eating some yogurt and sipping coffee before my massage appointment. I was chatted up by a couple of half-drunk gents, red- and rheumy-eyed, about my bike.
"That's a nice bike man." I'd brought it in the entryway since I had no lock. "I used to be pretty into bikes, man. I was pretty good."
"Shut up. Yer no good at nuthin'," replied his bearded, grizzly friend, who looked to be 50 going on 80. "Can't even make love to a woman right." With these guys it was lines straight out of a Clint Eastwood movie from the '70's with an orangutan as the supporting actor.
"Shut up, Dad." They then both shared a tender moment from a plastic vodka bottle.
It's also been the networking. I have three job prospects from friends and teammates. Yesterday I enjoyed dim sum at a restaurant I walked past for 3 years in Argyle and never went into before then. We sat, talked about the wine biz, ate fun rolls, and watched Caroline take pictures for her restaurant blog. We headed out afterwards for a little bit of the aroma of the neighborhood (and if you've ever walked between Broadway and Kenmore on Argyle you know what I speak of) and sights and sounds of the street's many grocery stores. Here's one that gives the gist (I've submitted this to engrish.com):
(It's some sort of grape flavored gummy.)
"It's translucent color so alluring and taste and aroma so gentle and mellow offer admiring feelings of a graceful lady."
Knowing that I am done with the advertising scene forever has filled me with a joy that constantly refreshes every few minutes. All it takes is one particularly bad commercial - KFC for example - or simply one of the ubiquitous pea-green LaSalle Bank taxi toppers slinking around the city to remind me it's all behind and in the past. One breath of fresh, sweet bus exhaust while St. Ben's strikes noon on a hot day to tell me everything has changed.
Finally, it really is, as I always say, teammates who make the difference. Being up at 4:30 and riding at 5am three times this past week has filled me with power, confidence, and an unbeatable spirit. It has carried into every phone call about my resume, every time I investigate another job posting, and certainly today in the stellar first interview for a job in the 'burbs.
Yes, the 'burbs. With a 20 mile ride on decent roads, I can get training on my morning commute. The benefits are spectacular, the best I've even seen, and I felt the interview couldn't have gone better. So hopefully I am getting a call early next week. Although, if I could land a little bar tending a couple nights a week to round out a bike shop gig, that would be absolute heaven. So if any-youse bike riding drinkers out there have a lead, please throw it my way. That is if you already have a job yourself.
I leave you with a few more pics from the week...
At the Cubs Game:
An old Beemer in Wicker Park:
In the Zoo:
Sundays Salmonfest:
Happy Birthday, Jan!
Midnight, and drunk, heading home from Evanston on California. Who needs health insurance?!
But up at 6am for a beautiful Labor Day. The turn-around point:
Lots to tell, just not enough time to tell it right now...job hunting is, well...a full-time job!
So, here's a banana in my pocket (upper-upper right). Ciao!
30.8.07
Born again hard.
If you had told me a year ago I'd be doing 22mph into a stiff head wind on the lakefront at 5am I'd have laughed in your face, then ordered another Jameson on the rocks from the bartender on a Monday night. I certainly never would have (and still wouldn't) have suggested it or came up with the idea, but that is what teammates are for. And there I was, this morning before the sun came up, drilling it into the wind for a three and a half minute interval, my 3rd of 6. And enjoying it.
The daylight was just beginning to peek over the horizon, a rich, juicy orange rimmed by a sugaring of azure blue. The wind gusted in my ears lustily, and I attacked into it with a vigor I didn't think could possibly exist before 9am, and then even on race day. I felt good. Really good. Strong, and powerful. Muscular and lean. Veiny.
Confident.
It certainly doesn't sound like a man who has recently joined the ranks of the unemployed, does it? I could have easily been curled up in bed, half-asleep, kicking myself for not getting up and missing out, tossing and turning and stressing over the coming challenges that await me these next few weeks. But instead I was soaking in the endorphins and the secrets that pre-dawn Chicago bestows only on a chosen few who dare seek her knowledge. No matter how hard it is to get up in the morning, to stand at that line, or to commit to that attack, it's always easy when you remind youself how good you are going to feel when it's all over and counted, no matter what the outcome.
I believe I have been born again. Born again hard. The last year was spent under a rock, digging and waiting, like a pulsing, mindless, eyeless grub. Racing, with it's commitments and demands, and it's natural networking and team building, got me out and into a cocoon. But Monday, when I got the news, was the catharsis. I'm out. Free and naked and wet and clean. There are pathways and roads leading everywhere. But every step forward now has a goal. And, lessons learned from my mistakes, away I go.
The first time, you're too helpless, toothless, and weak to do anything but cry in it's blinding light.
The second time, most of us are too sleepy to care or notice.
But sometimes, the rays come streaming in through the venetian blinds, working their way through eyelids and bouncing around, faster and faster, black to purple to red...to orange, to pink...to blue. You blink, maybe sit up. Scratch.
Maybe you just go back to sleep and wake up in the dark. There will be no more sunrises.
But instead, some smell coffee. Freshly ground, earthy and lovely bitter, waiting in the bottom of a spotless, clean French press carafe, and the roiling water's squeal wailing like a tornado siren.
It's time to get up. You've got the whole day ahead of you.
