One year ago today, I joined my first bike racing team. Yeah, I noticed the significance of the date, too.
I plopped down a wad of bills for my USCF License online, and then headed over to the Goose Island Brew Pub and dropped even more cash down for my xXx Racing membership, after nervously waiting at the back of the room as all these hard-as-shit badasses gave their race reports from Hillsboro. I immediately began 2nd guessing my decision.
I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
The next day I attended my first ever team function, a sprint clinic given by team coach Randy Warren. It was raining with 15 mile an hour wind and about 40 degrees. Underdressed of course. The very first drill was a 50 meter jump in my 39x23. I nearly crashed and almost knocked over teammates Mark Watkins, Joe Ebenroth, and Jeff Watt after both my wheels seemingly left the ground.
Thank God for second impressions.
The very next day was the Fitness Check Time Trial, a 9.7 mile out and back down the lakefront path from Soldier Field to the 52nd St. overpass. Coming back into maybe a 20mph headwind at around 35 degress, it took me 29 minutes. I almost quit. But I didn't.
So I think I'll have a piece of cake at lunch to celebrate today, and then add an extra interval onto tonight's session. I've earned both.
Quite naturally, as evidenced by the number of links to the lower left you might have noticed whilst perusing this page, I had to start blogging about my experiences. Coming up very soon, is the 1-year anni of this very blog. Stay tuned.
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Katy and I got a cat yesterday! (Picture coming soon.) His name is Steve. Steve the cat. He is perhaps the Koolest Kat ever. He is also nocturnal.
I am not.
(Yawn.)
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As bike racing grows, it has squeezed out the music in my life, much to my regret.
Saturday April 5th, please, please, please get your post-race/ride nap in, especially if you are racing in Beloit on Sunday...
The Note, 1565 N. Milwaukee, will be the site of my last performance with The Midnight Shows. We do go on fairly late...officially 11:30. In reality? Probably more like 12:30. I am getting my sleep on Thursday and Friday, and of course am headed to bed straight after the gig. So I'll understand if you can't make it, but still...we were a GREAT band. They still will be, minus the little extra of me.
And the only thing I love more than playing for friends is riding with them, so if you can, come on out to The Note this Saturday night and watch me play some of that sweet, sweet soul one last time.
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
1.4.08
16.2.08
30.11.07
Chirp!
Saw the Jackson Park Monk Parakeets for the first time ever today.
Bright, bright green, and squawking loudly. Just hanging out with the geese and the pigeons.
They are descendants of pets that escaped in the 1960's and have adapted quite well to Chicago's climate.
At 33 degrees and 20 mph wind this morning, to see Parakeets mixed in, ruffled feathers all around, with the big, fat, lazy Canuck honkers was quite a treat and a reminder of the all quirky little ways that this city is one of the greatest in the world.
Bright, bright green, and squawking loudly. Just hanging out with the geese and the pigeons.
They are descendants of pets that escaped in the 1960's and have adapted quite well to Chicago's climate.
At 33 degrees and 20 mph wind this morning, to see Parakeets mixed in, ruffled feathers all around, with the big, fat, lazy Canuck honkers was quite a treat and a reminder of the all quirky little ways that this city is one of the greatest in the world.
20.11.07
Good(bye) Mornings
Don't you just love getting your longish weekday rides out of the way early?
I met a teammate at Diversey and Damen and we hit the path at 0700. The fog and the drizzle were our only companions. The path was empty except for some solitary runners and one group of cyclists that I suspect was a University of Chicago group.
I love riding this time of year. I love riding at any time of the year, of course, but each season gives me a different emotion, a different perspective. The damp air and the stiff breeze, the empty stretches of path - no more tri-geeks - gives me a powerful retrospective on the summer. My conversation with Jon this morning was almost exclusively about past races and rides this summer or xXx's upcoming spring camp in California this Spring.
We rode into the wind first up to Hollywood and then back to the Museum Campus. He turned around while I headed south further with some more gas to get my scheduled tempo ride. Basically, it's riding at top-end effort while still being able to sustain for the alloted time. If you want to put a number on it, you should be at 75% to 80% heart rate, or running at about 200-250 watts.
Now I'm back home with the full day to myself. I have a pot of strong French press to sip on while I listen to the BBC Worldwide on NPR, and type my letter of resignation from the Liquor store. I'm savoring it all like my steaming cup of coffee. Days like this will be a distant memory only a month from now.
I met a teammate at Diversey and Damen and we hit the path at 0700. The fog and the drizzle were our only companions. The path was empty except for some solitary runners and one group of cyclists that I suspect was a University of Chicago group.
I love riding this time of year. I love riding at any time of the year, of course, but each season gives me a different emotion, a different perspective. The damp air and the stiff breeze, the empty stretches of path - no more tri-geeks - gives me a powerful retrospective on the summer. My conversation with Jon this morning was almost exclusively about past races and rides this summer or xXx's upcoming spring camp in California this Spring.
We rode into the wind first up to Hollywood and then back to the Museum Campus. He turned around while I headed south further with some more gas to get my scheduled tempo ride. Basically, it's riding at top-end effort while still being able to sustain for the alloted time. If you want to put a number on it, you should be at 75% to 80% heart rate, or running at about 200-250 watts.
Now I'm back home with the full day to myself. I have a pot of strong French press to sip on while I listen to the BBC Worldwide on NPR, and type my letter of resignation from the Liquor store. I'm savoring it all like my steaming cup of coffee. Days like this will be a distant memory only a month from now.
