Retail Junkie Burnout

Shooting Peeps with a Slingshot and Other Mature Bachelor Party Shenanigans

2011-06-03T07:20:00.000-07:00

It turns out I am getting older. One clear sign is the significant number of 40th birthday parties I have attended in the past few years. I can’t say exactly how many because my memory is starting to go, but there have been a lot, by cracky! And at each one, it is generally the same group of people, only a different person is wearing a silly hat or a sash. I don’t need numerous 40th birthday parties to point out the fact that I’m getting older. My aching bones do a perfectly good job of that. Nevertheless, my aching bones went to another 40th birthday party two weeks ago and there are many more on my schedule in the near future. When at last they taper off, the cycle of 50th birthday parties will begin and I’m sure my bones will still be aching. As for my own 40th birthday party coming up in less than two years, you’re all invited. Please come and have a great time. When it’s over, give me a shout. I’ll be curious to know how it went.

Weddings and bachelor parties have also become regular affairs, as many of my close friends, family members, and fellow coworkers who are also getting older are deciding it’s finally time to grow up. Recently, I attended a bachelor party in honor of Land Beaver, Bart’s older brother. Bart of course, as the four or five of you who read this column know, is hands down, without question, one of my most favorite fellow coworkers, and although Land Beaver has a real job and doesn’t work at the bike shop, he is nevertheless a very colorful patch stitched into the patchwork quilt that is the bike shop extended family. He is a regular on our shop bike rides and ski excursions and he helps out each year at our annual bike swap as well as joins us in our bike brigade during the annual 4th of July parade. If you’ve ever been to the bike swap, he is the guy wearing a sombrero, loading up all the free abandoned junk bikes in the back of his car. If you’ve watched the parade, he’s the guy wearing knee-high tube socks and a backpack zooming around on inline skates with a tow rope in his hands who I am cursing at for attaching his tow hook to the back of my Penny-Farthing.

Land Beaver’s bachelor party was nothing like your archetypal bachelor party in Las Vegas, Montreal, or at a rented condo a few towns over. There were no inappropriate shenanigans involving adult entertainment professionals. No tigers or chickens were harmed and no one lost any teeth. There were no cigars, no drinking games, and no keg stands. A mason jar full of fresh corn whiskey, generously donated to our cause by Jesus H. Renko’s fiancée, remained unopened. And even though by 11 pm the nine of us were all sitting quietly around a campfire struggling to stay awake, we all had a swell time, by cracky!

Seriously though, we did have a swell time. Perhaps the swellest time anyone has ever had at a bachelor party, or at least at a mature bachelor party, which is what I would call it, because we are all very mature gentlemen who are all married or engaged. We enjoyed a very mature bachelor party involving two mature days and two mature nights of tenting, mountain biking, archery, primitive weapon making, pine pitch torch burning, glass sculpting, and shooting Peeps at each other with sling shots. We enjoyed a lot of good mature camp food including sausages and beans (insert joke here) as well as polenta, peanut butter, potatoes, and of course, Peeps. Yes we enjoyed a few beers, but as a true indicator of how mature we all are, all but one of us listened to our wives’ recommendations and remembered to drink lots and lots of water. If this bachelor party sounds like a good time to you, feel free to take notes.

Aside from celebrating Land Beaver’s imminent nuptials, and bemoaning his fleeting bachelorhood, the main purpose of this trip, of course, was the mountain biking. We are all mountain bikers, and even though it was early spring, and most of us hadn’t sat on a bicycle since last fall, the idea of two days of epic mountain biking following two nights of mature bachelor party action sounded like a great idea to us. And even though by the end of the second day, the ache in my bones had spread to my back, neck, legs, and especially my bottom, I would do it all over again. I would just enjoy a few less beers and I would bring a much more significant and cushy sleeping pad to rest my aching body upon. Fortunately, the aches in my body have retreated back to their home in my bones, and I’m walking in a normal fashion again. I’m feeling ready as ever for the next mature event, which is another 40th birthday party. As for a gift for the lucky 40 year old, I’m thinking an unopened mason jar full of corn whiskey is a swell idea.

Stark Raving Mud

2011-05-18T05:53:00.000-07:00

Like any good Mainer, my Mom has a lot of great expressions. “I’ve never seen luggage on a hearse,” and “It would take a hell of a man to replace no man,” are two classics. One of my favorites has always been “uglier than a mud fence,” which she uses when describing people and objects that are simply too ugly to look at. “That statue is uglier than a mud fence!” she’ll proclaim. I’ve seen a lot of fences in my 38 years, but I have never seen a mud fence, and I’m not sure she has either, but judging from that expression, a mud fence must be pretty darn ugly.

When my time comes to build a fence, I’ll be sure to look into other types—picket, wrought iron, wattle, palisade, split rail, or maybe even chain-link if money is, as Mom would say, “tighter than the skin on a hotdog”—but definitely not mud. Although I have never seen a mud fence, I have seen a lot of mud, especially this spring, which has rolled in on the coattails of one doozy of a winter. Let’s not forget, Old Man Winter has a mom too, and apparently she came to visit this year to show her reprehensible son how they did things back in the day.

When I was a muddy-kneed little kid, I used to make great mud pies. I would fill a pie pan with wet soupy mud and pat the surface with my little hand, maybe sprinkle some grass on top, and it was done. My lovely wife had a different method. She would find thicker mud and shape out a mud pie on the driveway, let it bake in the sun, and then feed it to her little brother.

Imagine the mud pie you could make with the muddy dirt roads that are out there this spring. “Home of the World’s Largest Mud Pie” could become a distinction for your town. I consider myself an exceptionally good driver, but having grown up surrounded by paved roads, I was never taught how to navigate a vehicle on the open sea, or down muddy dirt roads with huge swells and tall waves of mud crashing down, all of it working to swallow my Mazda like a leather boot. We recently went to a dinner party at Uncle Robby’s cabin, which is located on a very muddy dirt road at the bottom of a very long hill. For most of the drive, all was going well, and we were almost there, when suddenly the road came alive. My lovely wife did her best to instruct me, telling me to go that way and that way, but that no matter which way, not to stop! Fortunately, we were going downhill, so we had gravity on our side, and by the skin of our clenched teeth, we made it down. I was convinced, however, that when it was time to go, we’d never make it up.

The image of the Mazda sunken in a muddy ditch, and the prospect of being marooned at Uncle Robby’s cabin preoccupied me throughout the evening. You might say I was a stick in the mud. My lovely wife however, who was born on a muddy dirt road, wasn’t concerned in the least. When it was time to go, she turned the ignition key and put it in drive, pulled out of the driveway, and headed directly into the belly of the beast.

There was no turning back.

The journey up the road was tense, harrowing, and perilous. We were yelling and hooting, “Go! Come on! Yes! No! Yes! Oh no!” At one point she skirted the very edge of the road and it looked like we were doomed, but she held on and never stopped, never gave it too much gas, never kept the steering wheel turning in one direction, never stopped believing, and we made it out. The Mazda came out covered in mud pies, but it was nonetheless a triumphant, exhilarating moment.

Monster truck enthusiasts aside, I can’t think of too many people who particularly like mud. Most people complain about it, make efforts to avoid it, or try to get rid of it. That is, until they get on a mountain bike. Why anyone who generally avoids mud would suddenly aim for it, just because they’re riding a mountain bike, is beyond me. Mud is gritty paste that, like sand at the beach, gets everywhere. Short of tying an anchor to your bike and throwing it into the ocean, or placing it beneath the wheels of a monster truck, riding in mud is the single worst thing you can do to your bicycle. Mud is great for making mud pies or mud fences, but it wreaks havoc on every part of a bicycle: the braking pads and braking surfaces, suspension seals and suspension pivots, bearings and bearing races, chain and chainrings, and cables and cable housings. It drastically decreases the performance of your shifting and braking systems while exponentially enhancing the performance of your creaks, squeaks, and chirps. Riding in mud, of course, has also been shown to promote trail erosion, but that is another argument for another day.

I’m not saying that you can avoid mud entirely, but you can cut back by simply waiting until the trails are dry enough to ride, which around here, is usually not until May. During riding season, if it is still a little wet out there, choose the trails that are the least wet, and when you come upon a giant mud puddle or muddy section, stop and walk around. If what I am saying is as clear as mud, or you just plain can’t stay away from the stuff, at least clean your bike after your ride. If you don’t, so be it, but when your creaky, mud-caked bicycle isn’t working so great on your next ride, please don’t drag your bike shop’s name through the mud.

Gonzo and Me

2011-04-07T09:27:00.000-07:00

When I was in fifth grade, after years of pleading and fussing, I finally got my first puppy. And it wasn’t because Pop finally gave in to my impassioned requests for a canine nor was it intended to comfort my grief after having found yet another one of our poor felines on the side of the road flattened, stiff, and stone cold dead. It was because my Mom, who was an ally in my fight for a dog, took advantage of a situation in which Pop himself created, and in which he could make no protests when we brought the puppy home.

Pop decided one day, despite Mom’s clear refusal to do so, to purchase a motorcycle. It was a foolish thing to do, but even more foolish was that instead of driving it to our neighbor’s house and parking it behind their tool shed, he drove it home and parked it directly in front of the garage, audaciously drawing attention to his manly triumph over repression. I can still hear the unmistakable sound of the motor in the distance getting louder and louder as it came closer and closer, but unlike all the prior motorbike noises that would pass by and then fade away, this one grew louder still until our windows vibrated. When the motor cut out, there was a quiet stillness in the air that hung like a quilt as my sister and I exchanged glances with Mom, who instead of storming outside and berating Pop, calmly told us to get ready to go for a drive. There were no words exchanged as we got in the car and drove away, leaving behind a bewildered and somewhat deflated Pop standing next to his shiny new Honda Shadow with its orange gas tank and 750cc, liquid cooled, 52 degree, V-twin engine that was still warm.

Forty-five minutes later, we arrived at a farmhouse at the end of a long dirt road with a sign out front that read “Free Puppies.” After playing with the litter for a while, we chose the one that was the most bashful and least rambunctious. The owner tried to convince us to take two, saying that our chosen one was most certainly a bit shy and would most certainly adjust better with a sibling. Mom replied that she didn’t want to push her luck and that if she were to take two dogs home, her husband would most certainly be gone. At least that is how we remember it, and that is how we came to name our new pup Gonzo.

Gonzo was my best friend, he was my hero, and he was my trusty companion who led the way while I delivered newspapers to the neighborhood in the cold dark early mornings before school. I grew up with him by my side, and even though he wasn’t in the car when I got my license, or with me in the auditorium when I graduated high school and college, his dog hair was. He loved us unconditionally and never let anyone down. Finally, when he reached nearly 100 dog years, he traded in his collar for a halo. I haven’t gotten a dog since, but will someday when I finally have a backyard to let it run around in. In the meantime, there are a lot of dogs in my life who I’ve come to know and love and I’d like to mention a few of them, as well as rate them using the following scale:

One Skunk: This is the rating given to a dog that smelled strongly of skunk when adopted. The former owner mentioned that it had recently been sprayed by a skunk and that the odor would eventually dissipate but it never did. The dog was never one to obey any commands and never really bonded with anyone and when it was finally brought to the vet, it was discovered that it was in fact a skunk.
Four Stars: Greatest dog ever.
Five Stars: Greatest dog ever plus one.

Gonzo: A Malamute Husky/Border Collie mix and my first and only dog to date. Rating: Five stars.

Gus: Mom’s current dog whom she rescued from a shelter. The jury is still out as to what the heck he is, but according to a few good sources, he’s a Border Collie/Whippet. He has a wide white stripe on his head and a stare that will melt your heart. He loves to sprawl out on your lap and as long as Mom doesn’t leave the house—he has severe separation anxiety—he is as mellow as a cup of mulled cider. Rating: Four stars.

Chui: My mom-in-law’s four year old Yellow Lab. His heart is huge, bigger even than his brain, and sure, he may eat one of your socks or a frozen “poopsicle” now and then, but he is super sweet and we all love him to pieces. Take him for a walk, scratch his behind, and give him a marrow bone and he’s a good as gold. Rating: Four stars.

Levi and Cady: Levi is Land Beaver’s “full blooded Puerto Rican scrounge hound” who is most likely a Border Collie/Golden Retriever mix. He enjoys chasing frogs, eating garbage, and canoeing. Cady is Scotty’s Border Collie/Mutt-next-door mix who likes barking, wallowing in the mud, and running away from you. Levi and Cady regularly join us on our mountain bike rides and backcountry ski adventures and even though they almost always disappear, after thirty minutes or so of yelling their names, they always come back. Levi rating: Four stars. Cady rating: Four stars.

Grizzly Adams: Chuck and Chinch Bug’s brand spanking new puppy. Supposedly, he is a purebred Chesapeake Bay Retriever, but I’m convinced he’s an Ewok/Buffalo mix. Rating: Four stars.

Well, it looks like we have a five-way tie for second place and a clear winner. Congratulations to Gonzo.

Superstars of Outdoor Retailer

2011-03-15T06:10:00.000-07:00

I’m not a big fan of air travel, but for retail junkies like me who get the privilege of attending industry trade shows such as Interbike in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada and Outdoor Retailer in scrupulous Salt Lake City, Utah, it is a necessary evil. I understand that life isn’t always a day at the beach, so when I’m flying coach wedged between a loud passenger with a long story and a large passenger with a pointy elbow, I know that I just have to suck it up. To better deal with the inevitable unpleasantness, I head to the nearest airport bar before boarding and chase a Dramamine tablet with three beers. This works great for eliminating motion sickness, which I am prone to, as well as blacking out a good chunk of the ride, assuming I make it to my seat.

With a Dramamine tablet and three beers in my system, I was on a plane this past January with two of my favorite fellow coworkers, Bart and Phlip. We were flying to the Outdoor Retailer Winter Market in glorious Salt Lake City, Utah, a place so glorious, the beer doesn’t need to be any stronger than 3.2% ABV and the urban sprawl and brown layer of smog hovering in the valley doesn’t need to get anyone down. We went out there for four days of very hard work and came back with a vast amount of knowledge and wisdom that is paramount to the ongoing prosperity of our business. Usually the boss is with us, but this year he couldn’t come along, which was a shame and we missed his company greatly. Fortunately however, his credit card did come along, so we were reminded of him every time we used it. It suffices to say and I’m sure it warms his heart to know that we were reminded of him quite often.

The first day of very hard work was the On Snow Demo at Solitude Mountain where overnight, fifteen inches of fresh Wasatch powder had fallen making it ideal for the very hard work of testing multiple pairs of brand new tele skis. Unfortunately we don’t sell a lot of brand new tele skis to our customers anymore, but it is still important for us to test them so that when we are selling a pair of ski socks to our customers, and we are asked how well they perform when skiing in fresh Wasatch powder on a brand new pair of tele skis, we’ll be able to provide a knowledgeable answer. Forming the necessary knowledge required to provide a knowledgeable answer to questions such as these doesn’t come easy, so we had no choice but to take many runs on many different pairs of skis, which, as you can imagine, is very hard work. So hard in fact, that by mid afternoon, my legs were so tired that I was unable to ski another run and by the following morning, my back was so stiff, I was unable to put on my socks without an epic struggle. That morning, my feet had never seemed so far away from my hands. Reaching them to slip on my socks felt like standing on my tiptoes with my arm fully extended, fishing for a spare key hidden on a tall shelf.

Bart and Phlip, who worked even harder at the demo than I did and skied until the lifts closed, mentioned that the disgraceful state of my body after the demo day may have had something to do with my current lack of fitness. I disagreed, declaring that is was completely due to my current lack of fitness. I hadn’t managed to squeeze in a lot of epic powder days before the trip and on top of that, I’m not 36 anymore. But, as stiff and sore as I was, there was no time for whining as there was a lot more hard work ahead at the show which continued for another three full days.

If you’ve never been to an outdoor industry trade show, imagine hundreds of vendors with elaborate booths displaying their amazing products while similar looking outdoorsy folks stream in and out. Imagine 80’s extreme skiing legend Glen Plake, with his signature Mohawk standing tall, schmoozing. Imagine the Hot Chilly’s long underwear model strutting back and forth on a short catwalk. Imagine a dude cruising around the show floor on small boards with two wheels, called Freeline skates, under each foot. Image me trying out Freeline skates and failing miserably, tweaking my sore back, and being told by the Freeline skate dude that the Hot Chilly’s long underwear model was a natural at it. Imagine a guy wearing an abominable snowman suit, a lousy cover band playing current pop hits, a PR rep with a microphone, a long line of dealers leading to a keg of beer, and a dealer frantically pulling pennies one at a time out of a fish tank full of ice water in hopes of winning a sleeping bag.

Imagine Bart, Phlip and I in this scene, with a clear mission of gathering vast amounts of knowledge and wisdom, walking from one end of the show floor to the other, making appointments and meeting appointments, discussing sales strategies with sales reps, product flaws with product engineers, marketing ideas with marketing directors, all the while searching for free beer. It is very hard work, and the boss would be happy to know that we didn’t slack off that much despite his absence. When it was all over, I was so exhausted from all the hard work at the show, and so sore and stiff from all the hard work at the demo, that when I got to the airport bar, I only needed to chase my Dramamine tablet with two beers. And as a gesture to the boss of my appreciation and understanding of the significant expense of sending all of us to the show, I bought the two beers with my own credit card.

Klister and Waxing Philosophical

2011-02-07T09:21:00.000-08:00

I thought that Bertha was a fine name for the tall and curvaceous snowwoman that my lovely wife and I built in the middle of the field at the Craftsbury Outdoor Center on New Year’s Eve. It was she who suggested the name, and it just stuck. Bertha is my grandmother’s name, but only a few people know this to be true, so please keep it a secret. I’ve always called her Grandma. My mother and her siblings have always called her Mom, and everyone else has always called her Beth, which is her middle name. As far as her given name, Bertha, she hates it, and if she knew that I was sharing this sensitive information with the seven or eight people who read this column, she would be quite unhappy with me. But I personally feel that Bertha is a perfectly nice name, in that traditional, old fashioned kind of way, and it is a name that has gotten a bad rap over the years, if you ask me. Bertha the snowwoman didn’t seem to mind it, nor did Bernie or Bert, her snowman and snowchild respectively, who we built to keep her company.

Building a snow family in the middle of the field at the Craftsbury Outdoor Center on New Year’s Eve was not something we had planned on doing, but as is the case with a lot of families, it just sort of happened. We had instead planned on reliving our prior New Year’s Eve, when before the big bonfire at midnight, we went snowshoeing around the lake with shiny headlamps and a sparkling bottle of champagne. Last New Year’s Eve was a cold and snowy night, and the lake was as frozen as the look in a frozen fish’s eye, and our trek around the lake was as safe as it was wonderful. This year however, the weather was totally different. It was unseasonably warm, well above freezing anyway, and after a few slushy steps beyond the perimeter of the shoreline, we decided that trekking out on a lake that may or may not be completely frozen on a night that was as dark as a pocket wasn’t the best way to end the year.

The warm weather and the rain that fell overnight didn’t do great things for the conditions in the morning, but fortunately, thanks to enough of a base and a lot of good strong snow harvesting work performed by the Craftsbury trail crew, there was still enough snow on the trails to go for a nice ski. Thankfully, they didn’t harvest the snow from our snow family—they were still standing—although not entirely intact. Bertha had lost an eye and Bert’s mouth, made of a twig, had started to droop a bit. It only took a little bit of work to fix them up for their first full day together as a family. With our parenting work done, it was now time to head out for our second annual New Year’s Day tour.

Unlike last year, I thought I was prepared for waxing my skis, having brought all eight of the Swix kick waxes with me. I was determined to avoid last year’s frustrating situation, where I had all of the Swix kick waxes except for one, Violet Special, which of course turned out to be the wax of the day. I had no choice but to buy, at full retail, a container of Violet Special from the Craftsbury ski shop. For a retail junker who works at a ski shop, buying a container of ski wax at full price from another ski shop is a painful and shameful thing to have to do, and not something you would want to do twice. Thanks to rain and 40 degree weather, I was once again unprepared for the kind of snow that we were dealing with, which was soft and wet and evaporating in a dense low lying layer of fog. When the snow is like that, hard kick waxes are useless, even if you have all eight of them. The only stuff that works when the snow is in such a dreadful state is Klister, a nasty, messy substance that comes in a tube and needs to be spread on your skis like fine pâté on a baguette. I of course didn’t have any Klister, but because I am an expert ski tech with expert skills and a vast amount of expert knowledge, I was able to form the expert conclusion, based on my years and years of experience with waxing skis, that not having brought any Klister, all I had to do was simply purchase a tube of Klister from the Craftsbury ski shop. Despite reaching this conclusion, I refused to shamefully buy another product at full retail and decided to just head out with the kick wax that was still on my skis from last winter, whatever it was.

It was a foolish bull-headed decision and I of course had absolutely no kick at all and one thing you especially notice when your skis have absolutely no kick at all is an uphill climb. Skiing downhill feels the same, but trying to ski uphill with no kick at all is like trying to roller skate up a waterslide, only not as much fun. We did an 8K loop, and although it may be impossible according to the law of physics, I am convinced that the entire loop, from point A to point A, was uphill. This reminds me of a common metaphor for life, where at times it can seem like an uphill battle. To extend the metaphor, one easy way to gain traction in life is to not be too bull-headed. My Grandmother would agree.

Get to Know an Unknown Rock Star

2011-02-07T05:39:00.000-08:00

I once mentioned to Bart, my hands-down favorite fellow coworker, that I am a rock star. I wasn’t kidding around; I was being serious. Being rooted in logic and reason, he of course went into immediate argument mode, disputing my claim with piles of tangible evidence that proves his contradiction to be sound. He was being literal and I understand that. No, as Bart pointed out, I am not a successful performer with millions of dollars nor am I a celebrated talent with legions of adoring fans. And no, I am not a heralded axe man with racks of Gibson Les Paul guitars piled in the back of my black and gold colored tour bus and I am certainly not a bestselling artist with racks of multiple Grammy awards piled in the trophy room of my rock star mansion.

Yes, I do work at a bike shop and yes I am lousy at playing guitar and even worse at playing bass. And it is true that, not counting my lovely wife, I have zero adoring fans. My rock star mansion may currently be a humble abode and my tour bus may be a blue and rust colored Subaru, but that doesn’t matter. I am still a rock star. I’m just not a real rock star.

Maybe Bart could wrap his head around the idea if I had said that I’m a different type of rock star. I am an unknown rock star, and I am not alone. There are two other unknown rock stars—Crash Davis and Bash Baker—who also work at the shop. And the three of us are in an unknown rock band.

Any retail junkie who has ever attended a sales seminar and lived to tell about it has probably sat through the “Be a Rock Star” motivational speech. The motivational speaker is referring to another type of a rock star, the sales floor chart topper if you like, who welcomes customers within 20 seconds or 20 feet from walking in the door, who tactfully suggests and successfully sells custom insoles with every footwear purchase, and who embraces boring tasks that everyone else avoids, like making a compelling display for inner tubes or Presta valve adapters. Every shop needs these types of rock stars, and we have them in our ranks, but this is not the kind of rock star that I claim to be. (Although if the boss asks, please tell him that I am that type, too).

Most of us who work at the shop have a lot in common and we do a lot of activities together outside of work. We ride bikes together and then we drink beers together. We ski mountains together and then we drink beers together. When we’re not playing in the great outdoors, we go to the Three Penny Taproom together and then we drink beers while complaining about being broke together. We are coworkers, but we are also good friends, which is one of the things that I appreciate most about my job.