11.11.07
The List
1. The Ride. 90 miles. The strongest I think I've ever felt on a bike...it was the first time I was able to complete the Three Sisters route without getting dropped. It was a mix of experiences. Riding a new route with the team's strongest riders has always in the past meant I was hanging on the back by a thread, never able to attack, and getting shelled on the hills. The Three Sisters route continues on past the River Road turn off - where in the past I have always turned. Either because I was about to get dropped or by myself at that point. Or recently the ride was headed that way. The Three Sisters are apparently 3 hills out near Gurnee, I believe was where we were. First time I've been in the small ring on a team ride, ever. Except for the boat ramp but that's so short it doesn't count. We went into the Sisters with at least 5 or 6 riders than we came out with. I stayed, for the most part, within my limits and was never in danger of getting dropped. But it was hard. While I rarely attacked, I was definitely grabbing good wheels and riding smart and efficiently, and had the gas left to contest all the end sprints, right on the mix at the front with Cat 3 and 2 riders. Definitely a breakthrough ride for me. The structure of my new training program is obviously paying dividends immediately. I am in the best shape of my life right now, and I've never been riding stronger. I can't wait for the real intensity and the changes that will follow this spring.
2. The Nap. Got home, ate a bit. And immediately fell asleep on the couch. Heavy, dreamless sleep.
3. The Party. The woman I am dating, Katy, threw a get-together at her apartment later that evening. Saw lots of friends, and drank some good wine. A few xXx-ers showed up. I love getting together with those guys out of kit. Out of uniform, that is. It was fun to see Rudy from my band having a conversation with Kirby late in the evening. My two mutually exclusive words - late night music, and early morning bicycling - coming together in perfect sync. The friends I've met and come to know in both worlds mean everything to me. Right around 2am, the morning's ride finally caught and cornered me. I must have been drifting off on the couch when Katy said to me, smiling, "you can go to bed you know..." Not wanting to be a party-pooper, and more than somewhat punch-drunk, I replied, "really?" Katy thought this was hysterical and sent me off to sleep. I remember only hitting the pillow, and that is it. Blackness. More dreamless sleep.
4. Childhood memories. Do any of you remember Shakey's Pizza? Tami and I, on our lunch break today while Shrieking Violet mixed our demo in the studio got to talking about childhood pizza places. Every time we went out for pizza, it was Shakey's. I don't know what it was, and that by my standards today I bet it was pretty bad, but there was something about those super thin slices, the balloons they gave us there, the impossibly huge pitchers of root beer, and Moon Patrol around the corner at the video game wall. I ate my weight there every time and put pineapple on my pizza. I make no apologies.
5. The Game(s). Go Bears. And Rex?! Where the hell have you been? This team is going to tease us all season long, right up to the bitter end. And I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but how many of you noticed that the rink on which Blackhawks skated on tonight, and was broadcast on Cable, had a Blackhawk's logo on it. Yes. A home game has finally been telecast in Chicago. As time expired on the 3-2 victory, you could hear the strains of "Detroit Sucks! Detroit Sucks!" spilling out of the rafters at The United Center, and the Hawks are on a 3-game winning streak. And congrats Illinois. It was great to see OSU get their annual dose of humility. I'm holding out for a Hawaii vs. Kansas National Championship game.
Post Script: While the screenwriters strike is keeping me from enjoying Stephen Colbert, I am still enjoying his ice cream.
What's not to love about fudgy waffle-cone pieces in vanilla ice cream and loads of caramel. Thank you, Stephen...I'll watch your reruns forever if I can have 'em with this stuff.
2. The Nap. Got home, ate a bit. And immediately fell asleep on the couch. Heavy, dreamless sleep.
3. The Party. The woman I am dating, Katy, threw a get-together at her apartment later that evening. Saw lots of friends, and drank some good wine. A few xXx-ers showed up. I love getting together with those guys out of kit. Out of uniform, that is. It was fun to see Rudy from my band having a conversation with Kirby late in the evening. My two mutually exclusive words - late night music, and early morning bicycling - coming together in perfect sync. The friends I've met and come to know in both worlds mean everything to me. Right around 2am, the morning's ride finally caught and cornered me. I must have been drifting off on the couch when Katy said to me, smiling, "you can go to bed you know..." Not wanting to be a party-pooper, and more than somewhat punch-drunk, I replied, "really?" Katy thought this was hysterical and sent me off to sleep. I remember only hitting the pillow, and that is it. Blackness. More dreamless sleep.
4. Childhood memories. Do any of you remember Shakey's Pizza? Tami and I, on our lunch break today while Shrieking Violet mixed our demo in the studio got to talking about childhood pizza places. Every time we went out for pizza, it was Shakey's. I don't know what it was, and that by my standards today I bet it was pretty bad, but there was something about those super thin slices, the balloons they gave us there, the impossibly huge pitchers of root beer, and Moon Patrol around the corner at the video game wall. I ate my weight there every time and put pineapple on my pizza. I make no apologies.
5. The Game(s). Go Bears. And Rex?! Where the hell have you been? This team is going to tease us all season long, right up to the bitter end. And I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but how many of you noticed that the rink on which Blackhawks skated on tonight, and was broadcast on Cable, had a Blackhawk's logo on it. Yes. A home game has finally been telecast in Chicago. As time expired on the 3-2 victory, you could hear the strains of "Detroit Sucks! Detroit Sucks!" spilling out of the rafters at The United Center, and the Hawks are on a 3-game winning streak. And congrats Illinois. It was great to see OSU get their annual dose of humility. I'm holding out for a Hawaii vs. Kansas National Championship game.
Post Script: While the screenwriters strike is keeping me from enjoying Stephen Colbert, I am still enjoying his ice cream.
What's not to love about fudgy waffle-cone pieces in vanilla ice cream and loads of caramel. Thank you, Stephen...I'll watch your reruns forever if I can have 'em with this stuff.
5.11.07
Get Dirty
Don't be afraid to redden your hands
And toughen the souls of your feet.
This is the work that marks and brands
And allows for no conceit.
Awake in the dark, the wind and cold,
Strip away the shine, the sheen
And veneer to lay bare the old,
And the beauty of what was unseen.
Your skin comes off with all the old layers,
Your clothes rip on the raw and new,
Your bones creak like the rusty nails.
But your smile and work are genuine and true.
Because it's far too hard to try and care
To find a pain so simple and easy,
A crystal clear view so fleeting and rare
Its reward is the act of your own discovery.
And toughen the souls of your feet.
This is the work that marks and brands
And allows for no conceit.
Awake in the dark, the wind and cold,
Strip away the shine, the sheen
And veneer to lay bare the old,
And the beauty of what was unseen.
Your skin comes off with all the old layers,
Your clothes rip on the raw and new,
Your bones creak like the rusty nails.
But your smile and work are genuine and true.
Because it's far too hard to try and care
To find a pain so simple and easy,
A crystal clear view so fleeting and rare
Its reward is the act of your own discovery.
22.10.07
The Whine Guy
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.
Wish me luck. I'm outa here.
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.
Wish me luck. I'm outa here.
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.
10.10.07
Guinness and Chili
I greeted the weather this morning with a gusty sigh into the cold breeze and smiled. I hope it's here to stay.
How tragic and almost taunting, that it's finally arrived less than 72 hours after Sunday's debacle, the Marathon. I am so glad it worked out I wouldn't be running this year...even though all I did was sit around in the heat most of the morning, serving brunch to rude non-tippers. It was supposed to be an epic weekend in Cleveland with the Midnight Shows. We had a gig all set to play Fishbone's (yes, of Bonin' in the Boneyard - they are back on tour) afterparty at the Cleveland's House of Blues.
I had sacrificed enough for myself and my racing at the expense of my music and musical colleagues. So when we found out we'd be touring the weekend of the Marathon, I figured we'd get more than enough free booze to offset the $120 registration feee. But our drummer felt it wasn't very important enough to go, even though she committed to those shows. They were to be her last. We liked her a lot. Very talented and had time like an atomic clock. But she killed the whole weekend for all of us simply by deciding she didn't want to drive out to Cleveland. Breaking her word.
Not to bring everyone down. Regardless of it all, I wasn't running in that furnace on the city streets last Sunday. I'm glad it wasn't my first marathon.
Were you there? Was it your first time? Or 10th? I'd love to hear from you regarding how it all really went down at those water stations. Was it really poor planning? Reckless neglect by the organizers? Did you have to run into Walgreen's along the route for a Gatorade?
Bring the Haterade for the marathon in my comments section!
How tragic and almost taunting, that it's finally arrived less than 72 hours after Sunday's debacle, the Marathon. I am so glad it worked out I wouldn't be running this year...even though all I did was sit around in the heat most of the morning, serving brunch to rude non-tippers. It was supposed to be an epic weekend in Cleveland with the Midnight Shows. We had a gig all set to play Fishbone's (yes, of Bonin' in the Boneyard - they are back on tour) afterparty at the Cleveland's House of Blues.
I had sacrificed enough for myself and my racing at the expense of my music and musical colleagues. So when we found out we'd be touring the weekend of the Marathon, I figured we'd get more than enough free booze to offset the $120 registration feee. But our drummer felt it wasn't very important enough to go, even though she committed to those shows. They were to be her last. We liked her a lot. Very talented and had time like an atomic clock. But she killed the whole weekend for all of us simply by deciding she didn't want to drive out to Cleveland. Breaking her word.
Not to bring everyone down. Regardless of it all, I wasn't running in that furnace on the city streets last Sunday. I'm glad it wasn't my first marathon.
Were you there? Was it your first time? Or 10th? I'd love to hear from you regarding how it all really went down at those water stations. Was it really poor planning? Reckless neglect by the organizers? Did you have to run into Walgreen's along the route for a Gatorade?
Bring the Haterade for the marathon in my comments section!
7.10.07
The Year of the Rat
It's coming.
My year. The year of the Rat.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
My year. The year of the Rat.
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.
20.9.07
The Life
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...)
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...)
15.9.07
Summer's Fruit
Goodbye to the days of peaches, breezes, and inspired, warm mornings. Hello to layers, snot on your cheeks, and seeing the snow and going back to bed. Hello to long, hot showers, lounging in sweats, and a shot of Jameson at the bottom of your cup of French press as you snore on the couch. Oh, sure. There is some in-between time for crisp mornings, leaves caught in your hair, and steaming apple cider. For seeing your breath in the air as you wait at the line, and sunny game days in long-sleeves - no coats needed. But the clock is ticking down on this wonderful, beautiful, breathtaking, groundbreaking - and heartbreaking- summer.
A summer in which we became men and women. In which we found new loves, new friends, and learned to laugh and cry and scream with all of them. Those seeds were planted in the gold of early sunrise, and their tall, full stalks -packed with juice and life - reaped on the hot rivers of steamy blacktop in humid afternoons. Now we bring them inside, to age and mature, to bring to life their full aroma and flavor.
You will always tend the fields, as you have every summer. But as each September passes and the sun sets earlier and earlier, you'll look back on each harvest as though it were the only one you ever reaped. And it was. Every single blossom was unique, every juicy bite was a one-of-a-kind experience.
Let them enliven your winter. Let them spread light to take away the darkness. And take nothing of them for granted. For they will get you through the icy mornings, the long days at work, and that cold walk home from the bus stop. Laugh with them at happy hour, and have them over for dinner. Give them the same care and love you gave as when they first sprouted out of that tender, new soil. For they will give you so much more in return. They are what made this summer what it was, and the person whom you became while laboring through it's heat.