And then there are a few of us, the unknown rock stars, who do something else, something a little different together, something that doesn’t involve exercise or high speeds or anything having to do with the products that we sell or the active, outdoor lifestyle we promote. Once a week, usually on Thursday nights, Crash and Bash and I set up in the basement of the bike shop and rock out together. Crash plays the drums, Bash sings and plays the guitar, and I play the bass, and we all drink beers. For a few hours, nothing else in the world matters. No, we don’t have a record deal. No, we don’t a gig lined up. No, we don’t have a name, but when we’re playing music in the basement of the bike shop and we turn up the volume of our amplifiers enough to drown out the boiler, and I manage to play a few correct notes in a row, there is a magical feeling that only rock stars like us get to experience. The feeling is so intense, that I would break into real rock star poses and throw my arm in the air and jump up and down if I wasn’t worried about knocking over Frank’s repair stand.

This magical feeling carries over to the next day and stays with us. This is important, because even though there is no other job we’d rather be doing, work at the shop can at times be challenging, like when a customer wants to return long underwear because after a day of snowshoeing, they weren’t breathable enough. It can be stressful, like when you realize that you have more high-end racing poles in stock than you can realistically sell in a year, or three years for that matter. And it can be monotonous, like when you check the time and it’s a half hour earlier than when you checked it a half hour ago. All these things can grind you down, but when you’re an unknown rock star, you can strike a power chord in your brain and the challenges, stress, and monotony of the daily grind become a bit easier to deal with.

To all the unknown rock stars out there, keep rocking and rolling. To all the sales floor chart toppers out there, keep selling and restocking. And to all the real rock stars out there, look out. As soon as I learn how to play better and we come up with a name, we’re coming after your Grammys.

Fighting Maturity Since 1973

2010-12-05T16:40:00.000-08:00

I was driving home after work through the Bolton flats corridor recently on a golden, sun-soaked late fall evening, flipping through the radio stations, trying to find a decent song to unwind to after a day that had wound me up. At 5:15 in central Vermont, finding a listenable tune isn’t always easy, and this particular evening was no exception. After scanning through the frequencies for a few minutes, dodging car commercials and mindless DJ babble, I settled on a classic rock station that had just started a commercial-free block of golden, guitar-soaked classic rock.

American Girl by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came on. Even though I’ve heard that song so many times I can sing it backwards in French while standing on my head, and I don’t even speak French, it was better than Free Bird. I turned up the volume and set the cruise control. With that familiar opening riff blasting through my factory speakers, I settled into the drive home and got ready to sing along. Halfway through the song, during Mike Campbell’s guitar solo, I was feeling better, and when looking around, I noticed that the trees, which a week earlier were still brightly colored, had all turned to goldenrod, burnt orange, and rust. The lush green summer coat was a faint memory; it was the final stand of this year’s leaves, before fading into a flat, dull hue, while clinging desperately to their branches before detaching and falling to the ground. Winter was about to move in.

Before I knew it, I was on my way back to work the next morning, drinking coffee and listening to VPR. During the Writer’s Almanac, I looked around and noticed a totally different scene in the valley from the prior evening. The sky was gray, the fog was low, and it was raining. The temperature was hovering in the mid-thirties. A storm had settled in overnight, and according to the Eye on the Sky weather report, snow had fallen in the higher elevations. Although I couldn’t see through the thick valley fog, the rust colored treetops were now covered with a white frosting.

Snow in the mountains means that without a doubt, some folks made their first turns of the season. I wasn’t one of them, but I was sure that a few of my favorite fellow coworkers were. As it turns out, I was right. Bart, Phlip, Land Beaver, and Trimtram all made it out for early morning “dawn patrol.” When I got to work, they were all exuberant when relaying the story. Sure it was raining at the bottom, but it was sick! Sure only the top of the mountain had snow, but it was sick! Sure there was only a feeble layer of wet slop covering loose rocks, fallen rust-colored leaves, and dirt, but it was sick! That is the kind of unbridled enthusiasm ski shops need. I’m glad we have someone to perpetuate it.

There was a time, not too long ago it seems, when I would have been up there with them. I would have waxed my rock skis the night before. I would have set my alarm clock for 4 a.m. I would have immediately jumped out of bed when it went off. But these days, alas, it is a different story. I may set my alarm with every intention of getting out of bed at four in the morning, but as soon as it goes off, I immediately kill it and go right back to sleep. It’s a shame, I know.

So what happened to my unbridled enthusiasm? When did I lose my desire to get up at four in the morning, trek out in the rain, hike a mountain only to ski the top half, then hike to the bottom and go to work? I wish I knew. Concerning getting up at four in the morning, here is how a typical conversation with Bart goes:

Bart: “It’s supposed to snow tonight. If there’s enough, we’re meeting at Mad River at 5 a.m. Wanna come?”

Me: “Yeah, maybe. How much is enough?”

Bart: “An inch or two. You know, enough to slide on. But they’re saying it may snow up to five inches! Sick!”

Me: “5 a.m. you say? Sounds great! There is a 100-percent chance I’ll be there. But there’s only a 50-percent chance of that, so if it’s 5:01 a.m. and I haven’t showed up, don’t wait for me.”

My unbridled lack of enthusiasm might have something to do with that Tom Petty song. Back when I had a lot more enthusiasm, if any classic rock song came on the radio, I immediately turned it off. This was back in the nineties and 2K, when I was listening to modern music and couldn’t bear to listen to any dinosaur rock. Nowadays however, I’m not only listening to classic rock again, I’m turning it up. And I’m listening to the Writer’s Almanac on VPR and turning that up too, although not because I enjoy Garrison Kealor’s voice at a loud volume, but because my hearing is starting to go. Yes, I’m getting older, that is a fact, but I also may finally be growing up. I’ve been fighting maturity since 1973 and have been winning, but now perhaps, I’m losing. But I’m not ready to throw my hands up just yet, so the next time my alarm goes off at four in the morning, I’m getting up. It’ll be sick!

Colonel Jacob Davis Would Be Proud

2010-11-18T05:58:00.000-08:00

There are some businesses, such as apple orchards and football stadiums, that are busy in the fall. Our shop is not one of them. On a given day in mid November, there’s a good chance the ghost of Colonel Jacob Davis, the original settler of our little city, will walk through the front door before a living customer will.

As a way of drumming up some business during this slow time, I’ve suggested planting a few apple trees outside our front door and installing a JumboTron on the side of the building to broadcast NFL games, but apparently, because both would compromise the historic integrity of our location – the JumboTron, for example, would need to be bolted to the building, which would compromise its historic bricks and mortar, thus rendering them unhistorical – the downtown zoning committee won’t approve it.

And even though we carry all sorts of fantastic merchandise that is geared towards the cooler weather, shorter days, and bone-chilling rain, such as cozy merino wool sweaters, shiny headlamps, and waterproof/breathable rain gear, we simply don’t experience the droves of customers, as we do during bike or ski season, that flow in like football fans at a playoff game.

There’s an inevitable gap due to a seasonal paradox where it’s too late in the season to buy a bike – even if it is a 70-percent-off crazy closeout super special – and it’s too early in the season to buy a pair of skis or snowshoes. So, as employees, all we can do is wait it out, which means a lot of organizing, reorganizing, taking long coffee breaks at the coffee shop, taking short naps in the camping section, etc., until the business kicks back in when the snow starts to fly, or three weeks before Christmas, whichever comes first. Fortunately this fall, there have been a few highlights that have lifted our spirits during these slow days. One was a milestone involving a beautiful baby girl, and the other was a milestone involving an 11mm wrench.

The beautiful baby girl is Indy Rae, the 13-month-old daughter of Bart, one of my favorite fellow coworkers. Indy Rae is an amazing baby who looks a lot like her dad, only with more hair. If she has inherited his staggering athletic talent, she’ll be tele skiing by next winter and winning mountain bike races to the top of Mount Mansfield next summer. She’s probably a natural at her dad’s beloved game of Beer Pole, but hopefully she won’t discover that talent for another 20 years. As far as her personality, I’m hoping she gets more of that from her lovely mom. Bart quite often gets irritated with certain people, namely me, and he’ll say it’s because I deserve it. I’ll admit he’s not the only person who has ever felt that way – I am special after all – but I don’t need another person around who shares this sentiment.

Whether or not I irritate her was probably the last thing on her mind the other night as Indy reached a milestone in her life while at the shop, which, according to the boss, was a first since we opened for business 35 years ago. Right on the sales floor, in front of a small group of folks including her mom, the boss, and Phlip, one of my other favorite fellow coworkers, who filmed the moment, Indy took her very first steps. She did a great job, and even though she was a bit wobbly, she managed to avoid knocking over nearby displays of cozy merino wool sweaters and shiny headlamps. After five minutes, she was already walking straighter and with more control than many of us do after one too many games of Beer Pole. A few minutes later, she was heading for the door.

Another glorious shop moment, which was also a first, as far as I know at least, occurred recently with Snack, one of our younger generation whippersnappers, and one of my very favorite fellow employees. While working on one of the 70-percent-off crazy closeout super special bikes that we recently purchased from a shop that went under, he discovered another use for the 11mm wrench. If you’re one of the six or seven people who have read this column before and are reading it again, you may recall a column I wrote last year where I described the glorious day when I finally discovered, after 25 years of wrenching on bikes, the purpose of the 11mm wrench, which is for tightening the fender bolts on a Columbia 5-speed tandem. Strangely enough, I wasn’t even at the shop when this breakthrough occurred. Snack however, was at the shop when he made his discovery, and even though it took me as many years as Snack has been alive to figure out the purpose of the 11mm wrench, he discovered, so early into his wrenching career, that it is also used to tighten the seat rail clamping bolts on a 70-percent-off crazy closeout super sale bike.

There may not have been as much rejoicing upon this ground-breaking discovery as was the case when Indy Rae took her first steps, but the moment was equally monumental, in my opinion at least, in the history of the shop. I like to think that Colonel Jacob Davis, may he rest in peace, would be happy to know that monumental moments like these are still occurring here today, 223 years after he built his log cabin on the west side of the North Branch. He’d also be happy to know that there won’t be a JumboTron or any apple trees coming to our historic little street, and therefore the historic integrity of the little town that he named, as was fashionable at the time, after a city in France, remains intact.

Whiskey Shots and Mosquito Hawks

2010-08-30T12:28:00.001-07:00

My brother-in-law Patrick and I hiked Worcester Mountain recently on a hot and muggy August afternoon and ended up seeing something spectacular.

Patrick is heading off to work in South Africa for two years, and this was our chance to spend some good brother time before he’s gone for a good long time. We chose Worcester Mountain because it’s a great hike that is close to home and is just grueling enough for a solid workout, but not too grueling. Patrick is still healing from a torn Achilles tendon and although he is recovering nicely he didn’t want to push it. A torn Achilles is a pretty serious injury that takes six to eight months to fully heal, and it had been just about eight months and he was just about fully healed, but not yet fully healed.

After climbing the steep section of sparkling mica-flecked rocks that have settled into place after what must have been a magnificent tumble thousands of years ago, we came upon the more exposed rock anchored deep into the mountain, with thick bands of quartz that burst like Oreo filling and stretch upward, leading the way to the ridgeline. It was a spectacular sight, but not the spectacular sight I was referring to earlier.

When we reached the summit we sat down to take in the view and eat our lunches. I had taken a small flask of whiskey just in case Patrick’s Achilles started to bother him and as it turns out, it was bothering him just enough to warrant a wee nip. My creaky knees, which sound like heavy wooden doors swinging on rusty hinges, were bothering me just enough, so I took a wee nip, too. It’s true that taking a shot of whiskey after a good hike isn’t very scientific, but it does help with the aches, and with the cool breezes at the top providing relief from the hot temperature and humidity, and a beautiful view of the surrounding mountains and valley floors soothing our eyes, we were feeling pretty good.

It didn’t take too long for us to notice a spectacle that neither of us had ever witnessed in our lifetimes, and I promise the whiskey had nothing to do with it. After all, we had each only taken a single sensible gulp and although it was quite hot it wasn’t so hot as to foster hallucinations. At least I don’t think it was. So assuming we were fully lucid, we saw, swarming around the mountain top in erratic flight paths, narrowly averting collisions with each other, hundreds and hundreds of dragonflies.

Twisting and turning, hovering, darting up, then down, then backwards, they didn’t appear to be doing anything other than simply enjoying flying. You could hear the very faint yet steady hum of the fluttering of their wings, like the sound of cards being shuffled, that would increase slightly when one would do a close fly-by of our heads.

After a few minutes a particularly large dragonfly landed on my leg and stared up at me with its two huge eyes like ornamental garden globes. I stared back and remained as still as I could while I reached for my camera. Just as I was about to aim the lens at the jumbo crayon-sized insect perched on my leg, its mouth started to open. I was pretty sure dragonflies don’t bite, but not being completely convinced that it wasn’t about to take a big chunk out of my leg, and it would have been a big chunk, I twitched and it flew away. I instead took a picture of the sky in hopes of capturing a few dragonflies in flight as evidence of what we had seen. It wasn’t a picture that will win awards, but you can make out at least 10 blurry black objects suspended in the air like UFOs in a grainy photograph from the sixties. It was a surreal experience. Patrick and I could have stayed up there all day, and the dragonflies wouldn’t have minded, but eventually we had to head down the mountain. The dragonflies stayed behind.

Aside from the spectacle of the dragonflies, I saw another remarkable sight in the sky this summer. It was on my mother-in-law Leigh’s birthday, and it was she who noticed it first. We were relaxing at a camp on Harvey Lake, just north of Mosquitoville, when suddenly she yelled “Look!” and pointed to the sky. High above were no fewer than forty hawks, slowly drawing large invisible circles in the blue sky, their wings making only slight adjustments and their beaks glinting in the sun. To some folks, hawks represent visionary power and guardianship, but to Leigh, they represent a connection to her best friend Karen, who died many years ago. We all took it as a sign that Karen, who loved hawks, wanted her to know that she was thinking of her on her birthday and wishing her well.

As far as dragonflies go, I asked Leigh what they might represent, and she handed me a book that explains these sorts of things. It said that dragonflies, sometimes known as mosquito hawks, are estimated to have been around for over 180 million years, and that if a dragonfly shows up in your life, you may need to gain a new perspective or make a change. Patrick is moving to South Africa for two years, which, if nothing else, is a huge change that will bring an abundance of new perspectives, and my life is always changing. As a result I gain new perspectives every day, so the omen of a dragonfly sighting may not apply to us, at least not right now. However, the book didn’t mention what it may mean if hundreds and hundreds of dragonflies show up in your life, so I will take it simply as a reminder that hiking is one of life’s great joys and that whiskey should always be enjoyed in moderation.

Beyond Exceptional

2010-08-06T06:10:00.000-07:00

In my many years working at the shop, I got to know a lot of good people. It is one of the aspects of the job that I miss most, now that I spend my days in an office, behind a computer screen, under two hanging plants that I must say I’ve grown quite fond of. Aside from speaking to my plants—some say it helps them grow—I speak with a lot of customers, but the vast majority of these customers I will never meet in person or ever speak to again. In a 10-minute phone conversation I will have recommended the best pair of Nordic skis for skiing across a frozen lake in Minnesota, or explained which rack system works best for carrying a Stand Up Paddle Board on top of a 2007 Chevy Malibu, or suggested which pair of Darn Tough socks would be the most appropriate on a cold night in southern North Dakota, a hot day in northern South Carolina, or a perfect morning in eastern West Virginia. When I’ve answered all their questions and completed the transactions, I thank them for their business, assure them one more time that they won’t be paying sales tax, promise that their order will arrive in time for their imminent vacations, and say bye-bye. Assuming all goes well with their orders, I most likely will never hear from them again. The Darn Tough socks I recommended may have been the greatest socks they’ve ever worn, and I’ll never know. And so it goes.

Back when I was working on the sales floor at the shop, I would also help a lot of people choose the right gear every day, but a large percentage of the people streaming in are regular customers who have been in many times before and will be back many times again. Our shop appreciates and relies upon this base of regular customers immensely, and we try our hardest to keep it. These are folks who you know by name, who you build relationships with over the years as you watch their kids grow out of the bikes you helped them buy a few summers ago, and who you consider friends.

Regrettably, tragedy occasionally strikes, and you lose a few friends. Recently, on June 24th, we lost a very good customer and friend of ours, Dave Blumenthal, who succumbed to injuries he sustained when he struck an oncoming pickup truck on a remote mountain road while competing in the Tour Divide Mountain Bike Race, the longest and arguably most challenging mountain bike race on the planet.

The Tour Divide consists of a single stage—a 2,745-mile stage that stretches from Banff, Alberta, to the Mexican border in Antelope Wells, NM. There is no liability waiver, no entry fee, no support, and no prize money. There is, however, plenty of climbing. Crossing the Continental Divide 29 times, there is more than 200,000 feet of it. If 2,745 miles and 200,000 feet of climbing sounds like fun to you, here is how it goes:

At the start of the race, the organizers cheer you on as they start the race clock. Three weeks or so later, if you’ve managed to not drop out, you cheer yourself on and mark your time via the web when you cross the finish. Last year, out of 42 starters, only 16 made it to the end. The only concern the organizers have between the start and finish is that you follow the course. Any other concern is the responsibility of you, the rider. If your rear derailleur falls off, it’s up to you to fix it. If you need to sleep after the day’s ride—Dave’s goal was to average 120 miles—it’s up to you to provide your own waterproof and bug-proof shelter in which to lay your weary bones. If you’re hungry, it’s up to you to fix dinner. You just better have brought the right tools, bivy gear—a tent would be much too cumbersome and heavy—and plenty of nourishment in your packs. Staying in a motel is totally acceptable, but the race clock doesn’t stop when you check in. Regarding packs, Dave, also known as “Packman,” designed and hand built his own. Customizing and building better packs for various endeavors was just one of his numerous gifts. The Tour Divide is a race that requires the rider to be ultra fit and ultra prepared. Dave was both, and there was no question he had what it takes to finish strong.

I met Dave and his wife, Lexi, five years ago, when they put on a slide show chronicling their successful hike of the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,650-mile trail that, like the Tour Divide route, stretches from Mexico to Canada. They completed the route in 158 days and came home with one amazing story to tell. I didn’t know Dave before the presentation, but afterward, my impression was that he was possibly the neatest guy I had ever met. Obviously, he was insanely adventurous and multifaceted—or perhaps, due to his inherent passion for the most difficult and grueling challenges, simply insane—but I was equally impressed with his sincere humility, friendliness, intelligence, creativity, and ingenuity. In a word, he was inspirational. These qualities are what anyone who knew him will use to describe him.

After the presentation, I would always look forward to seeing him and Lexi whenever they came into the shop. Once they had settled back into a more normal life in central Vermont, rather than planning for and heading out on a new “adventure a bit beyond reason,” as he called them, they instead brought their beautiful daughter, Linnaea, into the world.

Dave had written in his blog that he was most truly himself when he was in the mountains, and his final days were spent conquering one mountain after another. It is a small comfort knowing he left fulfilling another of his many dreams. I can’t express how sorry I am that he’s gone. To Dave’s family, I will miss him, our shop will miss him, and the community will miss him. We would have loved to see the latest slide show.

Welcome to Camp Here-We-Are

2010-07-22T04:02:00.000-07:00

My step-father Pops’ lovely wife Sweet Liza enjoys good food, good wine, and traveling, among many other things. Pops and Liza got married seven years ago, and I was the best man at their wedding. When I was researching the history of their relationship while working on my best man’s speech, Liza told me that when she agreed to his hand in marriage, there were two things that he could forget about ever doing with her. One of those things is bowling. The other is camping. “No bowling and no camping, that is the deal,” she said. Pops agreed, and although he’s been to many amazing places with Liza, including Germany, China, Portugal, and Belize, he hasn’t been to a single bowling alley or campsite since he said “I do.” I don’t care so much about the bowling, but his renouncement of camping, however, considering Pops’ background, is a shame.

Many years ago, when I was a kid and Pops was married to my mother, we would go camping every summer for two weeks at Camp Seguin on the coast of Maine. Without fail, at least one of those weeks would involve fighting the boredom caused from sitting around inside our tent waiting for the rain to stop. My little sister Boo, who is seven years younger than I, provided little relief from the long, dull days waiting for the sun to come out. She had no interest in pulling the long legs off a Daddy Long Legs spider and teasing her would get old or get me in trouble. Mom would just lie there and read, propped up with a few pillows, happy as could be. She would occasionally try to explain how, with a book in your hand, you will never be bored. Be that as it may, her words did nothing to change the mood of her 10-year-old son.

So, being the great step-father that he was, between his long naps, Pops would be my playmate. He wouldn’t, however, participate in torturing insects. Instead, he would play Cribbage with me, and he would play with me for hours. After the fun of playing cribbage wore off, which for me was after about 20 minutes, he would continue to play Cribbage with me. On one particular rainy camping trip, we played no less than 21 games in a row. Eventually, after we couldn’t stand the thought of one more game, we left the campsite and made our way to the Rec Hall.

The Rec Hall at Camp Seguin was more of a wreck of a hall than a Rec Hall. When you opened the creaky rusty screen door, a deep, dank, musty smell would welcome you like a ghost butler vacationing from his duties at the haunted mansion. Inside the walls of the dilapidated green building were a few card tables, an old couch, a shelf with random board games with pieces missing, and a row of dusty books, and in the middle of the room was a ping pong table with wobbly legs and a faded, sagging surface. As decrepit as it was, it stood, indomitable, like an old work horse named Bourbon, with one more harvest left.

To get the thing in playable condition, we would use a few bingo chips to level it out and we’d cram a magazine under the clamps to tighten the net. After searching around for a while, we’d always manage to find at least one ping pong ball that wasn’t cracked. All ready to go, Pops and I would play ping pong for hours and hours, and we would actually have fun.

To think that he doesn’t camp any more is hard to imagine. I asked him recently if he ever misses going camping, and he said, “No, I don’t.” He then continued, “Besides, it would always rain whenever we went. But I did enjoy all those hours we spent together playing Cribbage and ping pong.”

We went camping a lot growing up because we weren’t fortunate enough to have a camp. We were never “going to camp,” we were always “going camping.” There is a big difference. I have friends who go to camp, and I’ve been invited many times to their camps. Every time I go, I never want to leave. Camps are great, and someday I hope to have a camp of my own. When I do, I’ll give it a name, something like Camp Here-We-Are, and I’ll furnish it with an exposed wood-framed couch with tweed cushions and a coffee table made from an old wagon wheel. There will be bunk beds in the bed rooms that will be too short to stretch out in and too narrow to roll over in, yet will foster the most amazing sleep.

In the kitchen, an iron skillet will hang on a nail next to an old-fashioned fireplace popcorn popper. On the wall in the living room I’ll tack up a brown paper bag with the outline of a large fish and an inscription that will read something like “Uncle Bruce’s Rainbow Trout, 5 lbs 2 oz, June 18, 2019.” In the front yard there will be a hammock hanging from two tall pine trees, a badminton net, and a bird house. Down by the lake, tied to the dock, will be a rowboat with rusty oar locks. Just offshore will be a float, floating. I’ll make sure there’s a cribbage board and a deck of cards, of course, and with any luck, there will be room for a ping pong table. Once everything is in place, I’ll invite Pops and Liza to stay for the weekend. After all, the deal was “no camping,” not “no going to camp.”

Wear a Helmet Folks! A PSA From RJB

2010-07-22T04:00:00.000-07:00

My memory isn’t the greatest—I can’t remember what I wrote about in last month’s column or what I had for breakfast last Tuesday—but I can clearly remember certain events in my life, and one that is still quite vivid is the day I learned to ride a bike, way back in the golden summer of 1978. I was five years old, everyone had lots of hair, and “Fly Like an Eagle” was on the radio.