A summer in which we became men and women. In which we found new loves, new friends, and learned to laugh and cry and scream with all of them. Those seeds were planted in the gold of early sunrise, and their tall, full stalks -packed with juice and life - reaped on the hot rivers of steamy blacktop in humid afternoons. Now we bring them inside, to age and mature, to bring to life their full aroma and flavor.
You will always tend the fields, as you have every summer. But as each September passes and the sun sets earlier and earlier, you'll look back on each harvest as though it were the only one you ever reaped. And it was. Every single blossom was unique, every juicy bite was a one-of-a-kind experience.
Let them enliven your winter. Let them spread light to take away the darkness. And take nothing of them for granted. For they will get you through the icy mornings, the long days at work, and that cold walk home from the bus stop. Laugh with them at happy hour, and have them over for dinner. Give them the same care and love you gave as when they first sprouted out of that tender, new soil. For they will give you so much more in return. They are what made this summer what it was, and the person whom you became while laboring through it's heat.
13.9.07
Go well, Pieter.
9/14 update: I would like to expand on mine and Erik's comments below on this picture. It was taken in late May of this year, the week of Snake Alley. It was my first time racing in Matteson, and it was a memorable night. I went in very unsure of my racing ability, with only 2 races under my belt, and came away with 5th place in the B's. Erik and Nick Gierman and I really romped that night, attacking like crazy and it was my first real taste of teamwork and seeing it pay off. The smiles on our faces are the result of the effort we all left on the pavement for our respective races that night - it was top tens all around for xXx.
I remember talking with Pieter for the first time afterwards, just before this was taken. My recollection was one of pure humbleness. Something I didn't expect after having heard about what a talented and aggressive racer he was. Luke said it best in comments for Pieter's obituary for Chicagobikeracing.com: Pieter never finished mid-pack. He was either Top 5, crashed out, or cracked hard and off the back. He rode the way he wanted - with honesty and his heart - and never needed any talk to back it up. He was one of my role models on this team.
As I said in my last entry for my team time trial report, I would certainly never have finished this season if it weren't for this team and for role models like Pieter. I am at a complete loss for words and explanation as to why this team has been visited not once, but twice, by the horrible disaster of losing two beloved and respected teammates in the span of less than three months. It is not fair. That all future races, packs, and podiums will be missing the desire, heart, will, and the smiles of Pieter and Beth.
It's up to us all to keep their spirit alive in all the races and rides to come.
You'll be missed.
I remember talking with Pieter for the first time afterwards, just before this was taken. My recollection was one of pure humbleness. Something I didn't expect after having heard about what a talented and aggressive racer he was. Luke said it best in comments for Pieter's obituary for Chicagobikeracing.com: Pieter never finished mid-pack. He was either Top 5, crashed out, or cracked hard and off the back. He rode the way he wanted - with honesty and his heart - and never needed any talk to back it up. He was one of my role models on this team.
As I said in my last entry for my team time trial report, I would certainly never have finished this season if it weren't for this team and for role models like Pieter. I am at a complete loss for words and explanation as to why this team has been visited not once, but twice, by the horrible disaster of losing two beloved and respected teammates in the span of less than three months. It is not fair. That all future races, packs, and podiums will be missing the desire, heart, will, and the smiles of Pieter and Beth.
It's up to us all to keep their spirit alive in all the races and rides to come.
You'll be missed.
11.9.07
I Made it Last
I made it. With sun blazing down, my feet brittle and sore, and a stitch in my side, I made it to the finish.
Crossing the white line on that flat, hot road in Utica Sunday not only ended the toughest race I entered this year, it ended my first season as a bike racer. On both counts, I never dreamed it would be so hard. Had I known what I was in for, without having had yet the experience of finishing, I would have done neither. However, seeing it from the other side, I can't wait to do it all again.
It's so easy to dream of glory, to sit on the couch, drinking beer and watching The Tour. And to go buy that brand new Dura-Ace carbon fiber bike, and what the hell, throw in the case of Clif Bars, too. "Oooh, a World Championship jersey." But to actually stretch, push, and reach for glory - or even harder, your own sense of personal gain and satisfaction - in the face of pain, is another thing entirely. Can you get up at 5am on a Sunday to ride? Keep that sprint up for another 100 meters? Get back in the race with your face bloodied and your knee swollen?
And doing anything for the first time is exponentially harder because it is unanticipated pain. Unknown pain. How bad will it get? How long can you go? What if I don't make it? All questions that must be addressed if you are to do this again, so knowing that you will have answers, you move on into that gray foggy haze.
Because as I have learned this year, in my first season of competitive cycling, conquering pain is what satisfies me and drives me to do it again. It's made me a harder man and am that much better for it.
Because I've never been much of a fighter.
I was picked on a lot in school. Bullied on the playground. Pushed around. I gave up way to easily. Still do sometimes. Never took risks. Still don't many times. I never dated. In fact, I never really talked that much to girls, let alone ones I was interested in. I only sat and waited for things to come to me. And watched as they all passed me by. My success was found inwardly, through musical expression, and it was the one thing that probably saved my life. The tuba, the bass, my bands, my gigs, were all safety valves that released the pressure on my soul, and let in a sense of self-worth that at least kept me individual and unique.
But that is changing, because of the new limits I have set for myself this year. Not my individuality, of course, but my passive nature towards letting things come to me. And that is of course further defining my individuality much, much more. Seeing myself reaching and surpassing levels of physical and mental achievement this summer that in the spring only scared me has filled me with power and confidence. And that it was done pretty much on that fly, and that this winter I am going in with a plan drives me so much more I can hardly wait for it to be spring again. And for all the things, experiences, and events beyond the bike that need to be taken, not waited upon.
It was this past Sunday in Utica, IL. The ABR National Championship 4 Man Team Time Trial event. We waited at the line, joking casually. I wasn't nervous, but there had been a little voice in my head all week saying, "you know, you have never ridden this distance at full speed before." I chose to ignore it, because I had been faced with unexpected and daunting adversity many times this year and persevered, and I believed this would be no different. In one way I was right, and in the other I had no I idea what I was in for in about five minutes.
We'd agreed during our 5am team practices in the week before that Leonard and I would lead the team out from the line. Jonathan and Peter were so much stronger that in order to set a pace that all of us could ride at, the two of us would establish the opening tempo. I took a few deep breaths as the race marshal gave us two minutes, one minute, 30 seconds, 10, and then counted down from five.
We were rolling. All the talk, all the training, all the planning, it had finally come together in my last race of the season. And in about a mile, it was all falling apart.
We were trying to maintain our discussed baseline speed of 25mph but no sooner than we had passed our 2 minute men less than a couple miles into the race, I was already wheezing like Jackie Gleason on his ventilator. My breathing was terrible, my spin and economy were wasteful, I was cracking like a first-time club rider. I was missing the wheel after my pulls, couldn't accelerate, and was already going anaerobic. I was in full panic.
We continued east on the first stretch and I would just pull through and off, practically pushing whoever had just pulled before me backwards as I came off. Peter sheltered me from the wind as I rode to his right. Jon shouted for me to stay on his wheel. Leonard gave encouragement as I came of the front. And then we turned into the wind.
There was no way I was going to make it.
I was getting gapped each time I tried to get back on the line. Peter came by once and said, "Dont feel bad, man. It happens. You're doing your best." But our speed was slowing and I could sense everyone else's frustration with me as I thought, Goddamnit. All this training, all this excitement, and I'm going to go home the goat. Dropped before we even got moving.
Gapped again and a whooshing gust of wind past my ears. "Go!" I shouted. "Go on, leave me!"
But I kept pedaling, embarrassed, and hoping against the inevitable odds of biology I could pull my shit together. And the team ahead refused to let me falter.
"No!" Jon shouted. "Get your ass on my wheel!"
I focused on belly breathing, gave it the gas, and willed myself back up to the group. I was on again, amazingly, and Jon began barking out orders. "Three man rotation guys. Brian, stay at the back and recover." And my teammates brought me back.
After about 3 or 4 rotations, my heart rate finally came down below 165 and when Peter asked me how I was doing, I was able to respond in a steady voice that I was doing good. I focused on my breathing - deep breaths of water from the pit of my belly and rising up to my chest. And then: "Phhew!" and inhaling again. But then Leonard came to the fore, and I heard him say he wasn't going to last. He pulled long, and there was a miscommunication between him and Jon that was a close call, but everyone stayed upright, and then he was gone.
"Leonard's off!" Jon said. And whatever had happened with Leonard must have been bad, because he had sat up and was coasting, his silhouette growing smaller behind us. And then it was galvanized like iron in my brain. "No more fucking off, no more mental lapses, Brian. These guys are depending on you. Ride smart. Let's go."
And 40 minutes later I found ourselves cruising at 27mph, working hard, but certainly not the panting mess I was before at a much slower speed. Once I missed a turn after pulling us to the corner, I was so focused on deep breathing. I nearly flipped over my handlebars trying to get the bike around as Jon screamed, "Left! Left!"
"Sorry, guys, I'm a fucking moron." Peter just laughed and said, "your other left!"
We really had a groove on from then to the end. With the wind at our backs we were hitting 30+, and even with the cross winds we maintained a steady 26-27mph pace. It wasn't without cost however. The last five miles of race I wanted to quit with every pedal stroke. I thought I felt blisters forming on my feet. And any minute my calves were going to seize up in protest. But Jon drove us on, shouting out the miles we had left to go, and I felt my will growing stronger as he called the numbers off. At one mile to go, I smiled through the agony at how everything had turned out.
I saw the finish line and stopped focusing on my breathing and literally tried to rip my crank arms off with the last fumes I had in the tank. And it was over. A 7th place finish, averaging just under 25mph. Timeless. I could've been out for 90 minutes or 90 seconds. I ecstatic and let out a whoop. We'd looked over the edge of failure, regained my balance on it's precipice, and hawked a giant loogie into it's chasm before walking away. I'd made it to the end - a place I wouldn't have found myself going alone, or with teammates who put themselves first.
And I've made it to the end of my first season. I haven't accomplished much by many standards, but by mine own, I have reached heights of success I would never have imagined I'd ever attain in this sport. Having looked pain and failure in the eye - sometimes it got the better of me, other times it didn't - and coming out on the other side wanting to do it all over again is all I could have ever asked for.
Jon, Myself, Peter, and Leonard:
Crossing the white line on that flat, hot road in Utica Sunday not only ended the toughest race I entered this year, it ended my first season as a bike racer. On both counts, I never dreamed it would be so hard. Had I known what I was in for, without having had yet the experience of finishing, I would have done neither. However, seeing it from the other side, I can't wait to do it all again.
It's so easy to dream of glory, to sit on the couch, drinking beer and watching The Tour. And to go buy that brand new Dura-Ace carbon fiber bike, and what the hell, throw in the case of Clif Bars, too. "Oooh, a World Championship jersey." But to actually stretch, push, and reach for glory - or even harder, your own sense of personal gain and satisfaction - in the face of pain, is another thing entirely. Can you get up at 5am on a Sunday to ride? Keep that sprint up for another 100 meters? Get back in the race with your face bloodied and your knee swollen?