For my fifth birthday, which is in February, my Dad gave me a brand new blue and yellow Huffy with a number 5 stamped on a plastic card hanging from the handlebars. For three long months, while number 5 sat in the basement, I could only sit on it and imagine riding it. I finally started riding it for real in the spring, with training wheels, and when it came time to try riding without them, my Dad made a promise that he would take me out for an ice cream cone if I could complete two full-pedal revolutions. That was enough of an incentive for me, and on that day I took my first two complete pedal revolutions while rolling on two wheels. While attempting a third, I abruptly crashed to the ground and scraped my knee. With tear streak lines still visible on my dirty face, the black raspberry ice cream cone that I enjoyed later ended up serving two purposes: reward for my successful ride and pain relief for my sore knee.

Luckily, when I crashed, I didn’t land on my head, because like every kid on a bike back in the ’70s, I wasn’t wearing a helmet. And for the next six years, I rode my bike around the neighborhood, into town, into swimming pools, through the woods, over jumps, and down the steepest hills I could find going as fast as I could, and not once with a helmet on my head.

It wasn’t until the hair-sprayed summer of 1987, after we had moved from a house in the neighborhood to a house in the country, that I finally was ordered to wear one. Our new house was set back from a busy road that the locals used to make good time, so my parents insisted I wear a helmet when I biked on that road because of the high speeds of the cars and trucks flying by. Apparently, the possibility of being hit by a fast car or truck was the only good reason to protect your head back then. But at least it was a start in the right direction, and look how far we’ve come. Today, kids are wearing helmets even before they start riding bikes. Strapped into a bike trailer, surrounded by a metal roll cage, they’ve got helmets on. I have no problem with this, and although fitting a baby with a helmet is similar to bathing a cat, only not as fun, I am always willing to help parents out because I understand how important helmets are. They are truly the seatbelts of the bicycle and should be worn at all times.

I can say that at least once, a helmet saved my life. It was the cargo-pants-wearing spring of 2003, and I was 30. I was riding through town with some friends on our way to a little zone of mountain bike trails, when I went to do a routine wheelie drop off a four-foot retaining wall onto a parking lot. Before we left for the ride, I had noticed a small amount of shock oil accumulating just below the crown of my fork. I assumed it was due to a bad seal and so for that day’s ride at least, not too big of a deal. What I later learned was the leak was due to a crack in the stanchion tube, and so for that day’s ride, it was a really, really big deal.

When doing a wheelie drop, you ride a wheelie off a drop so that when you land, your rear wheel hits the ground first. If you attempt a wheelie drop, it is imperative that you get that front wheel up before you lift off, or you’ll plummet like a dive bomber. It is equally critical that the stanchion tubes of your fork aren’t cracked. All was going perfectly well for me until my front wheel touched down. In an instant, my fork snapped on both sides just below the crown. My front wheel rolled off in the direction that I should have gone, dragging my fork with it, leaving a trail of shock oil and coil springs. It happened so fast that when my face hit the pavement, my hands were still firmly gripping my handlebars. I had just done the equivalent of a sailor dive from a four foot high ledge onto a parking lot.

I was knocked unconscious, and when I came around a few seconds later, my helmet, still strapped to my head, had a narrowly-skirted-death-sized dent in it. My entire face was a swollen, bloody mess, with bits of pavement sticking out from my multiple wounds, and for the next few weeks, I looked like something that crawled out of a swamp in the middle of a bad horror movie. As far as trauma to my head, I’m pretty sure it was minimal, since my memory is just as bad now as it was then. After a few days, I felt good enough for an ice cream cone, and after a few months, my wounds were mostly healed. I now have only a really cool tear-shaped scar next to my left eye to show for it and a simple but significant word to the wise: Always wear your helmet!

Cat and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance

2010-07-22T03:56:00.000-07:00

A close relation of mine, we’ll call her Mustard, recently announced that she is moving far away in search of new scenery and new opportunities. I am happy for her, but I’m going to miss her. She’s selling all of her furniture, but her really sweet couch is mine for free if I am simply willing to adopt Mr. Jackson, her crazy old cat. I am currently weighing my options. Do I really want the couch that bad? Do I really want a crazy old cat who finds the bathroom sink a suitable place to take a nap? It is a really sweet couch, so I’ll continue to mull it over. But today wasn’t about Mr. Jackson or the couch. Today was the most perfect spring day ever, so we just went for a bike ride.

Mustard rode her flat-bar performance hybrid that I gave her for her college graduation present. It is the perfect bike for cruising along the Burlington bike path and similar paved bikeways and roads. The 700c wheels and road tires roll smoothly and efficiently, while the flat handlebars provide the optimum handling required for weaving between walkers with ice cream cones, young ladies with jogging strollers, and old ladies with three dogs that sprawl out on their leashes in every direction, like octopus tentacles.

Mustard’s bike hadn’t been ridden since last fall, so I told her that she can count on the tires needing air. Air doesn’t like to sit around. It has better things to do. Just like watering a plant, if it has been a few weeks, or months, don’t even bother checking, just grab a pump, or a watering can, and get to work. And just like a plant, if it has been a few years, your tires will be dead. Sure enough, her tires were way down, so we pumped them back up to their recommended PSI, which was indicated on the sidewall of her tires. I then told her to ignore this step if she enjoys the feeling of dragging a log behind her, or if she likes getting flats.

I rode my steel 29er hardtail mountain bike. Not because it was the ideal bike for this particular ride, but because mountain bike season is still many weeks away, and I can’t wait that long. Aside from my tires being low, my rear derailleur cable was a bit slack. Just as tires lose air, cables lose tension, so I spun my barrel adjuster a bit until the shifting was precise. If you are willing to consider adopting a crazy old cat, I’ll explain how I did it.

Your shifter tells your derailleur what to do. The derailleur cable is the line of communication, so the first thing to check is whether the line is clean. You can easily do this by unbolting the cable from the derailleur itself. Grabbing the cable with your left hand, gently pull in the direction of the anchor bolt. With your right hand, click the shifter back and forth. The cable should move freely in both directions, with minimal friction. If it doesn’t, you need to figure out why. Perhaps, because you left your bike in a snow bank or in a damp basement all winter long, the cables have rusted.

This little exercise will also show you what your shifter is really doing: with each click, it is pulling or releasing a small amount of cable, which, as you can guess, is exactly the distance between the cogs of your gear cluster. With a standard rear derailleur, when your shifter pulls cable, the derailleur will move inward, towards the larger, or lower-geared cogs. Releasing cable from the shifter allows the spring of the derailleur to move it outward, towards the smaller, or higher geared cogs. Now is a good time to mention that I meant to say that Mr. Jackson is a nice adult cat, not a crazy old cat.

While the cable is still unattached, you can dial in your derailleur’s starting position. The starting position is when the top pulley of the derailleur is centered under the smallest, or highest geared, cog of your cluster. To center the pulley under the highest cog, simply turn the high limit screw, generally identified with an “H” in or out until the pulley’s teeth are directly in line with the cog’s teeth. You are now ready to bolt your derailleur cable down. Making sure you’ve released all your cable from your shifter, bolt the cable down while tensioning it with your free hand. Don’t pull too hard, just enough so that there is no slack in the line. At this point, when you click your shifter, the derailleur will move so that the top pulley is now perfectly centered under the next cog. If it is slightly off center, spin your barrel adjuster in the direction that you want the pulley to go. With this fine tuning complete, your bike should purr like a nice adult cat.

But it probably won’t. There are no fewer that three thousand factors that can affect precise shifting, even though you’ve followed the steps above. A bent derailleur hanger, a tired shifter, a worn out chain, a burr, and loosey-goosey derailleur pivots are just a few, and those require more advanced skills to remedy. A more common and easily remedied factor is proper lube and shifting techniques. A light, barely detectable coat of bicycle chain lube on clean chain is what you want. A dark, dripping coat of motor oil on a dirty chain, which will only attract more dirt to your chain, like a nice old cat to your lap, isn’t. As far as proper shifting, it takes a lot of practice, but there is one fundamental rule you can start following today, unless you want to break your chain or bend teeth on your cogs or chainrings: do not shift when your chain is under a lot of tension.

Now about that crazy old—I mean, nice adult cat…

Rubbing Shoulders, Olympic Style

2010-07-22T03:55:00.000-07:00

My Olympic fever has gone down, but I still have a touch of the commercial flu. After three weeks of being glued to the TV, I don’t think I’ll ever turn one of those blasted things on again, or at least not until baseball season starts. Aside from watching an Olympic-sized amount of commercials, I watched plenty of exciting Olympic coverage, and after all those hours of staring at the TV screen, I learned a few things. I learned that curling is even more exciting to watch when the officials need to bust out the competition dial measurer to determine which stone is closer to the button. I learned that aside from me, entire cultures can be offended by hideous-looking uniforms worn by ice dancers. And most inspiring of all, thanks to the U.S. bobsled team’s grand achievement, I learned that you can win an Olympic gold medal even if you have a beer gut.

I have never been in the Olympics, and I will never be in the Olympics, even though I have a beer gut. But I am fortunate enough to know a few Olympians, including Seth Westcott, who four years ago won the first-ever gold medal in Olympic snowboard cross, and who this year defended his title. Way back in college, when I was a regular Sugarloafer, I would occasionally see Scott flying by in the park on his way to the halfpipe. I met him years later at a mutual friend’s wedding, the summer after he won his first gold medal. He was introduced simply as Seth, and if I hadn’t recognized him, I may have never known that I had just met a gold-medal winning Olympian. Upon realizing who he was, I asked why he chose to wear a tie around his neck instead of his gold medal. I don’t remember exactly what he said, because at that point he was talking to someone else.

I met another gold-medal winning Olympian years earlier, while I was a snowboard bum in Breckenridge, CO. I was riding with my friend Corey, his wife, and her friend Donna. While riding the chairlift after a few runs, Corey casually mentioned that Donna was in the Olympics. I looked back at Donna, and suddenly realized that Corey’s wife’s friend Donna the snowboarder was in fact Olympic mogul skier Donna Weinbrecht, who won the first ever gold in women’s mogul skiing. At the top of the lift, I reintroduced myself and congratulated her and asked what she was doing on a snowboard. I don’t remember exactly what she said, because at that point, she was already riding away.

Other than casually meeting a few Olympians, I’ve also worked with one. That would be Larry Damon, who is a four-time Olympic cross-country skier and biathlete, and who for many years since retiring has wrenched on bikes at our shop in the summer. Each year he shows up with his leather-bound tool case, pops it open, and gets right to work. Even though his tool case is filled with assorted well-worn wrenches and screwdrivers, I’ve only ever seen him use a hammer, with which he can fix just about any bike, as long as it is made of steel. One particular time, he straightened a derailleur hanger that was bent and twisted like an Olympic diver in mid air. On one of my first days working with him, before I understood him a bit better, I said, “So Larry, you were in the Olympics, huh? Cool!” He responded only with a grunt, but after warming up to me a bit, he not only told me a few Olympic stories, he also told me about his love of jazz and playing the trumpet, and other stories that only a trumpet-playing, four-time Olympian could tell. I mentioned that I play the saxophone, but he may not have heard me, because at that point, he was back to hammering on another bike.

Another Olympian who I’ve gotten to know quite well, and another one of the greatest guys you could ever meet, is former Olympic cross-country mountain biker Pavel Cherkasov. The first time I rode with him, nervous and intimidated, I yelled out, “If there are any Olympic mountain bikers behind me who would like to pass, feel free.” But instead of blowing by and leaving me choking on his dust, Pavel stayed back and rode at my pace, and hooted and cheered the whole ride. His enthusiasm was contagious, and it made me appreciate every pedal stroke. We had such a good time riding with him, we stayed on the trails longer than we should have, and ended up riding out in near pitch blackness, which is very dangerous. At the end of the ride, instead of saying, “Are you guys trying to kill me?” he only asked where we were riding next week.

One other Olympic athlete that I’ve come to know is Liz Stephen, who competed in her first Olympics this year in multiple cross-country skiing events. Many years ago, during one of our ski swaps, her Mom brought in a few pairs of ski boots Liz had outgrown, and I asked, “If you hold one of these boots up to your ear, can you hear Liz giggle?” I should have put one of those boots in my mouth, because I fear my poorly worded comment was misconstrued. To clarify, I was only referring to her contagious enthusiasm which glows like a sun beam and is an Olympic quality that I wish I possessed, instead of a beer gut.

Retail Junkie Superstar: Working Hard, Like Dogs in Fact, in Utah

2010-07-22T03:52:00.000-07:00

It takes a lot of hard work to make it in retail, but the rewards of offering quality products and great service make all that hard work worth it. The Boss, three of my favorite fellow coworkers, and I just got back from a lot of hard work out in Salt Lake City, UT. We were out there to attend the Outdoor Retailer trade show, which is a gathering of 40,000 or so vendors, retailers, media personnel, sponsored athletes, and long-underwear models. We go out there for a number of reasons: to check out next year’s winter gear, to complain to our reps about things that make our customers complain, and to get the inside scoop on spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items that are sure to set our sales on fire. We also happen to drink a lot of free beer, which many vendors offer as gratitude for the business we did last year and in appreciation of the business we’ll do next year. We, of course, accept the free beer because it is customary and the last thing we want is to appear rude.

I would say that the free beer goodwill stops there, but there may very well be an ulterior motive. Our reps always seem to wait until we’ve had a couple free beers before they pull out the list of show specials, which is a secret list of spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items that are going quick and need to be purchased immediately because they’ll be gone tomorrow if they aren’t gone by the end of the day. I’ve been to a lot of shows, and I’m starting to notice that the large dent we put in that list is oddly congruent to the large dent we put in the keg. We see many different vendors at the show, and many different lists, and well, we work very hard.

The first day at OR is the All Mountain Demo, where we work especially hard, like dogs in fact, tele skiing on next year’s tele skis. From first chair to last, with only a lunch break in between, we put our noses to the grindstone and search for hidden powder stashes to be used as testing grounds to highlight a particular ski’s characteristics, so that when asked by discerning customers, we will respond with as much knowledge and experience as possible. It took half of the day and a lot of hard work, but eventually we found many hidden stashes on a part of the mountain that had been closed earlier in the day, so that all the fresh snow that had been piling up overnight could be bombed for avalanche control. As soon as they opened the gate once the area was deemed safe, we made our way along a traverse until we discovered a steep, wide open swath of the mountain covered in a fresh blanket of waist deep Wasatch powder, which was perfect for the very hard work of testing the powder-surfing qualities of many different tele skis.

Committed as we were to the job at hand, we kept going back to that swath, over and over again, always finding more fresh lines, until we got to know the skis as though they were our own, so that when we mark them down to 50 percent off at the end of next season, and finally sell a pair or two, we will be able to describe from firsthand experience what those particular skis are capable of.

By the end of the demo, we were exhausted from such a hard day’s work. I worked so hard I could barely walk, and for three days after my body felt like it had been run over by a truck loaded with multiple pallets of spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items heading to Vermont. I hadn’t had enough days on the hill prior to the trip to get my legs in shape for such a hard day’s work, and all the free 3.2-percent beer in the world couldn’t numb all of the pain. But a sore body is a small price to pay for the experience and knowledge I gained which I will apply on the sales floor in the name of great service.

On our first day back to work after the show, for some reason, our fellow coworkers weren’t too interested in hearing about all of our hard work. When the spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items arrived at the shop on multiple pallets a few days later, amassing to nothing more than a spectacular assortment of random poles, bindings, and roller skis, they shook their heads and asked whose spectacular idea it was to buy this stuff. As we started digging through the boxes, we were suddenly reminded of two golden rules: free beer and buying don’t go together, and if an item is still too expensive at 50 percent off, you know you’re in trouble. Next year we’ll have to work like dogs just to remember that.

The Life of an Alpine Skier Turned Snowboarding Tele Skier who Cross-Country Skis

2010-07-22T03:45:00.000-07:00

My first time Alpine skiing was at Cannon Mountain in New Hampshire in 1983. I was ten years old and my family had just moved to Littleton, NH, from Portland, ME. My parents were nice enough to sign me up for the skiing program at my new school, which aside from providing me with a lift ticket and lunch, provided me with really lousy rental equipment.

Back then, Alpine skis were straight, ski pants were tight, and helmets were non-existent. Tele skiers were unusual folks with beards, leather boots, and wool pants. Snowboarding was a few years away from being recognized as a national sport, neon was a few years away from ruling the ski fashion world, and the Old Man of the Mountain, which for 30,000 years or so had watched over the land from high on Cannon’s eastern slope, was 20 years away from collapsing. On my first day Alpine skiing at Cannon, after one lesson, I was instantly hooked, and so began my lifelong love of cruising downhill on snow-covered mountains, with or without great stone faces.

All I ever wanted to do after that first lesson was go to Cannon, yet my parents, who didn’t appreciate lift ticket prices and crowded lift lines, would often take me cross-country skiing instead. This never settled well with me after I learned to Alpine ski, and I still remember how miserable I was whenever we’d go to the touring center instead of the mountain. On one especially miserable occasion, they dragged me to trails that were directly across from Cannon, in plain sight of the hundreds of fortunate black dots making S-turns down those glorious groomers and bump runs. Kicking and gliding along, begrudgingly following my parents, and many years before growing up, all I wanted was to be one of those black dots.

Despite that particular day on the Nordic ski trails, I spent plenty of other days over the next 15 years as one of those black dots, making glorious S-turns with Alpine skis on my feet. At age 25, I had reached a plateau in my ability, and after holding out for many years, I decided to give snowboarding a try. I was reluctant at first, mainly because I was proud to still be a skier, while all of my friends had become riders, but also because I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of going back to the bunny slope. I was a regular at Sugarloaf, and considered myself a solid expert, and couldn’t imagine being humbled by trails like the Toll Road. But I swallowed my skier’s pride, took a snowboard lesson, and spent the rest of the day on the Toll Road getting repeatedly body slammed from repeatedly catching my downhill edge while trying to link turns.

Perseverance paid off, and by the end of the day, I had not only linked a few turns, I had once again become one of those black dots making S-turns, only this time with a snowboard attached to my feet. I had also severely bruised my rear end, banged my head countless times, and broken my wrist. Nonetheless, on my first day snowboarding at Sugarloaf, I was instantly hooked. For many years after that, I thought I’d never ski again.

That changed after I moved to Vermont. After a few winters of riding my board on some of Vermont’s finest terrain, I decided it was time to try tele skiing. We had started carrying tele gear at the shop, and I felt I needed to be a tele skier if I was going to try to sell the stuff to tele skiers. I took a lesson at Mad River Glen from my good friend Scottpelier, who is a fine tele skier and a great instructor, and with his guidance, I carved my first tele turn, and it felt amazing, and on my first day at MRG, I was instantly hooked. I’d love to say that learning how to tele ski helped me sell a lot of tele skis, but it didn’t. It turns out that when you’re selling tele skis at 50 percent off, tele skiers don’t care in the least if you are a tele skier, or for that matter, an alpine skier, a cross-country skier, a snowboarder, or a curling enthusiast.

These days, a quarter of a century after taking my first run at Cannon, I am still one of those black dots. I might have tele skis on my feet, but more often it’s a snowboard. For whatever reason, after all these years, I prefer cruising down snow-covered mountains sideways. As far as Alpine skiing, I’ll do that once every few years just to make sure I’ve still got it. As far as cross-country skiing, I recently went with my lovely wife, and after one day at Craftsbury, kicking and gliding along those glorious, rolling trails, many years after growing up, I was instantly hooked.

That's The Way The Frozen Death Cookie Crumbles

2010-07-22T03:44:00.000-07:00

This winter marks my 10th winter living in Vermont. I’m originally from Maine, and I love the place dearly, but I don’t have any plans on moving back. Occasionally, I get a little homesick, and start dreaming of sitting on the porch of a harbor bar in Bar Harbor, washing down a clam cake with a pint of Geary’s, watching a lobster boat methodically make its way from one buoy to another, stopping briefly at each one before moving on, like a garbage truck on its Thursday morning route. But because my family and a lot of my best friends are still in Maine, I visit often enough to remind myself that clam cakes are actually really gross and Bar Harbor is overpriced and overrun with ice cream parlors and tacky t-shirt shops and tourists wearing tacky t-shirts and eating ice cream cones. After a few days my homesick feeling recedes with the tide, and I look forward to heading back home, to Vermont. My affection for Geary’s however, never wavers.

I moved to Vermont in November of 2000. That particular November was cold and rainy, the kind of November that Guns n’ Roses songs are made out of. Each day was darker and more dreary than the last, and bleaker and more raw, and then it started to snow, and by mid-January, we had the kind of snow I had only seen in the black and white photographs of my Grandmammy’s picture albums or in the vivid color photographs in the picture album of my wildest dreams. And the snow didn’t stop until May, six months after it had started and two months after I broke my collar bone in half while trying to do a routine frontside 180 flatspin on a groomer at Sugarbush North. I went from riding on buried treetops to riding in a rescue toboggan in just one run, and then I drove home with my arm in a sling, and the greatest winter ever, at least for me, was over. For those of you learning to snowboard, here is one thing to never forget: if you are going way too fast on a groomer and decide to bust out a frontside 180 flatspin, do not let your toe edge contact the snow mid spin.

This past November was like a warm, golden fall day plucked out of a travel brochure and stretched out for an entire month. It was nothing at all like November of 2000 or any of the following Novembers, and most likely, this coming winter, my 10th in Vermont, will be nothing like the nine that have preceded it. I just hope it shares one thing in common: lots and lots of snow. As far as an injury is concerned, I’ll pass.

I’m no stranger to injuries, and many of my last nine winters in Vermont have been defined by them. I will always remember the greatest winter ever as the winter that I broke my collar bone in half and more importantly the winter that I realized my bones were no longer made of indestructible rubber. I was reminded of this fact a few winters later, at Mt. Bachelor in Oregon, when I lost control and slammed into a large frozen death cookie. It was the first run of my first day, and according to my self diagnosis, I had cracked a few ribs, and the six to eight weeks of pain I endured supported that diagnosis. For those of you heading to Oregon to go riding, here is one thing to never forget: in the springtime in Oregon, the snow turns to concrete at night and stays that way until the sun warms it up, so keep away from any snow that is in the shade.

A few winters after that, while on my first run of my first day in Brighton, UT, I was once again reminded that my bones are made of aging bone. I was cruising along on the runout when I darted off the trail and aimed for a beautiful little pillow of fresh snow just to the side of the trail, thinking it was perhaps a harmless buried rock or maybe a friendly log. Instead it was the top of an unmarked twelve foot drop-off and at the bottom was a landing as flat as a clam cake, or a cookie sheet. When my tele skis touched down, all of my momentum came to a bone crunching halt, and something had to give, and that was my L1 vertebrae. Of course, a few hours later, after a handful of Ibuprofen and a few beers, I was back on the hill, and it wasn’t until two weeks later, when I was back home in Vermont, when the pain in my back just wasn’t going away, that I got an x-ray. For those of you who hurt your backs while skiing in Utah or Oregon or Vermont or wherever, don’t keep skiing. You very well may have compressed L1 vertebrae, and you need to rest.

So, what kind of winter will my 10th winter in Vermont be? I’ll have to wait and see, but having learned some hard lessons, I do know that I will be keeping my downhill edge off the snow, I will avoid shady sections of trail, and I will use my acquired sense of premonition to avoid dangerous, unmarked hazards. For those of you like me, here is one thing to never forget: as you get older, eat all the cookies you want, just drink plenty of milk.

Eggnog Need Eggs, Waxless Skis Need Wax

2010-07-22T03:41:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again, when, according to Andy Williams or anyone who has received royalties from a beloved Christmas tune, it is the most wonderful. Many others share that view as well, but when Christmas day is just one day off, wedged between two of the
most hectic work days of the year, and I still have to drive to Maine and back, hearing that wretched song on the radio makes me want to throw a wretched fruitcake at it.

But I don't want to be the Grinch to your Andy Williams, so I'm not going to complain about how working in retail has sucked the joy out of my holiday experience like a black hole decorated with blinking Christmas lights and life-sized plastic Santas. Instead, I am going to share some basic concepts regarding cross-country ski waxing, as a sort of gift to you, the reader.

The first concept to understand is that there are two main types of wax—kick wax and glide wax—and they do completely opposite things. Kick wax, or grip wax, sticks to snow and is used exclusively for classic style cross-country skiing. Glide wax prevents snow from sticking and is used for alpine skiing, tele skiing, skate skiing, snowboarding, and yes, classic style cross-country skiing. The fact that classic cross-country skiing uses glide wax can boggle minds, especially when it comes to "waxless" skis. It may sound crazy, but waxless skis need wax, and no, I haven't been drinking too much of my Cousin Lenny's special eggnog. Because waxless skis use “fish scales” to grip the snow, you don't need to worry about kick wax, hence the misleading term "waxless." But don't you want to have optimum glide over the snow after you've kicked? Don't you want to prevent snow from sticking to the base of the ski? Sure you do, and that is why glide wax is so important, so from now on, think of waxless skis as "less wax" skis.

The second concept to embrace is camber. Unlike alpine skis, tele skis, or a snowboard, all of which are single cambered, classic cross-country skis are double cambered. If you take your alpine skis and squeeze them together, you will notice that will little effort, the skis will flex and the bases will contact each other from tip to tail. Now try it with your cross-country skis. The skis will flex, but a small gap will remain in the center of the skis. That small gap is the kick zone, or the wax pocket, where the kick wax goes, or where the fish scales are found. The sections that are touching are the glide zones, where the glide wax goes. If you squeeze harder, the gap will close and the bases will come together. It is this double-camber design that allows cross-country skis to grip when you need them to grip, and glide when you need them to glide, and why your weight is so important when choosing the correct ski length.

A ski sized properly for your weight should work like this: When you are standing on both feet, evenly weighted, the kick zones shouldn't be touching the snow. When you transfer weight to one foot during the kick phase, you'll overcome the initial camber and the kick zone will contact the snow and provide that essential grip. If you're not heavy enough to overcome that secondary camber, the kick zone won’t contact the snow and you won't get any grip. If you're too heavy for a ski, you'll glide on your kick zones and wear off your kick wax. If you have waxless skis, you will scare the wildlife into thinking that a large zipper is coming to get them.

Concerning waxless skis, which have glide zones just like waxable skis, you should apply a coat of liquid glide wax from tip to tail, right over the scales, before every outing. Just like airing up your tires before a bike ride, a quick coat of wax will allow you to move forward with less effort. The glide wax on the fish scales won't affect the grip, but will prevent snow from sticking.

When it comes to waxable skis, keep the glide wax on the glide zones only. Liquid works well, but because waxable skis generally have sintered bases, which are porous, a hot wax, which penetrates into the base and lasts a lot longer, is best. For the kick zones, you need to select the appropriate kick wax based on the temperature and condition of the snow. This can be tricky, so the best thing to do is err on the side of cold. Start by corking in a colder, harder wax. If it doesn't work, you can apply a warmer, softer wax right on top. Eventually you'll get it right and you’ll have great kick, great glide, and a great sense of accomplishment.

Speaking of accomplishment, I hope I have accomplished what I set out to do, which was to give the gift of basic waxing concepts. If I have, I just might have to listen to that Andy Williams classic with a new ear and give fruitcake another chance.

A Bicycle Named Sofia

2010-07-22T03:39:00.000-07:00

Experienced bicycle mechanics, like heart surgeons and great cities such as Rome, for example, are not built in a day. It takes many, many years. Yes, there are schools in places like Portland and Colorado Springs, where in a few short weeks you can earn an official certificate stating that you are a “certified” bicycle mechanic, but you will be far from an “experienced” bicycle mechanic. To earn the “experienced” distinction, you need to travel down a long, bumpy road, full of rusty twists and corroded turns, recumbent-sized potholes, and frugal customers who need new drivetrains. Once you’ve reached the end of this road, you’ll have a skill that few people possess, and you’ll have a trade that you can use to make a living, sort of. Best of all, every once in a while, you’ll get to use your skills in the real world to make someone very happy. But first, there are some things you must do.

You need to cross-thread the bottom bracket shell of a custom steel frame. You need to grind your knuckles deep into a greasy chainring. You need to squirt Tri-Flo into your eye. You need to spend 20 minutes scratching your head, trying to figure out why the rear shifting suddenly isn't working any more, only to discover that you clamped the rear derailleur cable against the chainstay while installing the kickstand. A few years later you need to do it again.
You need to stab the end of your finger with a frayed brake cable. You need to wonder why, after cutting it twice, the steer tube is still too short. You need to have a tire, whose bead isn't properly seated on the rim, explode like an artillery shell in your face. You need to promise a customer that you'll remove that frozen seat post by the end of the day. You need to be able to fix a brand new Huffy for less than the customer paid for it. You need to spend an hour on your hands and knees searching the floor for the world's smallest screw. Only then, an experienced bike mechanic will you be. Or so I thought.

A few weeks ago, while hanging out with two of my best college friends, Carl and Puff Debby, and Debby’s pug Harley, I was able to put my experienced bicycle mechanic skills to good use. P. Debby showed me her old Columbia five-speed tandem that for years had lingered in a dark corner of her basement like a corduroy bean bag chair. She casually mentioned that she sure wished she knew a bike mechanic who could perhaps get it running. Bike mechanics love this kind of thing, and I am no exception, and I declared that today, this sweet Columbia five-speed tandem, which would otherwise make me cringe if it came into the shop, would roll.
We hauled it out of the basement through the bulkhead and into the light of a beautiful fall day. Puff Debby got a bucket of hot soapy water ready, while I dug through her husband’s toolbox, hoping for nothing more than an adjustable wrench. To my surprise, along with a proper set of screwdrivers, I found a complete set of metric box-end wrenches. Not only was this bike going to be clean, I thought, it was going to be dialed.

After I had adjusted the brakes and the shifting, tightened the bottom bracket and headset, and straightened the handlebars, I discovered something that in all my years as a bike mechanic had been a mystery to me: the purpose of the 11mm wrench. I’ve worked on thousands of bikes over the course of almost 20 years, and all that time, the shiny, unblemished 11mm wrench never left the hook on the tool wall. At last, on this day, I finally figured out that it is for tightening the fender bolts on a Columbia five-speed tandem.

When it was all shined up and tuned up, the moment we had been waiting for arrived. Carl named the bike Sofia, Harley grunted in approval, and we took a few photographs to capture the moment. Finally, Deb and I took it for a spin down the street, carved a perfect 180-degree turn around the cul-de-sac, and returned safely to her driveway. It ran as smooth as frogs’ hair, and the recently tightened rear fender didn’t rattle one bit.

As a bike mechanic, it is moments like these that give me a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. I rescued an old bike, I put a smile on a good friend’s face, and I finally figured out what the 11mm wrench is for. And to think that before then, I called myself an experienced bicycle mechanic.

Riding Back From the Sunset

2009-10-07T14:16:00.000-07:00

A single brown flip flop, a blue track jacket, 82 empty beer cans, and a black leather belt were just a few of the items scattered around G and Sue-per Brevis’s homestead after our most recent employee going-away party. This most recent employee going-away party was to honor two of our favorite fellow employees, Chuck and Chinch Bug, and it was the greatest employee going-away party we’ve had all year. In fact, it was so fun, and the reveling reached such a height, the Brevis’s, knowing that this party could never be topped, proclaimed that they will never host another employee going-away party again.

Despite the good time had by our gracious hosts and by all, there was an undercurrent of sadness flowing like a cold river. We were losing two of our best employees, and even a thrilling team obstacle course challenge and a rousing tournament of Beer Pole couldn’t completely distract from the real reason we were all there. But we were happy for them, and we took comfort in knowing that Chuck and Chinch Bug are following their dreams and heading out west, and that this is a positive step in the right direction for them both, and that most likely, in only a few short months, they will have found that the grass is actually quite brown on the other side of the fence, and they will come right back home and ask for their old jobs back.

The boss likes to say that they always come back, which is very often true. I am no exception, having made the big break a couple of years ago. I was the General Manager/Service Manager/Marketing Director/Event Coordinator, and after a seven-year run, I could no longer summon the galaxy-sized amount of energy required to enjoy it any longer. “There just has to be something else I can do,” I said. “I have an English degree, and I need to use it,” I said. So I gave my notice, we had a big employee going-away party, and I rode off into the sunset, leaving behind countless empty beer cans, all of my favorite fellow coworkers, most of whom I had personally hired, and one very good job.

Two months later, at my new job, miserable and disheartened, I sent an email to my old boss asking if he needed anyone to sweep the floors. Within a week, I was back as Ryan 2.0, a new and improved version of my former self. Although that new job had been a horrible nightmare straight out of the deepest pit of hell, it was the best thing I could’ve done. In only two short months I learned how important it is to have fellow coworkers who you like. I learned how critical it is to have a boss who likes you. And I accepted the fact that the bike shop is where I belong, apparently.

Chuck and Chinch Bug, meanwhile, are still gone. Chuck is fulfilling her dream of living in Montana and writing, while Chinch Bug is in school learning how to put shoes on horses quickly and effectively without getting kicked or bitten. When they were working at the shop, Chuck graced the sales floor with her warm, friendly personality and vast product knowledge, and Chinch Bug hid out back and ordered bike parts and bike accessories and did bike repairs with the precision of a ginsu knife in the hands of a sushi chef. Unlike Chuck, his outward personality was a bit more on the cool side, but inside, he was a warm as a freshly baked dish of homemade macaroni and cheese right out of the oven. I hired them both, and over the course of their time at the shop, they ended up falling in love. And it was Chuck, recognizing a possible love connection, who introduced me to her “tall, beautiful, and smart” friend, whom she felt I might get along with, and whom, three years later, I married. We appreciated her work as matchmaker so much, that we asked her to marry us, and just about everyone from the shop was there as witnesses.

We have a truly amazing staff and the world’s greatest boss, and we are very fortunate. We become great friends. We fall in love. We ride bikes together. We descend upon our favorite watering hole together. We buy houses. We have babies. We sometimes go away. We often times come back. If Chuck and Chinch Bug are reading this, we miss you both, and we hope things are going great. In case they aren’t, don’t fret. We just so happen to have two openings for floor sweepers.

Pint of Beer: $11. Rental Car: $547. Best Honeymoon Ever: Pricey.

2009-09-19T05:48:00.000-07:00

One of the hardest things about my job is, and will always be, the re-entry into the workplace after a vacation. It’s like waking up from a beautiful dream by falling out of the top tier of a bunk bed onto a cement floor. Eventually, the pain goes away—or just simply blends in—and you settle back into your routine, and life in the real world rolls along at a steady 55 miles per hour.

My most recent vacation was our honeymoon, and armed with that as justification, I got away with taking three weeks off in the height of summer without getting fired. It also rationalized having spent outrageous amounts of money on things like an $11 pint of beer at the airport and $427 for 300 euros at an ATM in France. Upon realizing the rotten exchange rate, my heart sunk all the way down to my queasy stomach, but after a few transactions, I was able to sweep the shock of the dreadful Dollar-to-euro conversion under a rug woven out of apathy and honeymoon bliss. Not until I got back did the shock re-emerge, covered with dust bunnies and sharp teeth.

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You can always buy a new car, or a house, or huge tracts of land, but you only get one shot at an extravagant honeymoon. Ten years from now, when we pay off the last of the credit card debt incurred from our trip, will we regret having taken it? I’ll let you know. But until then, I will stand by my assertion that we most definitely will not. Let me tell you a bit about our honeymoon, and perhaps you can decide.
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Our first destination was Ile de Porquerolles, a Paradise-Island-kind-of-an-island located in the Mediterranean, 12 miles off the southern tip of Hyeres, France. I owe a world of thanks to the couple who came into the shop and told me about the place years ago. Back then, I was going on my first European trip, and they insisted I go there, but I never made it. This trip however, I did, and, after 24 hours of traveling on two planes, three buses, one train, and one ferry, we arrived. The place was as amazing as they had described: seven miles long and three miles wide of nature preserve, vineyards, glorious beaches, mountains and cliffs, all caressed by a gentle breeze and the constant pulse of cicadas, which from sunrise to sunset relentlessly chirp with the rhythm of a freight train carrying a cargo of zippers and baby rattles.

For five days, we would rent bikes and cruise the canopied dirt roads around the island, eventually settling down at one of the beaches, where we would break out a bottle of wine, bread, cheese, and of course, olives. Our favorite beach, La Plage Blanche, had umbrellas, comfy beach chairs, and towels available exclusively to the guests of Hotel de Langoustier. We were staying in Hotel les Medes on the opposite side of the island, but if anyone from Hotel de Langoustier ever asks, please say that we are indeed the Boulet couple from room 450, and that we really appreciated the amenities.
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The next stop was Marseille and the start of stage three of the Tour de France. The thousands of people that lined the street near the start line were held back by four-foot-high barriers that were as easy to step over as mounting a horse on a carousel. Once inside the VIP area, we made our way to the Astana team bus to catch a glimpse of Lance Armstrong. We waited outside the bus for 45 minutes, and finally, after almost being run over by team cars and crushed by the fan/media circus, the bus door opened. The anticipation of seeing our hero was at its zenith, and there, in the flesh, in living color, only an arm’s reach away, with the reflection of camera flashes lighting up his face, was none other than Ben Stiller. The guy we were really waiting to see came out last, and as he was making his way to the start line, I managed to pat him on the shoulder. The debate continues as to whether my shoulder pat was the good luck he needed to hold onto third place, or the bad luck he didn’t need to lose his first tour in eight attempts.
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After Marseille, we traveled to Arles and finally Nice, which were both very amazing and very French. On our way back home, we swung by Ireland for four days. The verdant countryside, the English language, the delicious Guinness, the cool, overcast weather, and an abundance of ATMs capped off the best honeymoon ever. Who needs a house anyway?

Things Change. People Change. Pass the Cheeseballs.

2009-09-19T05:40:00.001-07:00

Recently I did something that would make my younger self roll over in his wave. The wave being that of blissful ignorance and youthful exuberance upon which he surfed. After a particularly long and exhausting day at the shop, a nightmare kind of day of trying to make dreams come true, I went home and took a walk with my lovely wife. We held hands and talked and made our way to a nice spot where we sat down and watched the sun set behind the Adirondack Mountains like a giant electric cheese ball sinking into a wool blanket. My younger self would cringe and possibly throw up if he could have seen me sitting there, illuminated in the warm golden light of maturity, especially considering how content I was to be doing exactly that. Horrified, he would then rush back into his time machine and b-line it back to 1995.

My younger self, the single guy who worked at the bike shop, drove a beat up car, didn’t have his finances in order, and drank a lot of beer—compared to my current self, the married guy who works at the bike… well, let’s not get off track from the story here—would have no interest in pleasant strolls and all that lovey-dovey mucky-muck. As soon as he punched out from a long day of trying to keep dreams from turning into nightmares, he would ride his mountain bike until he was a sweaty, dirty, bloody mess. His only concern regarding the sunset would be trying to get out of the woods before it occurred, so as to avoid riding into a tree.

But quality time with my nice lady is something that I enjoy a lot these days, and if I don’t ride my bike every single night, then so be it. People change and things change and that is okay. My younger self was too dumb to understand that—compared to my current self who is… well, no need to get off track again—but these days, a pleasant walk with my lovely wife is not the only excuse I have for not riding my bike every night after work. There are other forces at play. One of them involves throwing Frisbees at trees, a game we call Frisbee Golf. The other, the thrilling game of Bike Polo, involves riding around on a clunker bike chasing a ball with a mallet. Even if it is a stretch, Bike Polo can at least be called bike riding, technically.

If you’re not aware of the exciting game of Frisbee Golf, it is played a lot like regular golf, only with Frisbees instead of golf balls, trees or rocks or the doorways of sheds instead of holes, and instead of a bag of golf clubs, a bag of beers. This is not to be confused with Disc Golf, where instead of Frisbees, they use regulation “discs,” instead of trees or rocks or doorways to sheds they use official looking structures made of chains and metal, and to further separate them from hacks like us and to further legitimize Disc Golf, or “Disc,” as a legitimate sport, they carry around much fancier bags for their beers.

The slightly more active game of Bike Polo was introduced to us by Bart, one of my favorite fellow coworkers, and has since become very popular with all of us and our group of hardcore mountain bikers. Only a few short years ago, we would all be racing to the woods to hit the trails after work. More often these days however, we are all racing to the beer store on the way to a parking lot to hit a duct tape covered ball around the parking lot with a piece of plastic tubing bolted to a ski pole shaft. Like Frisbee Golf, it may be viewed as a shameful thing to do on a glorious summer night, while the singletrack waits for action like a snowmobile buried in tall grass, but at least we are turning pedals. And as Chinch Bug pointed out after a game the other night, it is a good workout, especially when after two or three games you’re the one chosen to ride down to the beer store for more beer.

To Bart’s credit, although he is responsible for the Bike Polo craze that has swept us all off our mountain bikes, he is the most dedicated when it comes to riding bikes for real. But people change and things change, and it won’t be long before he is spending more evenings taking sunset walks with his nice lady. Only in his case, he’ll be pushing a stroller. His younger self would most certainly cringe, but his not-in-the-too-distant-future self may enjoy it, warm golden light and all.

Ruining Your Vacation Ruins My Day

2009-09-19T05:31:00.000-07:00

Without fail, every year a few customers come into the shop, their heads hung and their shoulders slumped, to tell us that they did something that they feel is so stupid they are ashamed to admit what it is. After looking around to make sure no one else can hear, they fess up and explain what they’ve done: they drove into the garage with their bicycle on the roof of their car. Sometimes, this tragic event occurs on the very day they purchased their shiny new bicycle, before it even went on its first ride. Within an hour, a brand new bicycle went from hanging from its front wheel on a display hook in the shop, to hanging from a bent handlebar wedged between the garage and the garage door.

In these situations, it is up to us, the friendly shop employees, to tell them how much it will cost to replace that bent fork, that mangled brake lever, that crunched roof rack system, or that their bicycle and rack system are regrettably destroyed beyond repair. But a more important role is to try to make these customers feel better, while their bicycles and their hearts are in pieces.
I have a method that has proved to be quite reliable. I just tell them that I, too, have done the exact same thing. Three times, in fact. Doing it once is a bit careless, maybe a tad scatter-brained, but not stupid. Doing it three times, I tell them, as I have done, is remarkably stupid. And, as a result of three times having my racks ripped off the roof of my car, my roof is so dented you’d think someone went up there and practiced juggling bowling balls while hopping on one leg. I also tell them that aside from having driven my car into a garage with my bicycle on the roof multiple times, I’ve also driven my car out of the driveway with my bicycle under the rear wheels, and have twice driven away from a gas pump with the nozzle still in the gas tank. At this point,if they still feel bad, it’s because they now feel bad for me.

Trying to placate upset customers is just one of the many things we shop employees do in the name of good service. And delivering good service is something that we try as hard as possible to do with every customer, every single day. Sometimes, however, it doesn’t work out that way, and despite our best efforts, we end up causing a tremendous amount of grief, and profoundly affecting, in a negative way, someone’s life, such as ruining his or her vacation. And nothing makes us feel worse than having a customer say that because of us, his or her vacation was ruined. How does this happen, you ask? Well, let’s say Mr. Smythe brings in a bike that needs a new handlebar and rear shift lever because he drove into his garage with his bicycle on the roof of his car. He needs the bike fixed by Friday because he’s leaving for vacation, and he wants to take his bike with him. In order for this to happen, many, many things have to go right, and sometimes one of those things can go wrong. Maybe we didn’t have the proper shift lever in stock when it came time to work on his bike. Dinosaurus Rex assumed we’d have the part in stock, so he didn’t bother to check inventory to make sure. In an attempt to meet the Friday deadline as promised, Chinch Bug orders the part from the only distributor who has it in stock, which, of course, is in Seattle. He pays a premium (please don’t tell the boss) to have it shipped over night, but when it arrives on Friday morning, it is the front shift lever instead of the rear shift lever. And just like that, Mr. Smythe’s vacation is ruined. And someone gets to call Mr. Smythe and tell him so, and that someone is usually me.

I feel lousy when a customer is upset due to something having gone wrong, or for any other reason. Occasionally, a customer will be insulted because of the way I said a certain something and will refuse to ever step foot in our shop again, regardless of whether or not I am even there. And this can happen to the best of us. Recently, one of my favorite fellow coworkers, Chuck, who is so sweet she makes a sweet pea taste like a lemon, caused a customer so much grief by saying a certain something, the customer composed a lengthy, handwritten letter to the boss describing this grief. Fortunately for Chuck, however, there was no mention of a ruined vacation.

Between a Rock and a Running Shoe

2009-05-12T09:47:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I have a rock in my head. A fairly large one—granite perhaps, or maybe Gabbro—lodged in the part of my brain where reason is broadcast. My lovely fiancée disagrees, or pretends to disagree, but she’s a sweetheart, so she has yet to convince me otherwise. Here is an example of why I think my rock theory may be true: The other day, I thought it would be a good idea to go for a little run. It was a foolish idea that had no logical purpose, one which I can only attribute to a chunk of sedimentary deposit in my head. Why else, on a dreary spring day, while in a dreary mood, would I decide to engage in an activity that I am in absolutely no condition to do and have no right doing? I guess I figured some great suffering would pull me out of the doldrums, like fighting fire with a flame thrower.

I am a biker, a snowboarder, a skier, a paddler, a hiker, and a retail junker, but I am not a runner. I have no running gear. Nonetheless, I was going for a run, so I had to do my best with what I have. I threw on my UMaine sweatpants, which if nothing else seemed like a better choice than my snowboard pants, my bike shorts, or my wet suit. It was drizzling a bit, so I grabbed my lightweight, breathable rain jacket, and to keep my core warm, I wore a Capilene top and a micro fleece vest. I laced up my cross trainers, which I use for day hikes and which have as many holes as a regulation golf course, but were more appropriate than my hiking boots, my flip flops, or my dress shoes. And to really look like I knew what I was doing, I grabbed my iPod, which compared to the iPods I see strapped to runners’ arms, looks more like a cassette player. When I was fully “outfitted” I looked more like that guy at the ski resort with the jeans, the New York Jets Starter Jacket, and the lift ticket flapping in his face than a runner.

I went outside, took a few warm-up steps, and started running, at a pace I felt I could maintain—a pace that may or may not have been noticeably faster than walking backwards. I ran for 20 minutes with the elegance and grace of a dump truck. When I was done, I felt exhilarated—mostly because I was done—and for a brief moment I felt like I understood why someone would actually want to do this on a regular basis. That understanding vanished an hour later, when I felt as though I had ridden and been trampled by a large and very irritated bull.

My nose can run, and my mind can run. My mouth can run, and I can run out of words. I can run up a bar tab, and I can run out of money. I can run into someone on the street, and I can run a car into the ground. I can run a bike shop, and I can run a fever. I can run a set of rapids, but I cannot simply run. And as well, I cannot offer sound advice on running, so when a customer comes in needing help with running shoes or running apparel, I run away.

Some people, like Bruce Springsteen, were born to run. One of my favorite fellow coworkers, Chuck, is one of those people. When she runs, she glides effortlessly along with wings on her feet. Her special man friend, Chinch Bug, runs with her, but instead of wings on his feet, he just has shoes. He’s not so much like The Boss, but he apparently shares the same philosophy as David Bowie, who once said, “If you say run, I’ll run with you,” and to express his true loyalty and affection, he one-upped The Thin White Duke by sticking to his promise of, “If you say let’s run 50 miles in a single day, I’ll run with you.”