And doing anything for the first time is exponentially harder because it is unanticipated pain. Unknown pain. How bad will it get? How long can you go? What if I don't make it? All questions that must be addressed if you are to do this again, so knowing that you will have answers, you move on into that gray foggy haze.
Because as I have learned this year, in my first season of competitive cycling, conquering pain is what satisfies me and drives me to do it again. It's made me a harder man and am that much better for it.
Because I've never been much of a fighter.
I was picked on a lot in school. Bullied on the playground. Pushed around. I gave up way to easily. Still do sometimes. Never took risks. Still don't many times. I never dated. In fact, I never really talked that much to girls, let alone ones I was interested in. I only sat and waited for things to come to me. And watched as they all passed me by. My success was found inwardly, through musical expression, and it was the one thing that probably saved my life. The tuba, the bass, my bands, my gigs, were all safety valves that released the pressure on my soul, and let in a sense of self-worth that at least kept me individual and unique.
But that is changing, because of the new limits I have set for myself this year. Not my individuality, of course, but my passive nature towards letting things come to me. And that is of course further defining my individuality much, much more. Seeing myself reaching and surpassing levels of physical and mental achievement this summer that in the spring only scared me has filled me with power and confidence. And that it was done pretty much on that fly, and that this winter I am going in with a plan drives me so much more I can hardly wait for it to be spring again. And for all the things, experiences, and events beyond the bike that need to be taken, not waited upon.
It was this past Sunday in Utica, IL. The ABR National Championship 4 Man Team Time Trial event. We waited at the line, joking casually. I wasn't nervous, but there had been a little voice in my head all week saying, "you know, you have never ridden this distance at full speed before." I chose to ignore it, because I had been faced with unexpected and daunting adversity many times this year and persevered, and I believed this would be no different. In one way I was right, and in the other I had no I idea what I was in for in about five minutes.
We'd agreed during our 5am team practices in the week before that Leonard and I would lead the team out from the line. Jonathan and Peter were so much stronger that in order to set a pace that all of us could ride at, the two of us would establish the opening tempo. I took a few deep breaths as the race marshal gave us two minutes, one minute, 30 seconds, 10, and then counted down from five.
We were rolling. All the talk, all the training, all the planning, it had finally come together in my last race of the season. And in about a mile, it was all falling apart.
We were trying to maintain our discussed baseline speed of 25mph but no sooner than we had passed our 2 minute men less than a couple miles into the race, I was already wheezing like Jackie Gleason on his ventilator. My breathing was terrible, my spin and economy were wasteful, I was cracking like a first-time club rider. I was missing the wheel after my pulls, couldn't accelerate, and was already going anaerobic. I was in full panic.
We continued east on the first stretch and I would just pull through and off, practically pushing whoever had just pulled before me backwards as I came off. Peter sheltered me from the wind as I rode to his right. Jon shouted for me to stay on his wheel. Leonard gave encouragement as I came of the front. And then we turned into the wind.
There was no way I was going to make it.
I was getting gapped each time I tried to get back on the line. Peter came by once and said, "Dont feel bad, man. It happens. You're doing your best." But our speed was slowing and I could sense everyone else's frustration with me as I thought, Goddamnit. All this training, all this excitement, and I'm going to go home the goat. Dropped before we even got moving.
Gapped again and a whooshing gust of wind past my ears. "Go!" I shouted. "Go on, leave me!"
But I kept pedaling, embarrassed, and hoping against the inevitable odds of biology I could pull my shit together. And the team ahead refused to let me falter.
"No!" Jon shouted. "Get your ass on my wheel!"
I focused on belly breathing, gave it the gas, and willed myself back up to the group. I was on again, amazingly, and Jon began barking out orders. "Three man rotation guys. Brian, stay at the back and recover." And my teammates brought me back.
After about 3 or 4 rotations, my heart rate finally came down below 165 and when Peter asked me how I was doing, I was able to respond in a steady voice that I was doing good. I focused on my breathing - deep breaths of water from the pit of my belly and rising up to my chest. And then: "Phhew!" and inhaling again. But then Leonard came to the fore, and I heard him say he wasn't going to last. He pulled long, and there was a miscommunication between him and Jon that was a close call, but everyone stayed upright, and then he was gone.
"Leonard's off!" Jon said. And whatever had happened with Leonard must have been bad, because he had sat up and was coasting, his silhouette growing smaller behind us. And then it was galvanized like iron in my brain. "No more fucking off, no more mental lapses, Brian. These guys are depending on you. Ride smart. Let's go."
And 40 minutes later I found ourselves cruising at 27mph, working hard, but certainly not the panting mess I was before at a much slower speed. Once I missed a turn after pulling us to the corner, I was so focused on deep breathing. I nearly flipped over my handlebars trying to get the bike around as Jon screamed, "Left! Left!"
"Sorry, guys, I'm a fucking moron." Peter just laughed and said, "your other left!"
We really had a groove on from then to the end. With the wind at our backs we were hitting 30+, and even with the cross winds we maintained a steady 26-27mph pace. It wasn't without cost however. The last five miles of race I wanted to quit with every pedal stroke. I thought I felt blisters forming on my feet. And any minute my calves were going to seize up in protest. But Jon drove us on, shouting out the miles we had left to go, and I felt my will growing stronger as he called the numbers off. At one mile to go, I smiled through the agony at how everything had turned out.
I saw the finish line and stopped focusing on my breathing and literally tried to rip my crank arms off with the last fumes I had in the tank. And it was over. A 7th place finish, averaging just under 25mph. Timeless. I could've been out for 90 minutes or 90 seconds. I ecstatic and let out a whoop. We'd looked over the edge of failure, regained my balance on it's precipice, and hawked a giant loogie into it's chasm before walking away. I'd made it to the end - a place I wouldn't have found myself going alone, or with teammates who put themselves first.