To all you runners out there, my hat is off. In my mind, I have nothing but feelings of awe and admiration for you. I mean that with the most sincerity, even though in my mind, I also have a rock. I gave running a shot, but I have conceded that, unlike you, I cannot run. And now I’ve run out of room.

My Cousin Lenny got Thrown out of a Motley Crue Concert: An Open Letter to Motley Crue

2009-04-08T08:17:00.000-07:00

Dear Vince, Tommy, Nikki, and Mick,

My cousin Lenny, whose heart is a lot bigger than his brain, recently got thrown out of a Motley Crue concert for carelessly tossing an empty plastic beer cup on the floor. His buddy Marty got thrown out with him, apparently for being an accomplice to an empty beer cup thrower. In case I forgot to mention, they were at a Motley Crue concert, not a James Taylor, or Yo Yo Ma concert. And he threw an empty plastic beer cup. On the floor. Not an empty 40 oz glass bottle, which coincidentally was hurled into the air the first time Lenny saw you guys, and it struck him in the head, almost knocking him out. Fortunately, aside from a headache, he suffered no noticeable brain damage.

So there they were, a half hour after they arrived, before you had even played the opening lick of "Kick Start My Heart," standing outside the Verizon Wireless Arena, heartbroken and completely aghast. Lenny and Marty had seen you guys twenty years earlier in Old Orchard Beach, on the 'Dr. Feelgood Tour,' and this was their chance to relive the glory of the good old days while rocking out to "Girls, Girls, Girls." It was also Lenny's chance to rock out without a throbbing headache caused from being smacked with a airborn bottle of Colt 45.

After a futile attempt to plead their way back in, two cops came and told them to beat it, which they did. But after standing around on the sidewalk, wondering what to do for the rest of the night, Lenny decided he would give it one more shot, so he went back to talk to the door guy again. Clearly, he felt, they didn't deserve to get thrown out, and surely this nice door guy would empathize with their situation and say, "Sure you can go back in. And hey, just for the trouble, here are two backstage passes."

As soon as Lenny opened the front door, he was immediately grabbed by the same two officers, handcuffed, and tossed in the back of a large white van. Two hours later, he was released from the police station with a citation to appear in Manchester District Court to face charges of a violation of criminal trespassing.

Alone and lost on the cold streets of Manchester, NH, Lenny wandered around looking for Marty, who immediately after his good friend was carted away in the paddywagon, had gone to the bar. Eventually, Lenny found the bar where Marty had taken residence, took him back to the hotel, watched him pass out on the floor, lifted his drunk carcass onto his bed, and took his shoes off.

Not to be defeated, he then went online and purchased two tickets for the show in Portland, Maine the following night. The tickets to the second show totalled almost $200. For my cousin Lenny, that is a lot of money, but as Lenny says, "You can't put a price on redemption." If you heard one voice that rose above the roar of the crowd in Portland, it was him. And if you recall the most exuberant cheering while you boarded the tourbus, that was him too.

I just wanted you to know that you've got die hard fans out there, who just like my cousin Lenny, will do whatever it takes to throw the devil horns in the air along with you. After all you've been through, this should make you feel pretty good. Next time however, after finishing his beer, my cousin Lenny will gently place his cup on the floor.

Sincerely,

RJB

Spring Training Refraining

2009-04-08T07:19:00.000-07:00

If you work at a bike shop then you’re probably like me: a seriously die hard, hard-core cyclist to the core. And there’s no time of year where this is more apparent than in the late winter/early spring, weeks before your first ride. You’re bursting with optimism, impetus, and enthusiasm, and in preparation for the riding season ahead, while the snow is still on the ground, without missing a single day, not a single day, rain or shine, hell or high water, dusk or dawn, you elaborate in great detail on how much, unlike last year, you are going to ride.

You resolutely declare that this year is going to be different, and you mean it. You’re not going to miss a single group mountain bike ride or group road bike ride. You’re going to ride a century—no, two centuries—every month. You’re going to compete in the race of truth every week in the Stowe Bike Club’s time trial. You’re going to race your mountain bike each week at Catamount. You’re going to race your mountain bike each week at Morse Farm. You’re going to commute, rain or shine, hell or high water, five days a week. And to really show ‘em, you’re only going to drink beer on special occasions. And on weekends, of course. And on Wednesdays. But that is it, because this is the year when you come back.

And before you know it, and before you are even remotely ready, you’re all geared up for the first group ride, and everyone is there. You’ve got the leg warmers on, the bottom edge adjusted ever so carefully above your three-quarter length socks so as to reveal your freshly shaved legs. You’ve got the arm warmers on, logos facing outward. You’ve stretched a balaclava underneath a ridiculously expensive helmet that you got on pro deal. You’re rocking the Peter Heater and you’re sporting a fresh pair of booties. A meticulously rolled up shell, a spare tube and a CO2 inflator, three Gu shots and a Powerbar bulge out of your rear jersey pocket, and you’ve tastefully finished off the ensemble with a pair of lobster mitt gloves. You cast a smug glance at the new guy, whose leg hair and toe clips stand in great contrast to your contemporary roadie style like an ’80s hair band at a yacht club. When the pack rolls out of the parking lot, you’re already thinking about that first town line sprint. During those first few miles, while you’re spinning your legs and boasting about how many hours you’ve spent on a trainer, you feel great, and at that very moment, you know that this is going to be the year when you come back.

A few miles out of town, the pace picks up. Social time is over. A pace line forms. Your heart rate starts to climb, but you’ll soon get into a rhythm and surely, any minute now, your pounding chest will settle down, so you’re not concerned. You’ve just got some rust to shake off, that’s all. You may be, perhaps, a tad overdressed—the lobster mitts might have been overkill—but otherwise, you’re all there. Toe-clip-leg-hair guy is taking rather hard pulls, driving the pace a bit out of your comfort zone, but that’s okay, because you know that any minute now, he’ll be off the back. He doesn’t know how to ride in a group. You do. He’s not a hard-core cyclist. You are. A few miles later, as expected, he gets blown off. As he fades away, sucking pond water, you cast a glance over your shoulder and give him your own version of “The Look,” and even though you missed your chance to win the town line sprint, it was worth it. You’ve reached the high point of the ride. Now it is time to come crashing down to earth.

Halfway into the ride, you’re close to the red zone, but you’re still there, and you fight to not get dropped on the climb before the turnaround, and you succeed. You recover on the descent, but at the bottom the pace line reforms and becomes a lot more spirited, and within three rotations you’re pedaling squares and hanging by a thread. After your next pull, you peel away and fall off the train and are left for dead. You gave it everything you’ve got, and there’s nothing left, and you’re way out on Route 12.

Disheartened, dispirited, you press on, alone. The first ride of the season has resulted in a resounding bonk. Twelve miles from town, your optimism, impetus, and enthusiasm have been replaced with anguish, desolation, and disgrace. And it is at that moment, when you’ve hit your lowest point, when aside from a flat, things couldn’t get any worse, when you notice a lonely figure in the distance: Toe clip-leg hair guy. And at that moment, to really show ’em, you resolutely declare that as far as drinking beer is concerned, Wednesdays are now out.

This Commenter Sucks

2009-03-31T13:45:00.000-07:00

I've been writing this blog for almost two years and I'm finally I'm starting to get some comments!

"You're writing is abysmal. Can't believe you get paid to do this."

"title should be 'this writer sucks'"

and my personal favorite, "you suck"

Well, at least someone is tuning in regularly. I just wish I knew who it was.

Six Degrees of Ed Sullivan

2009-03-06T06:44:00.000-08:00

I haven’t always been a retail junkie. I was once a paperboy. In fifth grade, I decided that I wanted to play the saxophone, so my parents, in an effort to instill an appreciation of expensive things, as well as enlighten me to the fact that life wasn’t the delusional joyride I had thought it was, decided that I would have to pay for the saxophone myself. The allowance I was receiving for mowing the lawn in the summer, shoveling the driveway in the winter, and doing the dishes and babysitting my little sister year round wasn’t nearly enough to cover the monthly payments for the instrument, so if I truly want to be a saxophonist who owned a saxophone, I would have to get a real job. So I did.

Not having much of a resume, the only real job that I was qualified for was as a real paperboy, with a real paper route. For four very long and formative years, I delivered newspapers early in the morning, seven days a week, 365 days a year, with my loyal dog Gonzo at my side. Somewhere during that stretch of time, I hit a homerun in Little League, kissed a girl for the first time, and paid my saxophone off. I remember sending in the last payment as vividly as I remember knocking that ball out of the park and that magical electric feeling from that first kiss.

Although my paper route taught me the value of a strong work ethic, it was a miserable experience. Even now, 25 years later, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, thinking that in only a few short hours, I will have to crawl out of bed, get dressed, and head out into the freezing cold darkness, with a heavy sack full of newspapers hanging from my shoulder. It was also an extremely lonely experience. With the exception of Mrs. Seaf, an elderly lady who lived alone and was the last stop on my route, and who was a high school classmate of Ed Sullivan, and had the yearbook to prove it, I had no one to talk to. But Mrs. Seaf, or “Seafy,” as she preferred to be called, loved to talk to me. She also loved to talk to her parakeet, “Kitty,” but I didn’t mind, because she fed me all the Oreo cookies I could eat. Each morning, while I delivered the world to the doorstep of the people, I looked forward to those Oreo cookies, every step of the way. Mrs. Seaf became a great pal of mine, but as far as developing a working relationship with a fellow coworker who wasn’t a dog, that was something I would have to wait years to do.

These days, those lonely days of slinging newspapers are over. I now work at a bike shop, and I sling everything from bicycles to spoke nipples. Instead of trudging from door to door one hour each day, I bounce from customer to customer eight hours each day. And instead of looking forward to a plate of cookies served up by Mrs. Seaf, I look forward to a cold pint of beer served up by a guy named Brutus.

And contrary to those lonely days as a paperboy, I now know all about relationships with fellow coworkers. Fortunately, I like the people I work with. In fact, many of my fellow coworkers are among my best friends. We get along well, and we have a lot more in common than the inherent need for a paycheck. We’re all active folks, we’re all English majors, or might as well be, and we’re all broke. But above all, the most common characteristic that truly binds us is a profound and unwavering love of beer. In fact, the entire outdoor industry shares this affection.

Nowhere is this love of malt and hops more apparent than at a trade show, where vendors use free beer to draw dealers to their booths. Throngs of dealers come from all directions towards the keg, like zombies caught in a tractor beam. It is impossible to resist, and without fail, a few beers later, you’re stuck listening to a sales rep, pretending to act interested in a product that you will never sell. Speaking of trade shows, next week I am going to a trade show in Providence, RI. We’ll see if I can resist those seductive kegs while I’m there. Maybe I should bring some Oreo cookies.

This Beer Sucks

2009-02-15T17:34:00.000-08:00

I am not one who is easily insulted. Pick on me because I have may have a zit the size of a wasabi pea on my nose and I won't be insulted. Remark that my posture is worse that Kurt Cobain's and I'll say, you're right, no offense taken. Remind me that I adore breasts and I'll ask, who doesn't?

But despite my resiliance to petty put downs, an insult was recently hurled at me that penetrated my thick skin like a flying shard from a broken heart of glass. While away on a two night business trip in Providence, RI, I was served a pint of IPA at a prominent and well established brew pub that was so unacceptable, I had no choice but to think that the server had mistaken me for some kind of Budweiser-loving die hard curious to know what a micro-brew tastes like and would never know that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. Not that there's anything wrong with Budweiser-loving die hards.

I was so insulted by being served a pint of apple-cider-looking, bad-home-brew tasting, brew-pub-business ending disgrace, that I politely sent it back and ordered water. The next night, at a different brew pub, the same thing happened, and a salty injury was added to the wound from the former night's insult.

So, at the next bar, I ordered a bottle of Budweiser, and it was delicious.

It's a Wonderful Job, Eventually

2009-02-02T10:09:00.000-08:00

February is here, and I couldn’t be happier. Call me Grinch or Scrooge, but I vehemently disagree that Christmastime is the most wonderful time of the year. I’ve felt this way for a long time, but until this year, I wasn’t sure why.

About a week before Christmas, I had an epiphany that hit me on the head like one too many glasses of my cousin Lenny’s extra-special eggnog. My lovely fiancée and I were relaxing around our Christmas tree, which was leaning a bit to one side and aglow with old fashioned, energy sucking bulbs. Elvis’s Christmas album was playing on the turntable. With that velvety voice caressing my ears, I got to the bottom of why I always have a blue Christmas: I work in retail.

Too many of the negative aspects of Christmas—the commotion, the consumerism, the true meaning-robbing commercialism—surround me during the entire holiday season like gaudy rows of garland on a fake Christmas tree in the lobby of an insurance building. The plastic blinking star they stick on the top represents the headache I get that doesn’t quite go away until the tree gets unplugged, covered with a plastic bag, and stuffed in the corner of the office supply closet.

I am fortunate enough, however, to have Christmas day off, unlike the movie theater concession stand vendor, the shifty ski resort lifty, or the convenience store clerk in the Santa hat who has to finish making that guy’s egg sandwich before he can ring you up for a twelve-pack of beer. But simply not having to work on Christmas day doesn’t mean I’m singing “Deck the Halls” during the four-hour drive to Maine for my family Christmas party. For me to sing “Fa la la la la,” I wouldn’t have to drive back to Vermont later that night, because I wouldn’t have to be at work the next morning for the worst workday of the entire year.

I like to imagine how some folks spend the day after Christmas. I picture the happy couple, young and in love, who bought each other cross-country ski packages, skiing side by side in a meadow, while soaking up the glistening beauty of a perfect winter’s day. I see the content mom, bundled up in her brand new down jacket, taking the dog for a nice long walk. I envision the encouraged dad, his cholesterol level approaching the outer limits of healthy, determined to exercise more often this year, heading out the back door for a romp with his new pair of snowshoes that the whole family pitched in to give him.

I can conjure up these warm and fuzzy sugarplum-shaped visions, but my reality is helping the unhappy couple that bought each other cross-country ski packages and wants to exchange their ski boots because they don’t fit, or because his heel lifts a bit and her boots are not quite as comfortable as her bedroom slippers. Or the discontented mom, who loves everything about her brand new down jacket except the color, and wants to special order the one in the lighter shade of green. Or the discouraged dad, who after trudging around the back yard, would prefer a different pair of snowshoes with bindings that are a bit easier to undo. He only used them once, so he can’t imagine that we couldn’t simply take them back. After all, they are only scratched a little.

The joy of Christmas Eve has also been lost to me. That day is defined by stressed-out last-minute shoppers who don’t have time to pleasantly accept the fact that we are sold out of whatever it is they should have purchased sooner. Or who are too exasperated to understand why we won’t hang around after we close until they arrive, “in only 15 minutes or so,” so that they can “just run in and buy something real quick.” No matter how hard I try to allow the holiday spirit to overtake my petulance, under these circumstances, all I can say is, “Bah, humbug!”

So when it is all over, and the rest of the glorious winter is ahead, I am a much happier person. The craziness of the holidays gives way to the routine of our annual end-of-winter super blowout sale. It’s the most wonderful time of the year, and I’m full of joy. I’m so carefree that when a customer says, “So I see that these tele skis are 40 percent off. Would you take 50 percent off?” I can actually say, “No!” with tact. I can even be persuaded to stay awhile after we close for a nice customer, unless he wants to exchange a used pair of snowshoes.

Weathering the Sunshine

2009-01-06T05:44:00.000-08:00

The economy can be cruel to retailers, but Mother Nature can be straight up nasty to those of us offering gear designed for weather-dependent activities. Especially when it comes to activities that involve snow. Even in a thriving economy, where everyone has so much extra cash they can afford to buy groceries and heating oil, few people get excited about cross-country skiing or free sledding (sledding… but for adults!) when there’s fresh green grass growing with vigor in December. Or in January. If the sunshine doesn’t illuminate a single flake of snow, hardly a soul has a desire to purchase snowshoes, or for that matter, snowshoe accessories. It’s hard work standing in front of a giant wall of shiny new snowshoes, explaining to customers that sure, snowshoes are designed for snow, but they also provide excellent grip on frozen mud. And these snowshoe gaiters over here have many uses, like keeping your shins dry when walking through dew-soaked grass and stuff… or something.

One particular year, Mother Nature was especially cruel. In late November, during our annual Preseason Ski and Snowshoe Sale, which we count on to kick-start the winter selling season as well as pay a few bills, it was 67 degrees and sunny. Birds were chirping, grills were grilling, and in the distance, you could hear the sound of people washing their cars. At the shop, however, all you could hear was the sound of people not buying cross-country skis, which sounds a lot like hair standing on the back of our shop owner’s neck. The following April, during our annual Preseason Bike Sale, which we were counting on to jump-start the summer buying season as well as help dig us out of a hole by paying a mountain of bills, Mother Nature, in truly sardonic fashion, gave us a snow storm. If you wanted to test ride a bike, you had to first wait for the plow to come by. If the weather from each weekend had been flipped, both sales would have been gangbusters. Instead, both sales were just plain busts.

The main difference between these two important sales is that if in the spring our Preseason Bike Sale is snowed out, we will still sell bikes, because people trust that eventually, dirt will come. It may be snowing in April, but soon, very soon, inevitably, like in mid-August, we will see some summery bike-riding weather. That mindset doesn’t apply in the early winter however, when you’re looking at the weather map for that beautiful blue blob and it just isn’t there. The shabby consolation we cling to, that eventually it will snow because it has to, starts to wear thin. And when January rolls around and it still hasn’t snowed, and we’re all waiting for that big snowfall like a transplant patient waiting for an organ donor, we start to wonder, will it ever snow? Is this the winter we’ve been dreading, where it won’t snow at all? No, but it might be one of those winters where Mother Nature decides to give us all the snow we would ever need in March, when at that point, all that snow is the last thing we would ever need.

For some, the lack of significant snowfall doesn’t faze them in the least. Two of my favorite fellow coworkers, Bart and Jesus H., are always among the first people each year to make turns. They don’t worry about blue blobs on the weather map. They will hike on the notion that there will be snow at the top of the mountain. I asked Bart how the first day of hiking went.

“So Bart, how did Jesus H. hurt his shoulder? And why does his board look like it wound up on the wrong side of a cheese grater?”

“Well, he was flying down the trail and all of a sudden the snow just sort of ended.”

“What do you mean ended?”

“Dude, there were so many rocks.”

“Guess you guys should’ve waited a bit longer before heading up there, huh?”

“No way, it was awesome!”

That is optimism. That is inspiration. If Mother Nature gives you rocks, make Rock and Roll. And when you tune in to the Mad River Live Web Cam to see how things are going, and what you see in that surveillance camera is a creeping marauder in the form of unseasonably warm weather, don’t fret. Snow will come. It has to. In the meantime, strap on your showshoes and take a walk. After all, snowshoes provide excellent traction on frozen mud. And don’t forget your gaiters.

Spring into Fall

2008-12-04T16:11:00.000-08:00

One of the nicest things about working at our shop is that twice a year we get to shift gears and cruise into a totally different selling season. In the spring, ski season gives way to bike season, and in the fall, bike season gives way to ski season. It’s like starting a new job, except your coworkers already know how much of a slacker you are.

It’s been a long bike season and now it is fall, and we’ve had all the fun we can handle selling bikes and running shoes, and it is time to sell skis and snowshoes. It’s a nice change of pace, a welcome breath of fresh, hotwax-scented air. I imagine working at a bike shop in Key West that just keeps rolling from day to day, never changing, would be rather dull and perhaps even exasperating, like driving through Kansas while listening to an “All AC/DC, All the Time” radio station.

The period between the different selling seasons can at times exemplify dull and exasperating. It can get mind numbingly slow during the months when people are no longer buying summer gear and are waiting until it snows to buy their winter gear. A Tuesday afternoon in mid-November, for example, could break the resolve of a barnacle. During those days, after you’ve dusted the bases of the displays, alphabetized the magazine rack, and Windexed all the sunglasses, you do whatever it takes to retain your sanity. I find that playing games can keep me from losing my mind, and over the years, I’ve invented some good ones. “Time Trial Trike Style,” “Dog Frisbee Golf,” and “What’s That in My Hand?” are a few of my favorites. As a service to all those retail junkies out there fighting the seemingly endless monotony, I present the following Guide to Really Dumb Games to Play at Work When It Is Slow. (If your boss catches you playing these games and you get fired, please do not use my name.)

TIME TRIAL TRIKE STYLE

By simply rearranging clothing displays a bit, you can make quite a challenging time trial course, made even more challenging by having to ride the course on a tricycle. Knocking products off displays incurs a five-second penalty. Knocking entire displays over results in disqualification. For an added degree of difficulty, do the course with a wool hat pulled over your eyes. The rider with the fastest time gets immunity from picking up all the downed displays and scattered products.

DOG FRISBEE GOLF

If your store carries dog accessories, you know that you’ve wanted to toss around one of those soft dog Frisbees. Well, now is your chance. Using existing objects as targets—the time clock, the changing room door, the head of your favorite fellow coworker—lay out a 9- or 18- hole Frisbee golf course. Winner gets immunity from helping any customers that may wander in.

WHAT'S THAT IN MY HAND?

Obscure bike parts can stump even the most time- tested mechanic in the shop in this exciting game of mental prowess. An object is placed in the hands of a blindfolded player, and the player has one minute to identify it and then use the name of the object in a sentence. For example:

“Well, it’s round and has sharp points. Is it a 104 BCD, 34-tooth, four-bolt chainring?
“Yes! Now use it in a sentence.”
“This 104 BCD, 34-tooth, four-bolt chainring is used, and now I have grease all over my hands. Aargh!”

Ultimately however, the bike parts must be put away and the time trial and golf course must be closed because it finally starts to get busy. At that point, we are fervently ready to sell and share our vast knowledge of winter products. How do we get so educated you ask? How do we avoid saying “Not sure” when asked technical questions? Way too many product clinics, that’s how. The downtime between seasons is the perfect time for sales representatives to come and explain in detail why their products are the best and why the other stuff we sell is clearly inferior. During these clinics, we listen and learn, and as a reward for paying attention, and promising to sell and promote their brand, we are given free stuff, such as a bottle opener or a water bottle, or a double extra large t-shirt. But we don’t attend these clinics for the free stuff. We attend them for you, our valued customers, so that you get nothing but the absolute best customer service. Unfortunately, the most common questions asked are “When is this stuff going on sale,” and “When is it going to snow?” And all we can say is, “Not sure.”

To all four people who read this blog...Help!

2008-12-03T06:00:00.000-08:00

I need help coming up with a cool name for a monthly gear review column that I'll be writing for VT Sports. Each month, I'll be covering three items that I think are cool.

So far, here is what I've come up with:

Hooked on Gear
Down With Gear
Happy New Gear
Gear Junkie
This Stuff is the Shit

The Editor is leaning towards:
Got Gear?

It can't be Got Gear. Any suggestions?

Bueller?

Commiserating with a Typewriter

2008-11-18T19:47:00.000-08:00

Commiserating with a Typewriter

Today
I purchased a new pair of
shiny durable
leather boots.

My old pair-
cracked and scuffed,
torn and worn,
shank exposed,
sole deposed-
could give nothing more.

Years ago,
before all the
miles and mud,
dirt and debris,
shoe polish and shoe laces,
they too were a new pair of
shiny durable
leather boots.

But on this particular day,
they are being
cast aside
like the contemporary aspirations
of a typewriter.

They are an old pair of
dulled admirable
leather boots
and now, at last,
they can rest.

With their work cut out for them,
and new ground in front of them,
I wonder where
this new pair of
shiny durable
leather boots
will take me
tomorrow.

Here Things are Quite as Good: Lendway Album Release Party at Nectar's, November 14, 2008

2008-11-17T20:26:00.000-08:00

“We have vinyl,” Lendway singer Michael Clifford proudly told the crowd during the first set of their album release party at Nectar’s on Friday night. Of course, they also had CD copies of The Low Red End available, but it goes without saying that if you have vinyl you most likely have plastic too, and I imagine there’s more satisfaction talking up the vinyl. Vinyl is and will always be sexier.

A fog machine and chaotic sounds over the PA added an element of dramatic tension as the four members made their way to their instruments. The fog filled the dark stage as the noise continued to build until finally, when the tension could mount no longer, the PA cut out, and Clifford jumped right in and delivered the first lines of the album’s opening track Yardsale, followed four beats later by the rest of the band and a blast of bright stage lights perfectly on cue. The show was on.

From there, they played the new album in its entirety, only occasionally addressing the packed crowd to say something like, “We’ve never played in front of this many people before. It’s kind of scary.” There was nothing, however, for this young band to be scared about. Each song, from open to close, was delivered with the conviction and maturity of a much more seasoned band, and the crowd was listening.

Lendway’s notably developed songwriting ability is immediately evident and supported with strong vocal harmonies, restrained but creative guitar phrases, and a tight rhythm section. It’s clear that a majority of their musical influences come from the eighties and nineties Indie Rock scene, but they are in no way a clone of any particular band. With such an impressive first album and working band aptitude at playing live, they have shown their potential to further distinguish their sound as they continue to grow as a band. I’m looking forward to watching them grow as they likely will outgrow Burlington. Michael better get used to bigger crowds.

Check them out here:

http://www.myspace.com/lendwaymusic

$1.59 Saved is a $1.59 Earned

2008-11-09T08:45:00.000-08:00

I knew I shouldn’t have blinked, but I did, and now it is fall, and I am befuddled at how summer streaked by like a proton in a large, functional particle collider. Before I blinked, we had finally settled into a pleasant weather pattern, everyone was excited about Michael Phelps, and Galveston was still standing. On the other side of the blink, the trees are bursting with hot, bright colors, hundreds of geese are congregating on Lake Champlain, and the economy has all but collapsed. The weather and the world as I know it have changed so fast it seems unreal, and maybe it is. Perhaps, in the middle of my blink, I was hit in the head by a brick, and no one has the heart to tell me that the nomination of Sarah Palin is one of the many delusions I regularly experience, as are the geese and the multi-colored trees.

A stark contrast to the flash of summer is the long procession of fall at the bike shop. And contrary to the changing world around us, the routine of the bike shop remains perfectly consistent. Each year, like clockwork, bike season ticks along steadily through August, and then slowly winds down until it stops, at about 3:20 p.m. on a Wednesday in October. Ski season gets things rolling again, but not until December, and during the interim, the only thing rolling at the shop is tumbleweed.

To stir up some business in these dark times, while simultaneously clearing out summer inventory, we have our Crazy Annual End of Summer Blowout Super Sale. Everything “summer” is on sale, already discounted items are even further discounted, and the satisfaction for customers who have waited all summer long to save a few bucks on a bike is so great, it can’t even be quashed by the fact that the riding season is totally over.

I don’t possess the ability to hold off buying items that I desperately want solely for the sake of saving a little bit of money. When I decide that I want a certain something, I don’t want to wait for it. I want it at once. In fact, I just decided, at this very moment, that I would like a cup of coffee, and as proof of how hooked I am on instant gratification, I’m not even going to bother searching through my wallet for my fully punched coffee card so that I can redeem it for a free cup. It’ll take too long. Besides, a cup of coffee is only $1.59. What’s $1.59?

Well, $1.59 is $1.59 of course, and the fact that I don’t appreciate the value of $1.59 could be the reason why I don’t have much more than $1.59 to my name. The other reason could be that my bills make up an enormous percentage of my measly income. Nonetheless, my compulsive spending habits continue to thrive. For example, a few months ago I decided that it was time for a new amplifier, so I went down to the amplifier store and bought one that same day. A sale on amplifiers may have been just around the corner, but that wouldn’t have mattered. I wanted to rock out at once. And I did.

A recent interaction with a very frugal customer should have taught me a little about prudence. It went like this:

“Are these snowshoes going on sale anytime soon?”

“Actually, they are on sale, they are all 20% off.”

“Well, yeah, I see that, but I mean, you know, are they going to be more on sale?”

“Well, they’re never going to be free, if that’s what you’re getting at, but I suppose when the snow is gone for good, we’ll knock another 10% off all the remaining inventory, but as I said, the snow will be gone, so you won’t be able to actually go snowshoeing with your new snowshoes.”

“An extra 10%, eh? I’ll see you then.”

The extra 10% off boiled down to about $15, yet he was prepared to put off the joy of snowshoeing for an entire year to save that $15. Rather than scoffing at this person’s iron clad financial discipline, I should’ve instead embraced it. If it were to rub off on me, it could possibly turn my life around. So far, it hasn’t rubbed off, and I still don’t appreciate $1.59, and the figure on my bank account statement still looks like a goose egg.

Champagne it is!

2008-11-05T13:16:00.000-08:00

Woah. First, I saw the Red sox break the Curse of the Bambino and now I've seen the US elect its first African American president. Maybe I'll also live to see flying cars.

I feel so proud of our country, and I haven't felt that in a long time, and it feels so good. And I've never admired our president the way I do Barack Obama. Sure, Bubba was great, and he was the first president I voted for, but I was too young then to pay attention to important things. Back then I admired people like Kurt Cobain and Cindy Crawford.

We're still in the middle of a huge mess, but today marks a new beginning in our history, and after eight years, at last, I am bursting with hope and optimism.

As for those jokers on the republican ticket, who I'm sure are extraordinarily disheartened...they'll be alright.

GObama

2008-11-03T12:04:00.000-08:00

It doesn't seem possible, but the big election is tomorrow. Two years of campaigning for the big gig will have come to an end. I'll be fervently watching the returns with a bottle of champagne and a bottle of whiskey ready to go.

I love the whiskey, but tomorrow I hope to be drinking champagne.

Hammer of the Clods-What is and What Should Never Be

2008-11-01T05:36:00.001-07:00

Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones may go on tour and record a new album as Led Zeppelin but without Rober Plant. I'm as big a fan of Led Zeppelin as the next guy, but this is a bad idea Jimmy. Go ahead and tour with John Paul and Jason, play every Zeppelin song ever recorded, bust out the bow...But for the love of all things sacred, don't call it Led Zeppelin.

So who do you suppose will get the vocalist gig? Here's a few out of work singers who may be on the short list. Feel free to cast your vote as to who would be best, or make your own suggestion.

Led Garden?

Stairway to Hagar?

Seb Zeppelin?

Fred Zeppelin?

Money? Or is that too apropos?

Lose Your Appetite

2008-10-28T11:58:00.000-07:00

When I was fourteen years old, my friend Burke put a brand new cassette into his cassette player, hit play and said, "Listen to this shit." It was 1987 in Berlin, NH. Metal bands and Hair bands showed their influence on every single kid in town in the form of big hair, leather jackets, and concert T-shirts for bands like Whitesnake, Megadeth, and Dokken. I had just moved to town from Littleton, NH, where the kids I hung out with listened to U2, The Violent Femmes, and The Beastie Boys. Trying to fit in with these new cool kids was not easy and trying to like their music was even harder. But that cassette that Burke played was different. Instantly, I dug it and twenty years later, I still do. The album, of course, was Appetite for Destruction.

When Guns n Roses released Use Your Illusion I and II, I was in line at midnight the day it was released. I ran home, popped it into my compact disc player, and listened to the entire thing without stopping. When it was over I felt the same as I do today. It is a bloated, boring, piece of horseshit.

I never purchased The Spaghetti Incident. Hearing the cover of Nazareth's Hair of the Dog was enough to convince me that superstardom and enormous egos had destroyed their ability to make inspired music, and clearly it had because this was an album of cover songs.

And now, "the world's greatest Guns n Roses cover band, Guns n Roses" are finally going to release their decade in the making album, Chinese Democracy on November 23rd. The first single is out. You can hear it here: http://www.q1043.com/pages/news/gunsnroses/

The disappointment I felt after listening to it was the same as when I saw The Phantom Menace and my opinion was equally as strong. It is a bit, fat, stinking, unispired and over produced turd.
The riff sounds like the bastard child of Rock You Like a Hurricane and TNT.

Good albums are organic. They are made in a natural place. Appetite came from that place. Chinese Democracy sounds like it was made in China.

French Valves and English Majors

2008-10-08T07:43:00.000-07:00

If you’re ever looking for a college graduate with an English degree, and you have a fear of schools, or you can’t find the mall, just head down to your local bike shop. You probably need a Presta valve adapter anyway. There’s a good chance that a former English major will assist you, and will eloquently hyperbolize the benefits of the Presta valve, provided he or she has the energy. The benefits aren’t that profound, but if you must know, I’ll tell you. The pesky Presta Valve, or French valve, believe it or not, is easier to inflate and can be done so with a simpler pump. In addition, the narrower valve requires a smaller hole drilled into the rim, which is clearly a plus. As far as why Presta valve adapters cost so much, that is something I am unwilling to disclose, even in layman’s terms.

English majors thrive in bike shops because it takes people with extraordinary communication skills combined with strong creative flair and a high level of tact to explain that when a bike is skipping because the chain is stretched, simply removing a chain link won’t solve the problem. Or to elucidate that, unfortunately, flats can happen any time, and that glass in the road doesn’t magically move aside, even if you did just have your bike tuned up. Or to describe why department store bikes are the embodiment of all that is evil. In order to not offend a customer in these sensitive situations, it takes more than a salesperson. It takes an astute orator.

Our shop has employed quite a few English majors over the years, and I am no exception, and maybe someday, one of us will ascend into a career that is both rewarding and fruitful, but until then, we will continue to occasionally break away only to come running right back with our tail between our legs. Fortunately, our shop always welcomes us with back with open arms like prodigal sons, because even though many applicants may have interviewed for our position while we were gone, none at once possessed a friendly personality, strong work ethic, immeasurable level of patience combined with an ability to rebuild a Sturmy Archer 3-speed hub, and willingness to work for a wage that would make a paperboy feel smug.

Another type of person that you will usually find sweeping the bike shop floor is the bike racer. Full of aspiration, focus, and discipline, he is working at the shop just until he gets signed to a professional bike racing team and becomes a professional bike rider, competing in professional bike races. A glorious life is only a few expensive road trips around the New England circuit away. Sadly, like garage band singers pining for a record deal and a radio song, the time comes when the bike racer must accept that his dream has eluded him because at 22 years of age, he is ancient. Over the hill and disheartened, he redirects that aspiration, focus, and determination and gets a real job. But unlike an English major, when the bike racer resigns from the shop, it is almost always for good, and the next thing you know, he’s married, working in the city, having a kid named Magnus, and winning the town line sprints on the local group ride. However, even though he’s driving around in a fancy car, when he stops by for a visit, he almost always says how much he misses working at the shop, and that the money-making world is a harsh one that sucks the soul out of you.

Currently, we have an aspiring professional rider on our staff named Fast Matt, who just did an extraordinary job in his second GMSR, and we couldn’t be more proud of him. I like to recall the days when he first came on one of our group rides as a young teen, and I made it to the top of a particular climb before he did. That was a shining moment for me, and the exhilaration I felt lasted well after I was dropped by the pack, with Fast Matt in tow, on the other side of the climb. Those days are long gone, and now he is a serious contender in his category in a big stage race. In fact, he very well may have won the GMSR, but due to a flat during the crit on the last day, he lost over a minute and ended up finishing fourth. More proof that flats can happen anytime to anyone, so make sure you always carry a Presta valve adapter.

On a Given Night

2008-09-28T06:52:00.001-07:00

Pissed her off again
because I enjoyed too many
blasted delicious
alcoholic beverages
on a Friday evening

I knew I should have
instead settled with
a cup of hot herbal tea
or a glass of filtered tap water
or anything but
five or six bottles of
cold, familiar beer

I’m all ears
But I probably won’t listen to
anyone who can tell me
how to enjoy
a sensible ten ounces
of wine on
a given night

and for that reason
I’ll be sleeping on the
cold, familiar couch.

Brooke Trout

2008-09-22T04:50:00.000-07:00

My good friend Brooke had been trying for months to take us to dinner at the Lake Mansfield Trout Club in Stowe, and his efforts were finally paid off last Saturday. He’s been a member of the club since his kids were little. Although he’s never particularly been an avid fisherman, he pays the dues so that he can just go there and take advantage of the beauty, peace, and charm that the place exudes. Now he was going to share that magic with us.

I didn’t know what to expect. I’ve never been to a trout club. But I figured it would be similar to a country club, only with people carrying rods instead of clubs, rowing boats instead of driving carts, yelling “Twitch it!” instead of “Fore!” and instead of making birds, everyone would be catching fish. As it turned out the place has about as much in common with a country club as a bowling alley.

Dinner was promptly served at 6:30 and was prime rib. If you wanted roast duck at 8:00 you were out of luck. Alcohol was not allowed in the dining area, so we had a few drinks in the adjoining room beforehand. Brooke made up some vodka tonics. I had a glass of juice. For the month of September, alcohol and I are doing a trial separation. It’s going well and we’re making progress. As part of the separation, alcohol is allowed to see other people and I am free to see other beverages. So far I’ve become quite fond of tea and seltzer.

We shared a large table with a bunch of people we had never met before. I’m usually not a big fan of this sort of arrangement, but it turned out to be quite nice. People who fish are very friendly, and getting to know friendly people you’ll never see again is an interesting social activity, like chatting with a fellow passenger on an airplane. One of the fellows I spoke with was a cabinet maker. Another was an investment banker. You can guess which one I had an easier time talking to.

After dinner we sat in rocking chairs on a large porch overlooking the lake. It was a great way to wind down the very pleasant evening that we all shared together. Brooke is adamant about taking us there again, when the lake isn’t drained as it was on this particular occasion. The fact that we were unable to row around the lake after dinner had no effect on our good time, but to Brooke that didn’t matter. He was disappointed that we weren’t given the full experience, and so we’re going to try again. Maybe this time we’ll sit at a table with a bike mechanic.

Zombie Dream

2008-09-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

Last night I had my first zombie dream, complete with typical zombie gore and zombie shenanigans. It was terrifying. I spent the entire dream trying to escape the zombies, who were all in a very bad way, and at one point, while driving, I managed to bunny hop my car to avoid hitting a few who were crawling across the road. In retrospect, I’m not sure how this maneuver was possible--if my car ever left the ground, upon touching down, it would break in two, but in this dream it kept on going, like the General Lee--but I am even more puzzled as to why I didn’t just run them down. Zombies are bad, and even if they were good zombies, you’d still want to eliminate them and put them out of their misery. My compassion will have to remain a mystery, as the dream ended before I was able to figure it out. Fortunately however, I was not caught and zombiefied, which was a relief.

Gone Dog Days

2008-09-04T06:39:00.000-07:00

D-Rex, our seasonal suspension guru, is always the first to say it, and he said once again this year. We were all slogging our way through an especially long and hot day at the shop, watching the clock move backwards as we looked forward to a bike ride after work, and he blurted it out. I had just finished fitting a two year old with her first helmet, a challenging and exhausting task analogous to giving a cat a bath, only with more screeching. The summer had entered the Dog Days, and as the rest of us were clinging to each precious summer day like leaf shaped memories on a brain tree in the autumn of our minds, he said, “I can’t wait for snow.”

I feel that winter comes fast enough, and once it is here, it has the tendency to over stay its welcome. I’m a big fan of snow, and snowboarding and snow skiing and heck, even snowshoeing, and during the locking season when the earth is barren brown and the days are getting shorter and shorter, and the only snow around is a feeble strip of manmade ice at the Resort, I definitely long for the white stuff. In the middle of July in Vermont, however, I long for a dry summer day that coincides with a day off.

This summer in particular has zoomed by faster than the all new, 2009 Batmobile modified with a custom EPO turbo charger kit, and I’m starting to realize that many of those ambitious plans I made in the spring are going to remain as such. At this point, I’ve got a summer activity checklist going, and instead of doing each activity multiple times, I’m just focusing on doing them at least once. Mountain biking the Kingdom Trails, riding a century, and sailing on Lake Champlain are on there, but have yet to be checked off. However, hanging around all day, doing stupid guy things with fellow stupid guys, is now in the books.

Thanks to a wedding, which was beautiful and touching, a bunch of us ended up crashing at Land Beaver’s house. He and his nice lady, Super Tolerant Woman, live within stumbling distance of the wedding site and were more than willing to put us up for the night. They were even so accommodating as to place a sign in their yard that read “Post Wedding Drunken Hostel Here” to assure that we wouldn’t knock on the wrong door at two in the morning.

Following a delicious brunch, served up by our gracious hosts, we began a series of stupid activities pulled directly out of the “Stupid Activities for Stupid Guys” handbook. We started our grand day by hoisting the mast and rigging the sail of the seventies-era catamaran that Land Beaver recently purchased, at a great deal mind you, and then went for an imaginary sail in the driveway. It took a Dremel tool and two hours of standing around, scratching our heads, trying to figure out which piece of rigging went where, but we remained steadfast and resolute, and as a result or our unwavering determination, the sail went up. Watching that sail, which consisted of more patches than original fabric, fill with air, was a triumphant and touching moment that brought a tear to each of our eyes.

The fun didn’t stop there. Realizing that we probably weren’t going to embark on something cool like bike riding, and in an attempt to get some kind of exercise, we invented, organized, and played six full innings of Empty Ball, a thrilling game involving an empty beer can and a stick. Although this electrifying game of ours had provided a tremendous amount of fun that lasted at least four of the sixty minutes it took to finish, it provided very little exercise, so we went back to the planning books.

After a round of discussions, we decided that it would be a good idea to cut a 55-gallon plastic barrel in half and see how far we could navigate the section of rapids that flows behind their house before capsizing. Extra points, of course, would be rewarded for not spilling any beer. I was skeptical that the things would float, but as Land Beaver said, “It worked when we were twelve. I don’t see any reason why it won’t work now.” When the barrel halves sunk almost immediately, we were beside ourselves, and could only speculate that perhaps the viscosity of water has changed in the past twenty years. At that point, all I could say was, “Empty Ball anyone?” and all I could think was, maybe I’ll ride that century next week.

At Least I Didn't Get Lapped

2008-08-17T05:43:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I decided it would be a good idea to race my mountain bike in our weekly mountain bike race right alongside people who actually like to race. I don't have a lot in common with folks who like to race, and I'm totally out of racing shape, but as the saying goes, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. As far as racing is concerned, there are parts I like and parts I don't like. I don't like the part when you are pedaling. I really like the part when you stop pedaling. For the folks who like to race, it's the other way around.

I am the race director, so before the start of the adult race, as usual, I was running around with a megaphone and handing out free creemee coupons to the kids who raced on the Goat Loop. All the kids who race the Goat Loop get a free creemee, just for getting to the finish. Even if their Mommy or Daddy has to carry them across the finish line while they ball their eyes out because they fell and hurt their pee-pee or whatever, they still qualify for a free creemee. The adults only get bragging rights and the chance to endure great suffering. That is good enough for them, apparently. If they want a creemee, they have to pay for one, just as I do.

At the start, as usual, I was making the weekly announcements and getting people into line. When I said "Racers ready, set, go!" I was one of the folks who had to go, so I went, and within thirty seconds, my heart was pounding like a timpani during the final measures of a grand concerto. My strategy at that point was to ride with the fast guys for as long as I could, then settle into some kind of tempo and maintain a decent position and finish with a bit of respectability. During the final lap, that turned into simply trying to not get lapped.

Two minutes shy of an hour after the starting gun, I finished. It was a great moment that almost made the racing part worth it, but not quite. Perhaps because there weren't a lot of spectactors cheering me on as I crossed the finish line. They had all gone home. Or perhaps because there was no free creemee awaiting me. Regardless, my lovely fiancee was right there, clapping and smiling, and she said I did great.

That was nice to hear, but I can' t shake the feeling that she was just saying that to make me feel better, considering that I looked like I had just crawled my way home after being stranded for days in a swamp. The racers who had finisihed ahead of me all looked like they had just finished warming up. Only a few short years ago, I would've given those guys a run for their money, but today it was all I could do to not get lapped. But I didn't get lapped.

Speaking of laps, it was time for a creemee.

The Rain in Maine Falls Plainly on my Brain

2008-08-12T06:05:00.000-07:00

One of the most challenging things to face a working person is and will always be the re-entry to the workplace after a vacation. It's like waking up from a beautiful dream by falling out of the top tier of a bunkbed onto a cement floor, and then trying to smile. But, returning to the office after a stretch of time off does have at least one thing going for it: rainfall no longer has any effect on your well being. In fact, when you’re at work, stuck inside on a summer day and it’s raining out, more the better. During your only week of the summer off however…

We just returned from a week’s vacation in my home state of Maine. We had a wedding on each end of the week, but the week itself was to involve glorious camping adventures in the Moosehead Lake region. Unfortunately, our plans were thwarted by the rain monster of the summer of 2008. Instead of tenting on a secluded island watching for moose, loons and the starry sky, we were hunkered down in a room watching movies, commercials, and the Red Sox. The room did have lovely framed pictures of moose and loons however, as well as an ashtray. Apparently, in the outer fringes of our country, you can still enjoy a cigarette indoors, if that is your thing.

After realizing that the rain wasn’t going anywhere, we waved a white flag and drove to Mom’s. The way we figured it, since the joy was being sucked out of our week, we might as well bring some joy to someone else, and who better than my dear, sweet Mom. We left the lake fairly early in the day, and got to town before she finished work, so we decided to catch a matinee. Being a true sport, and seeing how excited my lovely fiancée was that it was playing, I agreed to go to the Mama of all chick flicks, Mama Mia. Defeated by the rain, sitting there at a movie theater in Farmington, listening to Meryl Streep sing one ABBA song after another, I could’ve fallen so deep into a pit of despair, that there would be no coming out, but oddly enough, I actually managed to get through the thing with a shred of sanity intact.

The week wasn’t a total wash out however, no. Sunday, on our four-hour drive home, it was absolutely beautiful out, which made for an absolutely fabulous drive. Yes, and to further enhance my driving pleasure, I had Dancing Queen, the Meryl Streep version mind you, stuck in my head the entire time, and it was still stuck in my head when I got to work on Monday morning.

So much for that shred of sanity.

The Storm Before the Calm

2008-08-01T06:23:00.000-07:00

The following is the first installment of Retail Junkie Superstar, which will be published in the August edition of Vermont Sports.

Last Saturday at the bike shop was like one of the summer thunderstorms that have been passing through our area, spoiling our barbeques and softball games, seemingly every day since the snow went away. It hasn’t been the rainiest June on record, but the frequency of rainstorms is certainly worthy of recollection for years to come. I know I’ll be telling my grandkids about all this rain someday, and I’m almost positive they won’t care at all.

The day started peaceful enough, with a “hey, maybe it won’t get crazy today” calm. But a slow build-up of activity, like heavy rain clouds filling a clear blue sky, eventually climaxed into a full-on tempest, with thunder and hail, that left in its aftermath a shop in disarray and exasperated salespeople scattered about like blown over lawn ornaments.

Five or ten minutes before we opened there was a person out front pulling at the locked door (one), before squinting at the hours of operation sign (two), and then quickly glancing at the wristwatch (three). We call it the old one-two-three, as in, “There’s some guy out front doing the one-two-three. Should we let him in?” On this particular morning, we were all in good spirits so we flipped the sign from closed to open, let our friend in, and rolled down the awnings. It was so very calm, and it lasted throughout the morning, during which time we were able to catch up with the latest adventures in the lives of our fellow coworkers.