And I've made it to the end of my first season. I haven't accomplished much by many standards, but by mine own, I have reached heights of success I would never have imagined I'd ever attain in this sport. Having looked pain and failure in the eye - sometimes it got the better of me, other times it didn't - and coming out on the other side wanting to do it all over again is all I could have ever asked for.
Jon, Myself, Peter, and Leonard:
5.9.07
Fun-employment
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.)
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:
Uncle Rick and me at Erik's Monday BBQ:
And his hat was pretty popular:
And from today's interview excursion to Elmhurst:
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:
Uncle Rick and me at Erik's Monday BBQ:
And his hat was pretty popular:
And from today's interview excursion to Elmhurst:
Still Alive...actually, more than ever!
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!
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.
28.8.07
free
The sun rises only twice in your life.
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.
Make it.
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.
Make it.
10.8.07
Macbonds
I have a feeling we just finishing up Act VI here.
Barry Bonds would be perfectly at home in a Shakespearian tragedy. The irony of his current situation follows so closely to that of Macbeth it is almost tragic. Sorry.
Yet, here we are. A great baseball player, a sure lock for the Hall of Fame. The perfect all-around player: hits for average, fast on the base paths, and plays the field well. He could easily finished his career up in 2003 or so with 500 home runs, and 500 stolen bases. He's close to 3000 hits now, but in actuality his best years for average were between '01 and '04. Which leads me to the irony.
Steroids don't really do much for a slugger. Probably 90% of hitting a home run is simply making contact with the ball. It's the hardest thing to do in sports, it has been said. Power does come into the equation sure, as does the percentage of fast twitch muscles, which is probably the part were steroids affect the equation. However, the biggest role for performance enhancing drugs, especially for a player striving to reach a goal that has much more to do with career longevity than power, is it's effect on recovery.
Steroids allow for muscle and joint recovery to happen much quicker, and it's benefits for an older baseball player in the regard are undeniable. Barry Bonds has never hit more than 49 home runs in a season except for that one year. For the most part he's been a day in, day out 35-45 home runs a season. It's just when he's still doing at age 40, then 41, and...wait...42?! (really?!) is what is remarkable, and what has gotten to the event of breaking Hank Aaron's record earlier this week.
If it hadn't been for the steroids, we would seen the injuries take over, the starts diminish, and a great player having the sunset of his career around 2002. Instead, from 2000 to 2004 Bonds hit for an average .341 and 307 home runs. Not exactly an evening stroll after dinner for an old man.
The man could've had it all if he'd just left things to their natural course. Respect, adulation, and a bust in the Hall of Fame. Instead, he wasn't satisfied with his accomplishments and became mired in jealously over others (ill-gotten) fame - McGwire and Sosa. For some reason his current career path wasn't good enough and it had to be all about the home runs. So it was - his fatal flaw. So then Barry Bonds had arguably one of the best 5 year runs in history, let alone for a player over 35.
And at what cost? He has arrived at Baseball hallowed ground with Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron's record in shatters, and what has happened to the respect and adulation? Gone, under all the speculation of steroid abuse. And it's pretty obvious to anyone who has been paying attention, to the released court documents, to all the parties involved, that it is much more than just speculation.
And just as in any other tragedy, when the deed is finally done and people begin to talk, the man with the fatal flaw begins to wilt and sag under the crushing weight of the guilt and shame and realization that had he just let things be he'd be much better off.
Barry Bonds would be perfectly at home in a Shakespearian tragedy. The irony of his current situation follows so closely to that of Macbeth it is almost tragic. Sorry.
Yet, here we are. A great baseball player, a sure lock for the Hall of Fame. The perfect all-around player: hits for average, fast on the base paths, and plays the field well. He could easily finished his career up in 2003 or so with 500 home runs, and 500 stolen bases. He's close to 3000 hits now, but in actuality his best years for average were between '01 and '04. Which leads me to the irony.
Steroids don't really do much for a slugger. Probably 90% of hitting a home run is simply making contact with the ball. It's the hardest thing to do in sports, it has been said. Power does come into the equation sure, as does the percentage of fast twitch muscles, which is probably the part were steroids affect the equation. However, the biggest role for performance enhancing drugs, especially for a player striving to reach a goal that has much more to do with career longevity than power, is it's effect on recovery.
Steroids allow for muscle and joint recovery to happen much quicker, and it's benefits for an older baseball player in the regard are undeniable. Barry Bonds has never hit more than 49 home runs in a season except for that one year. For the most part he's been a day in, day out 35-45 home runs a season. It's just when he's still doing at age 40, then 41, and...wait...42?! (really?!) is what is remarkable, and what has gotten to the event of breaking Hank Aaron's record earlier this week.
If it hadn't been for the steroids, we would seen the injuries take over, the starts diminish, and a great player having the sunset of his career around 2002. Instead, from 2000 to 2004 Bonds hit for an average .341 and 307 home runs. Not exactly an evening stroll after dinner for an old man.
The man could've had it all if he'd just left things to their natural course. Respect, adulation, and a bust in the Hall of Fame. Instead, he wasn't satisfied with his accomplishments and became mired in jealously over others (ill-gotten) fame - McGwire and Sosa. For some reason his current career path wasn't good enough and it had to be all about the home runs. So it was - his fatal flaw. So then Barry Bonds had arguably one of the best 5 year runs in history, let alone for a player over 35.
And at what cost? He has arrived at Baseball hallowed ground with Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron's record in shatters, and what has happened to the respect and adulation? Gone, under all the speculation of steroid abuse. And it's pretty obvious to anyone who has been paying attention, to the released court documents, to all the parties involved, that it is much more than just speculation.