“So, what happened after we left Land Beaver’s party last night? How did Jesus H. end up with that contusion on his head?”

“Well, H. and I thought it would be a good idea to throw chairs at each other.”

“For real Bart? You mean those folding chairs that we were sitting on? And you actually launched one at H.’s head? Isn’t that kind of dangerous? You’re lucky you didn’t knock his eye out. Poor guy.”

“It’s his own fault. He brought his B-game to a chair fight.”

The funny thing, aside from the image of two people throwing chairs at one another, is that Jesus H. and Bart are two very smart, educated people. In fact, only a short time ago, H. was sitting in a folding chair during his commencement ceremony before standing up, walking towards the stage and accepting his master’s degree in English. Now he was walking around with a dent in his head caused by an airborne folding chair. Only a short time ago, he had written a thesis and everything.

Around noontime, like the first raindrops, customers began to appear, and then multiply. One needed to buy a helmet. Another wanted a BPA free waterbottle. A guy needed to be fitted to a road bike he bought on Ebay that was way too big and a gal needed to be fitted for a road bike before she bought one on Ebay that was way too big. And a regular customer of ours simply needed some major work done as soon as possible. When asked, “How does Wednesday or Thursday of next week sound,” the reply was, “Any chance you can have it ready this afternoon?”

Over the course of my bike shop tenure, I’ve gotten myself into trouble many times trying to be a hero, and this was the perfect opportunity to do exactly that, so naturally, I said, “No problem.” Like recommending a new saddle to a customer who thinks that riding a bike should be as comfortable as sitting in a sofa, I wanted to be a miracle worker and I was convinced that this was going to be an easy job and that it would even be fun. All I had to do was simply pull a drivetrain and then simply slap a new one on.

It started out smooth enough. In fact, I was already more than halfway through putting his bike in the stand before a customer needed my assistance buying a pair of 27” tires for his Scwinn Varsity that he had dragged out of the barn. He was going to commute to work on the thing.

And so it went for the rest of the day, but despite countless interruptions and unexpected hurtles, I managed to finish the bike and be a hero once again. Did I have fun doing it? Yes, but not as much fun as being hit in the head with a folding chair.

Happy 3rd of July

2008-07-09T05:54:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t looking very good at 4:00 when it was pouring buckets of rain, but soon after, the clouds broke and gave way to mostly sunny skies, and the July 3rd Montpelier Independence Day Parade went off as scheduled. Each year, our shop signs up as participants and we invite kids to decorate and ride their bikes with us, promoting bicycle riding and of course, our shop. As always, we had a hearty bunch, but unlike prior years, no one got hurt or abandoned by their parents.

As I have done for the past four years, I dusted off the old Penny Farthing and took it for its yearly spin around the parade route. The rest of the gang dusted off other assorted clunkers, aired the tires, and gave them their annual cruise through town. My lovely fiancée rode the J.C Higgins with the Schwinn 3-Speed stick shifter. Pablo rode the ORS banner carrying trike. Flip pedaled the recumbent. And Jase, as usual, showed up wearing rollerblades and a beard along with a backpack containing a tow rope, a Nalgene bottle full of PBR, and probably some organic composting worms or something. Unlike prior years, he didn’t cause any crashes, but he did look as silly as ever.

I get a kick out of riding the high wheeler in the parade, and I’m serious when I say that my CamelBak full of gin and tonic has absolutely nothing to do with it. It’s the height of summer, the streets are lined with people cheering and clapping, and it’s the only time of year when you can legally ride in large circles at the intersection of State and Main. The Penny Farthing stands tall and stands out, and each year I hear the same things: “That’s a big bike! How do you get on that thing? Pop a wheelie! You’re the coolest!” And each year I say the same things: “Yes it is a big bike! I fall onto it! You pop a wheelie! I know I’m the coolest! Jase, get the hell away from me with that tow rope!”

The last stretch of the parade is the best. The crowd is the most dense, the energy level is the highest, and the smoke rising from the multiple vendors selling delicious parade food such as hot dogs, falafels, maple kettle corn, fried dough boys, and samosas sits like a low lying fog bank, enhancing the festive ambiance and enticing the senses. By the time we get to the end, I’m always starving and torn between which of the delicious food items I want to immediately devour, but before I head to the vendor section, I first make my yearly stroll to the river bank. After drinking an entire CamelBak full of Gin and Tonic, first things must come first.

Nothing is Free

2008-07-03T14:19:00.000-07:00

Over the winter, my father-in-law-to-be and his wife, my step-mother-in-law-to-be, sold their house, gave away most of their possessions, and moved south. We acquired a lot of their things, some of which are useful, like an iron skillet, a toolbox, and a table, that according to my Pop, who owns a consignment furniture store, could fetch close to a hundred dollars. We also obtained a gas grill, an old console stereo with a record player, and a few boxes of old albums, which according to my friend who owns a record store, could fetch close to eighty-four cents, provided I threw in a six-pack.

Last night, we decided to get that grill he gave us going. We had two locally raised, grain-fed pork chops to cook up, and it was a lovely summer evening ideal for grilling. The grill needed a tank of propane and a fresh bed of lava rocks, so I decided to clean the thing up a bit before heading to the grill supply store. Upon sifting through the charred mounds of rubble that filled the bottom, I discovered a rusted metal plate covering holes large enough to drive a hot dog cart through and a loose wire that I ascertained, after careful inspection, indicated that the automatic starter wasn’t going to work. Frustrated, I slammed the lid down, upon which one of the wooden slats on the side fell off. Not everything was broken, however. The wheels that allow you to roll the grill around were still functional, which made getting the thing to the dumpster a hell of a lot easier.

Earlier in the day, I had purchased a vintage vinyl boxed set Blues compilation, so to help lower my blood pressure after the incident with the grill, I decided to take a break and throw one of those albums on the turntable. Being a music lover, I occasionally like to listen to that rootsy, authentic rackety old stuff upon which my beloved rock and roll is built. That grill had given me the blues, so this was the perfect time to reap the calming benefits of this music as it has done for so many years. I lowered the needle down, and heard that marvelous pop and hiss, followed by the sound of a harmonica playing a one-four-five chord progression, but only through one speaker. I figured one of the speaker wires must have been loose, so I checked the connections. They were fine. Perhaps one of the speakers was fried, I thought, so I switched them around. Each one produced sound, but only when plugged into the left side input jack. As it turned out, the console stereo that we scored last winter for free was the culprit. The right side input was dead, and the sound quality of that music coming through only one speaker was equivalent to that of a stock cassette player in a K-car. Or, I began to think, that of an old wooden radio, broadcasting an AM frequency to folks sitting in rocking chairs on dusty porches, fanning their sweaty brows with their hats, drinking bourbon, and letting their troubles fall away.

The Will of Leo: Chapter One

2008-06-27T07:10:00.000-07:00

I've decided that when I can't get around to writing a new blog entry I'm just simply going to post chapters from my unfinished novel. I haven't touched this baby for years, and these words have been collecting dust in my harddrive for too long, and its time they see the light of the blogoshpere day. So grab a feather duster, sit back, and enjoy the following:

The Will of Leo

Chapter 1

Old Leo had that sign finished before Will Gordon’s black two ton pickup came to a stop in the driveway directly across from Leo’s precious .75 acre lot on which his home sits on its foundation like a sunken ship in a beanbag chair. The sign read in blaze orange paint, Keep Out! Private Property! It was carefully placed next to a tall rod iron gate that wasn’t there, which protected Leo’s estate from damn thieves and vacuum cleaner salesmen. Most of the day, Leo stared into his surveillance monitor, or window, and kept his one good eye on passersby who never came, ready to spring out of his mud porch to curse and yell, “Get the goddam hell out of here!” If you dared stand in front of Leo’s lot long enough to count the signs that in one way or another declared, No Trespassing! you would count twenty-nine. The fresh sign recently placed at the end of his driveway made it an even thirty. Will Gordon didn’t pay much attention to Leo’s dwelling, and the day he moved in began something quite remarkable.
Leo Holmes, of 39 East Hollow Road, was not a contributor to society and was considered by the local folks of Brambush as an old crank with a chip on his shoulder, who mumbled and grumbled and rarely exchanged pleasantries. His home was purchased nearly twenty years ago, and as far as anyone could tell, not a cent was put into it since. There was a time when the end of East Hollow road was to be a new housing development for well-to-do folks, but nothing ever became of it, and no one can explain why the developer, Arthur Fern, abandoned the project suddenly and left town, never to be heard from again. Coincidentally, the Pinkham family, who lived happily in the house across from Leo’s, moved out overnight, abandoning the place, never to be heard from again. The house remained empty for the duration of time between their abrupt departure and Will Gordon’s arrival. It stayed on the market without so much as a bite, and slowly deteriorated with the determined will of time and had recently been up for demolition due to its desperate condition, but was suddenly snatched up by Mr. Gordon, who moved in the following day, without even removing the plywood from the window frames.
Leo, suddenly without preparations, had his first neighbor in seventeen years. Now, there was an actual person living within view, who could look out of their own window and see his property and look for ways to infiltrate it. More signs were needed for sure, but that wouldn’t be enough, and Leo got right down to work.

Open Your Heart to Me, Baby

2008-06-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

It’s a good thing I don’t have a green thumb or an afghan to knit. On this little journey of mine to become a freelance writer I am quickly learning how tough it is finding time to write. Between working forty hours, spending quality time with my nice lady, spending quality time with the great outdoors, sleeping, cooking, eating, pooping, and doing the laundry, it gets real tricky trying to squeeze in typing. Consequently, I haven’t posted anything in over a week. Unnacceptable I know. So here I am, at 7:30 in the morning, trying to produce something in one short hour worthy of being read, and already I need more coffee. Let me go warm up my cup, and then I’ll fill you in a bit. That's better. Now my synapses are starting to fire. Let's see where they take me.

On my commute a few mornings ago, I came upon a large snapping turtle, let’s call her Gertie, creeping along a grassy patch of land beside the busy road, a good crawl from the creek. She was brown and about the size of a small charcoal grill lid. I came to a stop and stood there, and watched as Gertie meandered about in no particular fashion and seemingly for no particular purpose other than to go for a walk. It was a stark contrast to the cars that zoomed by, and to my purpose of riding my bicycle, which was to get to work, but watching Gertie take her slow, robotic-like steps slowed the rapid pace of summer down just a bit. I remained watching, on turtle time, while she went about her business, whatever that was, until a minivan pulled over, a head popped out of the window, and asked, “Are you looking at the turtle?” Abruptly thrust back into reality, I said, “I was, yeah,” and then pedaled off. I was slightly annoyed by this interruption paired with a really dumb question, but who knows how long I would’ve been stuck standing there in a turtle vortex. As it turned out, I made it to work on time, so I suppose I should appreciate that head in the minivan.

The next day however, I was quite late. But I had a good reason to be late. My nice Mother-in-law to be and I went with my lovely fiancée to her annual cardiology appointment. She’s had three open-heart surgeries in her lifetime, so once a year, they like to check in on all those valves, chambers and orifices and see what’s new, in hopes that absolutely nothing is new. They started by asking a lot of questions and checking her blood pressure. It was slightly high, as it tends to be, but within the normal range. They then brought out a machine that looked like a mechanical octopus, with many dangling wires like tentacles that were attached to different places on her chest. The rhythmic activities of her heartbeat were displayed as numerous uneven lines on a small monitor, which were then printed out like a stock report for her file. We then went to a second room and met her doctor, who listened to her heart with a stethoscope and then got right down to chatting. Having been my lovely fiancée’s cardiologist for the past sixteen years, she’s kind of like a second mom, so getting caught up on life is as important a part of the appointment as anything else. When I told her that I was prepared to support this aspiring doctor in any way I can while she’s in medical school, she said I’m a keeper. Although I’ve earned the approval of the mom, the dad, and even the “big” brother, it still felt good to earn the approval of another very important person in my fiancée’s life: the role model. We then made our way to the third and final room where they performed a sonogram to really get a good look at that thing. Inside and out, and from every possible angle, we observed one particularly strong heart perfectly doing its job pumping blood throughout that wonderful body of hers.

A lot of people have captured the heart of the one they love, but not everyone can say that they’ve actually seen it. My heart certainly skipped a beat.

I'm Too Sexy for my Shell

2008-06-11T07:27:00.000-07:00

In less than three short weeks, my life is going to become a tad more complicated. I'm having a baby! "Pull the other one," you say. Alright then, I'm joining the Army!

Now that I've pulled both of your legs, here is the real deal: I am moving to Burlington, 45 miles away from Montpelier, the nice little capitol city of 8000 people nestled in the bosom of the green mountains of Vermont, where I have lived and worked for the past seven and a half years. My lovely fiancee is about to take the first step on the journey of a thousand miles that is medical school, so we need to be within a closer proximity to her campus. I'm cool with that. In fact, I insisted on it. Bummer we haven't started packing yet.

Where this situation gets complicated, is how I will manage, while paying higher rent and transportation, to support the two of us on my modest income, and still be able to buy beer.

I'm always thinking, and after intense brainstorming, I've decided to make myself available as a male model. After participating in just one fashion show, I've learned, as the picture above clearly illustrates, that I am a natural on the catwalk, and man, what a cushy gig. The way I figure, if I do a few walks a month, I could not only afford beer, I could invest in one of these beauties:

So all you model scouts out there searching for the next male face to represent your line of whatever, give me a call, and with the possibility of a kegerator on the line, I'll even do topless.

Man, What a Difference!

2008-06-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I took a ride on a Specialized Stumpjumper FSR 29er on the Perry Hill trails in Waterbury. Jack, our Specialized rep, was nice enough to drop off the Specialized demo trailer in our parking lot. The trailer was parked next to our shop for a few days, loaded with a fleet of demo bikes. I finally had a chance to take one out for a spin, and I was psyched to be heading to the glorious trail network of Putnam State Forest. It was the first time I’ve ridden a 29er on those trails and man, what a difference! I couldn't believe how much more hip I felt riding a bike with 29” wheels versus one with those antiquated 26ers. Not since I traded in my bar ends for a riser bar have I felt so smug, and let me tell you, it felt pretty darn good. If only I had a Prius to throw it on when I drove away.

I had a great ride, and afterwards, while enjoying a delicious pint of Smuttynose IPA at Waterbury Wings, I thought long and hard about the 29er versus 26er experience and whether the current buzz over 29ers is legitimate or just a bunch of hullabaloo. I thought about every turn, climb, and crash I had taken and wondered, did the 29er turn better? Well, slower. Did it climb better? Compared with my bike, which weighs 35 pounds? Definitely. Did it crash better? Just as good as a 26er, I’d say, but with those noticeably larger wheels spinning in the air, it made for a more dramatic aftermath.

I wanted to be thorough in my assessment and give the 29er a fair trial, so I ordered another pint and kept mulling it over. What about rolling over stuff and greater momentum and all that? Yeah, I think so. I mean, you know, sure, I think. What about the trend factor? Absolutely, without a doubt, I felt trendier. But as trend-conscious as I may be, that couldn’t be the deal breaker. I needed something more concrete. Perhaps this debate was headed for an impasse.

After finishing my second beer, I was able to form at least one solid conclusion: Whether you’re rolling on 26” wheels or 29” wheels, nothing beats a delicious pint of cold beer after a ride.

And the Bicycle Lived Happily Ever After

2008-05-31T12:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, a lot of times, things don't work out. Sometimes they do. Today at the shop on a rainy Saturday in May, something worked out. Something, you know, blog-worthy.

Upon installing a waterbottle cage on a Trek 2.3 WSD that I had just sold to a very nice woman, I discovered, while trying to back one of the bolts out, that it was cross-threaded into the insert and that the insert itself was spinning in the frame. Very bad news. This bike was minutes away from being on its merry way out the door, and suddenly I had hit a major snag. But I didn't panic. I told to customer to go get lunch and that when she returned, I'd have either fixed it, or have figured out what Trek would do.

I was determined to get that bugger out, but it would take faith combined with a lot of genuine, seasoned skill with a hacksaw to do it without destroying the frame. So I recruited the assistance of Jamie, our Zen master mechanic who believes that anything is possible, and we got right to work.

The plan was to cut the bolt head off, pry the flange of the insert away, pound the insert into the frame, and fish it out of the bottom bracket shell. Once that was accomplished, we could simply press a fresh insert in with our waterbottle bolt insert inserter thingy, which I didn't even realize we had, and call it good. Would it work? Would we destroy the frame? Would the insert refuse to fit through the vent hold of the downtube and remain forever inside, rattling away like that pebble your riding buddy discretely placed in your handlebar, driving you completely mad while he anomalously snickered?

We didn't know the answers to these questions as we courageously embarked on our task. You never know, but you cannot be afraid. You gotta believe. As George Michael taught us, you gotta have faith.

As it turned out, we achieved success, and aside from a few scratches on the frame, which were easily covered up with a frame sticker, (hey its gotta go somewhere, why not just about the waterbottle cage?) the bike was as good as new. We had the bike back together with all the remaining accessories installed by the time the very nice lady returned from lunch.

It's days like this, when the stars are all properly aligned, that you're reminded that life can be good, that work can be good, that people can be good, that your butthead friends who play tired practical jokes on you can be good, and that George Michael, who cannot seem to behave himself, can be good too.

The Moose and the Birthday Cake

2008-05-20T06:04:00.001-07:00

There are some folks out there who travel great distances to our neck of the woods with the sole purpose of catching a glimpse of one our most treasured wildlife; the woodpecker. Not very many people, but some, I reckon. But there are many more people who are far more interested in seeing an even greater natural icon; the moose. Occasionally, we will be asked where the best place to see a moose is. That’s kind of like asking where the best sighting of a rainbow will occur, or if it will be snowing when they come up for their vacation next month.

I’m from Maine, so I’ve seen plenty of moose in my time, and since living in Vermont, I’ve seen a fair share of the gentle giants, as well as a few bears, countless deer, foxes, porcupines, raccoons, skunks, hippies, poodles, and other vermin. It’s always a thrill to behold the beauty of these elusive creatures, and whenever I see one, I pause and reflect and consider myself fortunate to be living in such an amazing place that is home to all different walks of life.

This past weekend, my lovely fiancée, my dear mother-in-law-to-be, and I went out to East Bumf…I mean, Woodbury, to celebrate my sister-in-law-to-be’s 30th birthday party, and to eat delicious cake, baked by the birthday girl herself, with her husband and two kids. Last year they moved into a 4000 square foot farmhouse surrounded by acres and acres of quintessential Vermont country. It’s a long drive from the nearest beer store, but as long as the fridge stays stocked, which is does, there’s no reason why you’d ever want to leave there.

Right as we were about to settle down for dinner, the man of the house noticed, way down in the meadow, hanging out in their little pond down there, a moose. From our vantage point, way up on the hill, it could’ve been a large sheet of burlap draped over a swingset, but due to the fact that it was slowly trudging about, we assumed it was indeed a moose. I wanted a closer look, so I headed outside and made my way to the pond.

When I appeared from behind the bushes that lined the pond, the moose came into clear view. It was large, lanky, beautiful, and it was staring right at me. The sound of peepers filled the air as the two of us engaged in a staring contest that caused time to stand still. Eventually, I started getting bored, so I took one step forward, and that was that. The moose slowly turned around and disappeared into the dark forest. At that point it was just myself and the peepers, so I thought I’d find a few and check them out, as I had never actually seen one before. I made my way out to a rock near the edge of the water and crouched down. I could hear thousands of peepers peeping away at a volume similar to a Metallica concert. I swear there was one perched on my shoulder even, but that was just my imagination, apparently. Minutes passed, the peepers kept peeping, but I was unable to spot even one of the damn things.

I headed back towards the farmhouse and saw another one of nature’s most beautiful creations, my fiancée, briskly walking towards me. Apparently, when I crouched down on that rock, it appeared as though I had fallen into the pond with all the peepers, and she was worried. I assured her that I was fine and that I would never be that careless, considering we had delicious cake awaiting us.

200 Miles, Here I Come

2008-05-15T06:11:00.000-07:00

I crossed a milestone yesterday. I’m pretty sure, if my math is correct, that I surpassed the big 100-mile mark for the season on the road bike. Thank you. I was already in the high nineties before I started the ride, so look out 200 miles, here I come. I may not be on track for yet another 5000-plus mile season, as some people are, but I should make it to 1000, and considering that I have other interests, such as throwing Frisbees at trees and drinking beer, watching the Red Sox and drinking beer, and mountain biking and drinking beer, that isn’t too shabby.

The first one hundred miles of the season are always the hardest. The bicycle seat is simply not the best interface between a human and a machine, and every spring, your butt has to go through a period of re-acclimation while it toughens up. Likewise, your neck and back take their sweet old time adjusting to being in a bicycle riding position for multiple hours, and your legs, like lost souls, have to search for themselves. It is the time of the season where you are perfectly content to ride solo, while you struggle up that hill, and suffer against the inevitable homeward bound headwind that sucks out of you whatever energy you might have left.

But then, as the miles pile up, your body starts to come around, and that thirty-mile ride that almost killed you in April becomes merely a warm up lap. Your legs stay under you, your butt becomes as tough as a leather football helmet, and your neck and back, well, they still hurt like hell, but you embrace the pain and push on like a Nepalese Sherpa carrying an ill-prepared tourist suffering from elevation sickness down the mountain, while dragging an injured mountain goat.

That may be a bit of an exaggeration, unless of course you’re talking about those first 100 miles.

Bloody Brilliant, I say

2008-05-14T07:23:00.000-07:00

I work at a bike shop. During a typical workday, I sell bicycles, buy bicycles, promote bicycles, build bicycles, repair bicycles, destroy bicycles, display bicycles, talk about bicycles, read about bicycles, check my email, think about bicycles, look at bicycles, test ride bicycles, hang bicycles, organize bicycles, knock over bicycles, curse bicycles, weigh bicycles, fit bicycles, and search for my missing allen wrench set that somebody borrowed and didn’t return. I sincerely like my job and I’m good at it, and I have finally accepted the fact that the bike shop is where I belong, and chances are I’ll never completely break away from the damn place.

That notion used to be unsettling for me, but I’ve since shifted my perspective about work as it relates to life and happiness. These days I’m perfectly content doing what I do for the rest of my working life because I know that what I do is good. Bicycles are good. Helping people ride bicycles is good. The customers are good (minus a few exceptions). My coworkers are good (you know…sure…yeah…mostly). Even the pay is good (versus pretty good or marginally good). Honestly, what more is there?

But now I’m faced with a dilemma. Having been living and working in Montpelier for the past seven and a half years, I will soon be moving forty miles away to Burlington so that my fiancée and I can be closer to UVM where she is going to medical school. The idea of commuting by car, considering the price of gasoline, the carbon footprint thingy, the wear and tear on the old Subaru, and the time penalty is utterly fearsome. Commuting by bus is more eco-responsible, but with a greater time penalty combined with the likelihood of being stuck next to someone who wants to speak with you, is equally frightening. As for working in the Burlington area, there are plenty of bike shops, but working for one of them would be crossing the lines, switching teams, sleeping with the enemy, treason. I would be like the Johnny Damon of the bike shop world. I don’t want to walk into ORS someday and get booed.

So here’s my idea: Onion River Sports should simply open a shop that I could run in the Burlington area. Chittenden County needs an Onion River Sports and Onion River Sports needs me. It’s bloody brilliant. The scores of people who drive from the greater Burlington area for the service that only we provide would be elated, the scores of people who settle for mediocre service in the greater Burlington area would be overjoyed, and best of all, my personal dilemma would be resolved!