And just as in any other tragedy, when the deed is finally done and people begin to talk, the man with the fatal flaw begins to wilt and sag under the crushing weight of the guilt and shame and realization that had he just let things be he'd be much better off.
9.8.07
Geese, Payback, and A.B.
First, a clarification about the geese comment. Yesterday was the xXx fitness-check time trial. Everyone on the team meets up at McFetritch St (the east/west street that's just north of Soldier Field) and the Lake Shore Path, right next to that big steel monument to Chicago's families, or mothers or whatever. We go off at 2 minutes intervals, heading south to the turn-around point at the 52nd St. overpass. Then head back, pretty simple. Except for the geese on the path. These things are lazier than pigeons. Even when, what must look like some kind of frothing, panting monster, comes barreling at them at 25 miles an hour, they refuse to get out of the way. Coming back I had to scream at one, lest his dumb neck get tangled up in my spokes. However, teammate Matt Moran informed me that they do respond well to honking. Yes, honking. He demonstrated a good one for me. I needed another hour of endurance yesterday, so I headed back out at lunch and tried it out. Worked pretty well. So remember, give a couple loud honks as you approach the gaggle of stubbornness sitting in your way, and they will move.
By the way, I continue to improve. My first effort back in April was 29 minutes flat for the 9.7 mile route. Just over an average of 20 miles an hour. It was a brutally cold and windy day however, not to mention, it was probably the first time I had ever ridden that hard in my life. My second effort six weeks later netted me a large improvement at 26.40 on another equally windy and crappy day. On my 3rd installment of the FCTT I clocked in at an RCH under 26 minutes - 25.58. And yesterday I knocked over a half-minute off it, at 25.23. Yeah!
Payback
Speaking of my lunch time ride... As I was headed back north yesterday, around that section that juts out right next to the water, just south of the 35th street skate park, I passed this absolutely gorgeous woman on a nice bike. She was moving well, had good form, looked pretty experienced. Except she was wearing no helmet. So I thought I'd have a little fun. "Where's your lid?" I asked as I pulled up along side her. She grinned and replied, "It's in San Francisco."
"You know, we may not be as hip as San Fran, but we do have bike shops here in Chicago."
She didn't think it was very funny, and told me, in more choice words, to ride on. Which I did, without further comment. However, less than a half-mile later, a got a flat. And I had stupidly neglected to transfer my tube and pump in my backpack to my jersey pockets before heading out. She came by about a minute later.
"Why don't you go find a bike shop!"
Somebody did stop, on account of my team jersey, and donated a tube and some air. Turns out he knew one of my teammates, Nico. Nico, if you read this, email me and I will pass along his name. Your father sold him his house.
A.B.
A.B was the owner of the little shop across from the security desk at the entrance to 410 N. Michigan, the North Tower of the Wrigley Building. He always greeted you with a cheerful hello in his thick Pakistani accent, if he wasn't on the phone, or always tried to hilariously upsell you a beverage with your banana or granola bar: "Sumt'ingk too dreenk??" He's been a fixture in the building for as long as I've worked here.
Every once in a while the gate would be drawn, if he'd decided to take a day off, but it was never more than just a day. However, it has been closed since Monday morning, and today we were told that A.B. had died on Saturday.
It made me sad, and I felt like a writing a few words about him here. I only knew him through the few dozen or so words he'd spoken to me, but he was as much a part of the Wrigley Building as it's Clock Tower, or the brass molding over it's elevators.
By the way, I continue to improve. My first effort back in April was 29 minutes flat for the 9.7 mile route. Just over an average of 20 miles an hour. It was a brutally cold and windy day however, not to mention, it was probably the first time I had ever ridden that hard in my life. My second effort six weeks later netted me a large improvement at 26.40 on another equally windy and crappy day. On my 3rd installment of the FCTT I clocked in at an RCH under 26 minutes - 25.58. And yesterday I knocked over a half-minute off it, at 25.23. Yeah!
Payback
Speaking of my lunch time ride... As I was headed back north yesterday, around that section that juts out right next to the water, just south of the 35th street skate park, I passed this absolutely gorgeous woman on a nice bike. She was moving well, had good form, looked pretty experienced. Except she was wearing no helmet. So I thought I'd have a little fun. "Where's your lid?" I asked as I pulled up along side her. She grinned and replied, "It's in San Francisco."
"You know, we may not be as hip as San Fran, but we do have bike shops here in Chicago."
She didn't think it was very funny, and told me, in more choice words, to ride on. Which I did, without further comment. However, less than a half-mile later, a got a flat. And I had stupidly neglected to transfer my tube and pump in my backpack to my jersey pockets before heading out. She came by about a minute later.
"Why don't you go find a bike shop!"
Somebody did stop, on account of my team jersey, and donated a tube and some air. Turns out he knew one of my teammates, Nico. Nico, if you read this, email me and I will pass along his name. Your father sold him his house.
A.B.
A.B was the owner of the little shop across from the security desk at the entrance to 410 N. Michigan, the North Tower of the Wrigley Building. He always greeted you with a cheerful hello in his thick Pakistani accent, if he wasn't on the phone, or always tried to hilariously upsell you a beverage with your banana or granola bar: "Sumt'ingk too dreenk??" He's been a fixture in the building for as long as I've worked here.
Every once in a while the gate would be drawn, if he'd decided to take a day off, but it was never more than just a day. However, it has been closed since Monday morning, and today we were told that A.B. had died on Saturday.
It made me sad, and I felt like a writing a few words about him here. I only knew him through the few dozen or so words he'd spoken to me, but he was as much a part of the Wrigley Building as it's Clock Tower, or the brass molding over it's elevators.
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