Now, the guy that could make this happen, as you might imagine, has a few reservations. He also has more on his plate than a starving horse logger at a bean supper, so he needs lots and lots of encouragement from folks other than me. If you happen to run into him, please let him know that you have endorsed my proposal and maybe, just maybe, ORS Burlington will become a reality. And maybe, just maybe, the pay will be pretty good.

Laughter Is The Best Medicine

2008-05-13T06:13:00.000-07:00

This past weekend was Mother’s Day weekend, and the weather was as lovely all the bouquets of flowers that were purchased at a premium at florists all over the world. I bought my mom a hanging pot of purple petunias instead of an arrangement of flowers. If I’m going to spend the big bucks on a perishable gift, I might as well go for one that will last longer than a week, assuming she waters the damn thing.

My sister, my fiancée and I drove to Maine to visit the old girl in hopes of cheering her up a bit. The past few months have been rough times for her; death, sickness, near-death, heartbreak, and financial challenges are among the ugly heads that have reared themselves recently, and on top of it all, her two kids haven’t been calling enough.

We didn’t need to worry about getting there too early on Saturday, because she had to attend the funeral for her former boss’s wife, who finally succumbed to illness after a long battle. The deceased was very fond of my mother, as most people are, and my mom, of course, was very fond of her. Although her death wasn’t unexpected, it still packed a punch, and it hit Mom hard enough.

It goes without saying that the girl wasn’t in the best spirits when we arrived. Not even the assortment of olives I brought could prevent her from dwelling on her recent misfortunes while unsuccessfully holding back tears. But we heard her out, gave her lots of hugs, and pretty soon, she started to turn around. Later, we all piled into the car and drove to her sister’s house, where her mom and other family members were gathered for dinner and drinks. It was quality family time for everyone, and when we left, Mom was close to her normal, fun-loving self.

The next day, after breakfast, we drove to a nearby lake to enjoy the sun and warm spring air. It was very pleasant and relaxing. On the way back, I caught something out of the corner of my eye that was as frightening as it was sidesplitting. I insisted that we turn the car around so that all of us could have a look. As we slowly backtracked, the spectacle came into view, throwing my mom into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that nearly caused her to drive off the road. What we saw was this: a woman, who in the spirit of being politically correct would be described as non-obese challenged, wearing tight pink pants and a tight turquoise shirt, her bosom indiscernible from the rolls that framed it, had wedged herself in a lawn chair with a garden hose gripped in her hand like a pistol, so that she could water her bed of tulips. She was as immobile as a lawn ornament and as majestic as a fountain as she aimed her stream of hose water at her target that lay on the opposite side of the embankment she was perched on, facing the road.

Of course we had to turn around and drive by her again to get home. She hadn’t budged, but I think she might have noticed that we had driven by three times, and despite having rolled up the windows, she very well may have heard our hysterical laughter. Hopefully she wasn’t on to us. We meant her no ill will.

Mom was still laughing so hard she almost missed her own driveway. By the time it came for us to head back to Vermont, she was as carefree as the wind blowing through a hanging basket of purple petunias.

Hard times got you down? Try this: good company, quality family time, rest and relaxation, an assortment of delicious olives, and the best medicine of all: a good dose of belly-rolling, uncontrollable laughter.

2008-05-09T05:56:00.000-07:00

I skipped out of the group road ride last night to participate in one of my favorite activities, throwing Frisbees at trees. It turned out to be a good choice, as a life was saved.

If you’re not aware of the exciting game of Frisbee Golf, it is played a lot like regular golf, only with Frisbees instead of golf balls, trees or rocks or the doorways of sheds instead of holes, and instead of a bag of golf clubs, a bag of beers. This is not to be confused with Disc Golf, where instead of Frisbees, they use regulation “discs,” instead of trees or rocks or doorways to sheds they use official looking structures made of chains and metal, and to further separate them from hacks like us and to further legitimize Disc Golf, or “Disc,” as a bona fide sport, they carry around much fancier bags for their beers.

I did well for my first game of the season, finishing seven under par, and I didn’t even throw my arm out. But that wasn’t quite good enough, as my arch nemesis, (I won’t use his real name so I’ll refer to him simply as “Dufus”) beat me by a stroke.

Just as we were about to tee off on the fifteenth hole, some friends of ours showed up and noticed that a woodpecker was trapped inside the old shed that contains piles and piles of even older things and sits on a foundation of railroad ties recently hoisted in an attempt to keep the structure from collapsing to one side. The little red, black, and white speckled bird had found the one open window to get in, but couldn’t find it to get out, so we went in to see if we could help the little bugger along. Trying to direct a frightened woodpecker to an open window is no easy task, especially when it’s hiding behind piles of cardboard boxes full of Grandpa’s long forgotten personal effects. He wasn’t making it easy for himself each time he ducked into an even darker pocket, but eventually, we were able to get him to within a few feet of the window, and with careful maneuvers, we shooed him out the window and into the glorious spring evening.

I usually feel a bit guilty when I choose to throw Frisbees at trees instead of putting on the spandex and crawling into the pain cave in an attempt to keep up with riders who are much faster than I, but knowing that my decision resulted in the successful rescue of a little woodpecker erased any doubts that being a slacker isn’t always a bad thing. In fact, as I learned last night, it can be a divine thing. If only I hadn’t bogeyed that one time.

Some Days Off Are Better Than Others

2008-04-30T11:52:00.000-07:00

The thermometer is stuck at 50.9 degrees. Check that, it just now fell to 50.7. The sky has gone from partially sunny to completely gray, with heavy rain clouds looming about like thugs wanting to cause trouble. And now it is 50.4, and I’m perfectly content sitting here on my couch, all warm and cozy, drinking delicious coffee, wondering what to do with my day off. Biking is now officially out, so don’t bother looking for me out there on Route 12, layered in brightly colored thermal apparel, riding into a patch of bone chilling April rain way out in Elmore. What better time to catch up on some writing, I say.

Although I’m clearly not a die-hard cyclist, ready to die riding in the most inclement weather, I will always feel guilty if I don’t take advantage of a beautiful day and stay indoors. But today, with the temperature now at 49.8, and still falling like the value of an unsold Trek Y-Bike in the twilight hours of used bike swap, I am more than happy to stay put. Maybe, if motivation strikes, I’ll go through my closet and gather enough abandoned clothing for my next yard sale. Or perhaps I’ll watch the new Star Wars Trilogy to see if by chance I overlooked one single redeeming thing about the films. The bathroom could use a cleaning, so I could do the domestic thing and bust out the elbow grease. Let me think about this for a tick: The Phantom Attack of the Sith or scrub-a- dub-dub? Well, considering the time penalty, I guess I’ll go for the rubber gloves and chemicals. With any luck, after the bathtub is sparkling, the sun will come out and I can ride my road bike after all. As a matter of fact, it is now 51.1, and it’s getting brighter out there. Check that, it just now fell to 50.9.

If it were summer or fall, I’d probably go hiking or mountain biking, two activities that are perfectly appropriate for a less than stellar day like today. But it is mud season, and the trails are closed so that they may be eroded away from too much foot and tire traffic while dry instead of wet. If I were still paddling whitewater, I’d be surfing a standing wave in the spring run-off, but I got “Maytagged” for the last time years ago, and anyway my spray skirt has more holes than my story about why I shouldn’t be road biking today. As far as pedaling around on dirt roads, I’d rather watch Padme say to Anakin, “Hold me like you did on Naboo” while disinfecting my toilet. As I said before, I am not a die-hard, and besides, that damn thermometer is still stuck at 50.9. Check that, it just jumped up to 52.7.

My Rejected Album Review for Seven Days

2008-04-30T11:37:00.000-07:00

Recently, I tried to get a freelance writing gig for Seven Days. I made the first cut of wannabes and as my next assignment was told to review any album from my collection. Sadly, armed with the following album review, I didn't make the second cut. Noneltheless, I had fun writing this little piece, and have decided to free it from captivity on my flash drive and give it eternal life in the blogosphere.

GOGOL BORDELLO,
SUPER TARANTA!
(SideOneDummy Records, CD)

“If we are here not to do/What you and I want to do/And go forever crazy with it/Why the hell are we even here?/Heeyaah!” The double meaning in the lines that open Gogol Bordello’s excellent latest release, Super Taranta! is as clear as the unconditional self-confidence the band flaunts: In life as well as in music, if you don’t have a purpose, you might as well go home. In the case of New York City’s Gogol Bordello, their purpose, according to exuberant front man Eugene Hütz, is to take over the world. Time will tell whether or not they accomplish this goal, but two things are for sure: they will have had a hell of a time trying, and during their journey, they got to hang with Madonna.

Ukrainian-born Chernobyl refugee and ex-Burlington transplant Hütz brings more than a gypsy mustache and a mullet to the music scene. He brings an urgent and contagious energy that is the signature of Gogol’s live shows, but which translates amazingly well in the studio. You couldn’t count the times he screams “Yeeaah!” and “Woooaah!” on the disc, but he lets them all fly with equal sincerity, emphasizing his beliefs on topics ranging from religion, on the straightforward stomp “I Don’t Read the Bible,” to the gypsy lifestyle, on the frantic “Wonderlost King,” to struggles associated with love, on the tender ballad “Alcohol.”

The formula to their inimitable sound is simple. Borrow the basic structure and chords of traditional Ukrainian folk music, change the rhythm a little, leave the accordion and fiddle right up front, blend in the standard rock trio of guitar, bass and drums, and add a couple of female cheerleaders for good measure. Plug it all in, and you have Gypsy Punk, a perfect dichotomy between Eastern and Western music that is catchy yet refreshingly diverse and appealing to fans of multiple genres, from Ska to Reggae to Metal.

There are no weak moments or album fillers on the disc, and the energy never lets up, but towards the end of Super Taranta!, some listeners may feel as though they’ve broken into a bottle of good Russian vodka, and perhaps should have taken a few less shots. Others, however, will want to keep on indulging, tear their shirts off, and scream “Heeyaah!” and “Wooaah!” until they’ve conquered the world.

Prolonging the Generosity: An Open Letter to CAKE

2008-04-25T06:27:00.000-07:00

Dear CAKE,

I was at your show last week at Middlebury College in verdant Middlebury, Vermont, and I wanted to share some thoughts in the hope that they will enlighten you just a bit. I also need some advice, but not just yet. It seems as though you’ve become even more embittered since the last time I saw you play, and I feel compelled to act as a voice for a large slice of your audience. Simply put, there are some of us out there, myself included, who are true CAKE fans, who know what the name of your first album is, who have never purchased a ring tone, and who would appreciate not being debased during the performance. I realize, especially at a college gig, that there are always going to be dipshits out there, we were standing next to three of them in fact, but there are also good people like me, who are there to see a band they really dig and really know, and who don’t deserve to be lumped in with those morons.

My purpose here is not to lecture, it is to raise your spirits, but I must say one more thing. Try not to get so angry with people for yelling song requests. That’s what people do, and will always do, and I don’t think it warrants rage on your behalf. Some artists encourage that behavior, and others simply ignore it, but every CAKE show I’ve ever attended inevitably leads up to the moment when John throws a hissy fit at someone for wanting to hear their favorite song. I’m not suggesting you honor their request and become a slave to their demands, fuck them if you don’t want to play Jolene, just know that they’re not trying to be belligerent. They are only being happy, fun-loving people at a rock show, that is until a tongue lashing from the singer kills the mood.

I hope this horrible world doesn’t grind you down too much and that you keep going. I can’t wait to go down to the record store and buy another high quality album of catchy rhythms, smart and clever lyrics, magical guitar and trumpet phrases, and all of that, but I haven’t yet decided about seeing another show. At thirty-five, I’d rather stay home and hang baskets on the wall than be unjustly scolded.

I trust you’ve read this far, because after all, a DJ friend of mine got you to sign a copy of Pressure Chief for me, and you wrote, “Ryan is great.” Thanks for that. Here is my question, which I hope you can answer. What the hell gives?

Sincerely,

Ryan

Snowburning

2008-04-24T05:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my day off, and after I pried myself out of bed, I once again faced the quandry of whether to go to the mountain one last time or stay in town and get on the bicycle. It was still fairly early, so I went across the street to get the paper and I asked the girl at the counter what she thought I should do. She said go biking. Enough with the snow already. That sounded good to me, but I couldn't shake the idea that snowboarding in eighty degree weather would be spectacular, and this was my last chance to experience it. As I was crossing back to my side of the street, I ran into a coworker who was biking to work. I asked her what I should do. She said go snowboarding, it's your last chance, and its gonna be eighty degrees.

With the advice from two different women bouncing back and forth like a pingpong ball in my brain, I went back to my place, poured a cup of coffee, settled onto my porch, and read the paper. It was the first time this year that the porch was warm enough to do this, and it made me want to stay there all day, but I knew better than to waste such a beautiful spring day sitting on my butt.

So what was it going to be? Well, after considering my options, I decided that the dry road would be there tomorrow but that the snowcovered mountain wouldn't be, and that I'd probably whine all sumer long about not heading up there that one day in late spring, so I grabbed my board and got in the car.

It turned out to be a good choice. Between runs on corn snow, or hero snow if you will, I basked in the glorious sunshine while reclining on the chairlift. The weather could not have been more pleasant and the short-sleeved, western style shirt I was wearing could not have been more stylish. Or so I thought...

One thing I've noticed about spring skiing is that some people are prone to wearing silly things. Cowboy hats, jean shorts, Raybans, things like that. Girls will occassionally wear bikinis, which is great of course, but...well, that's just great. But nothing is as silly as wearing a bra when you are a guy, as one silly guy was doing. I mean, why would he do such a silly thing? He didn't even have man boobs.

I first noticed him while I was riding up the hill. He was ripping through the bumps like Johnny Mosely, or should I say Donna Weinbrecht, and although he was wearing a bra, I noticed a lack of jiggling going on beneath it. Nothing unusual, I thought, flat-chested women wear bras, but there was something else that didn't settle with me: large sideburns.

Later, while enjoying a delicious IPA on the patio outside the baselodge, he showed up, still sporting his bra. I wanted to ask him if perhaps it had fallen from the lingerie tree, and he had picked it up and put it on, but there was already someone else inquiring, so I left him alone.

Maybe he was planning on adding it to the lingerie tree's branches on the next run.

Bad Day Gone Bad

2008-04-18T06:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a busy one, but the busy-ness wasn’t unexpected. It was one of the first gorgeous days of spring that makes everyone want to go to the bike shop, drop their bike off for perhaps a few hours for some major repair work, and then pick it up and take it for a ride before putting it away until next spring. It is always a shock to some folks when they’re told that about a hundred other people were thinking the same thing and that the only thing we can do for them before this weekend is explain that the rows and rows of service tickets in the service board aren’t a creative recycling technique.

I’m no stranger to this kind of thing, and delusional expectations combined with a mob scene had nothing to do with the fact things weren’t going my way. Normally, I can simultaneously check in two repairs, sell a road bike, answer the phone, and search for random car rack parts without breaking a sweat. But yesterday, other forces were working against me, and for a while there, I was having a very bad day.

It all started with a bang. While trying to get a stubborn tire to seat properly on an old, crappy rim using the over-inflate-the-damn-thing-until-it-settles technique, I blew the tire to shreds. When this happens, a heart-stopping blast equivalent to a cannon being fired occurs inches from your face. It is an extraordinarily unpleasant thing that happens every so often, and over the years, it has happened to me probably a dozen times. My hearing, which is diminishing like hair on a balding man’s head, has been further compromised as a result, and was further compromised again yesterday. I felt like I had pillows stuffed inside my ringing ears for about an hour. During that time I received a snide remark from a fellow coworker about my having devoured a sandwich while on the clock. Or at least I think that was what I heard. Come to think of it, maybe being deaf won’t be so bad after all.

And then I was handed a message that read, “So-and-so called about her bike. It’s urgent that she speaks with you.” Like the onslaught of bikes on a sunny day in early spring, this wasn’t at all unexpected. I was so sure that So-and-so would hate her bike after riding it that I would’ve bet my entire savings of twelve dollars on it, because firstly, that bike is cursed, (it is the sole remaining bike of a brand we no longer carry, and it’s been returned once already), and secondly, she’s one of the myriad people who thinks that bicycles should be as comfortable as your grandmammy’s sofa. Nonetheless, that message could’ve come on a different day. Now I was just plain bummed out.

So she’s coming in next week with that dreaded bicycle. I’ll see if I can get the handlebars high enough so that there is no pressure on her hands whatsoever, and that the entire weight of her body is focused on her saddle. But first, I better strap a sofa cushion to it.

Fall Into Spring

2008-04-17T05:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had to evict the spider that had set up residence over the winter in my spokes. I had the day off, the temperature was in the sixties, and the sun was extending its long arms to ground level in an attempt to pull people out of their dwellings and into the fresh spring air. I had thought about taking my snowboard to the hill one last time, but instead chose to get some real exercise and stay in town and ride my bike. Enough with the snow, I decided.

That being determined, I began the process of gearing up for the first ride of the season, which involved digging through closets in search of my shoes, helmet, arm warmers, gloves (never found those), and kit, which I could only hope was washed before being hastily packed away.

My bicycle needed some air and lube, but was otherwise ready to go, or so I thought. After about ten miles into the ride, while the cobwebs on my legs were still hanging tough, I remembered that I forgot to make one very critical adjustment, the old early spring ride stem raise, and as a result of this oversight, my ride was slightly less pleasant than it could've been. Fortunately, I wasn't heading out too far, and was able to finish without keeling over. Nonetheless, these days, the old body just doesn't work as well as it used to, and consequently, I wasn't riding in Pleasantville.

Of course, my being out of shape can't be entirely attributed to getting older. I didn't spend the winter riding a trainer, or doing yoga, or doing anything that would've maintained the level of fitness I had going in the fall. I just rode chairlifts and drank a lot of beer. I did get my heartrate up once, while nordic skiing. But only once.

We'll see how I hold up on the group ride tonight, trying to hang with dudes who already have five hundred miles on their legs and five hundred less beers in their bellies. I'm sure I'll get blown off the back, left alone for dead, but as long as there is a beer at the end, I should be ok.

Ah, home.

I'll Be Back. I mean, I Am Back.

2008-04-11T10:22:00.000-07:00

Well, it turns out the grass isn't any greener on the other side of the fence, or at least on the other side of the fence that I climbed over. In fact there wasn't any grass at all, only snow. And looking at all that snow from the window of a stressful office was an ironic kick in the gut, but it taught me a lot about my former job that I had been taking for granted. And now, having returned to the old Bike Store, I feel as though I ran away and came back home, and I've never been happier. I whistle to and from work, and nothing gets me down. And I feel incredibly fortunate that the door was open when I came back knocking. Thank you Mr. Doorman!

Some of the things I learned are:

-Parking cars sucks but counting cars sucks worse.
-Checking tickets at the lift line isn't as bad as it sounds, until someone reconizes you.
-Hearing your boss say about a fellow coworker, (EXPLETIVE ALERT!) "I'm gonna cut his nuts off and staple them to his fucking forehead!" is kind of funny, but also very sad.
-Commission is only good if you actually earn some.
-Just because you feel as though you are perceived as an idiot and despised, doesn't mean that is at all the case, but nonetheless, feeling as though you are perceived as an idiot and despised sucks.

The list goes on, but I'm starting to feel a queasiness that I've not felt since...Well, never mind.

Anyway, now that I am back in retail, where I belong, apparently, I am going to be reposting on this little blog of mine, only I think you will notice a slightly different, perhaps more upbeat tone to my ramblings. Think of it as Retail Junkie Burnout 2.0, and take all the posts prior to this one with a grain of salt.

MAMBAND LIVE!

2007-10-22T10:27:00.000-07:00

Here we are performing our big hit at the MAMBA party. We were so popular, the cops showed up to cheer us on, and then promptly shut us down. Apparently making noise at 8:20 pm on a saturday night isn't appreciated in this well-to-do neighborhood.

Brothers in Arms

2007-10-20T09:52:00.000-07:00

We are a tight crew at the shop, I’ll tell you. We are forever united in our quest for customer service excellence, we stand together as one striving to improve the bottom line, and we are all in the same boat, sailing through the stormy waters of the weekends, Super Sales, and Christmas Eve, and we all hate each others guts.

Ok, that may be a bit harsh, hate is such a strong word, but it is totally true. But the contempt we harbor for each other derives not necessarily from personality clashes, but from the fact that we are a miserable bunch of low achievers with English degrees and credit card debt, stuck in the same dark tunnel with no light at the end, and there’s someone up front with two kids who wants a good deal on bikes and accessories for the whole family and needs someone to help them.

There are many scenarios that may unfold at this point, and what happens next depends on the type of customer you’re dealing with.

The Go Getter
This type of customer knows what they want and how to get it. They mean business, and when they walk in the front door and ask the first man, woman, child, or dog they see if they work here, they don’t want to hear, “No, I don’t.” Once they make eye contact with you, you’re a deer stuck in the headlights, and you’re about to be run over.

The Dependent Aggressor
On the opposite end of the spectrum is this type of customer, who knows what they want but has absolutely no idea how to get it. They are the type of person with a large sign on their bedroom wall that reads, Pants First, Then Shoes. This type of customer slips in the front door and immediately slides into the darkest, most obscure corner of the shop and begins counting the minutes until they are greeted and asked if they need help. They may be completely out of sight, but they damn well better not be out of mind. Eventually, instead of, perhaps, walking to the front counter to ask for help, they storm out, head home, and compose a hand written letter detailing their ordeal at the shop, where they waited for six minutes and no one said hello. They usually like to add how they’ve been good customers for twenty years and over the course of those twenty years, have never once missed a single annual end-of-season blow-out sale, and have had nothing but excellent service every time they’ve been in, but after this outrage are never, ever coming back.

The Polite Nice Guy
This customer falls in the middle somewhere. They know how to find the salespeople, but hate to impose on them, and will patiently wait for help, while looking over the product they want to buy. Occasionally they’ll glance around the shop, indicating that they could use a hand, but want to make it clear it’s only when you’re ready, so no rush. They are the type of customer who, on a good day, you’d be more than happy to assist, but there are so few good days. Their laid back ways usually sets up the old retail show down, where three or four of us are standing close together, each one of us knowing full well that that customer over there obviously needs help, but are all pretending that we don’t notice that person over there who obviously needs help, until someone finally draws and shoots, but unlike the old west, he with the fastest gun loses.

And harsh as it may be, the one who gives now hates the rest of us.

Weekend Warrior

2007-10-06T08:32:00.000-07:00

The sun is pouring its early morning rays on our sleepy little town as folks begin to wake up and plan their day of yardwork, washing the car, and gearing up for the afternoon barbeque with the neighbors. It’s Saturday morning, and for those of us who work in retail, it can only mean one thing: time to get your ass out of bed and off to work, you poor bastard.

The last time I had Saturdays off from work, cartoons were exclusively a Saturday morning thing and my teddy bear and I were watching them. The Rubik’s Cube was as new as a movie called E.T., and my parents were still together. These days, Wednesdays are my Saturdays, Tuesday night is my Friday night, and Sundays are fortunately, because I am after all the manager, still Sundays.

I've worked my share of Sundays, I’ll have you know, but after crawling my way through the barbed wire and gunk of the retail hierarchy for the past million years, I’ve earned the privilege of Sundays off, so for one day a week, I can pretend to be a normal working person with a real job and a real life. I sleep in and read the paper and take my time making breakfast. It’s extraordinarily cathartic. As far as those other things that real folks do with their Sundays, the landlord takes care of the yard, my car is too much a piece of shit to wash and you can’t polish a turd, and because I live in the poor part of town, my neighbors are too sketchy to invite over for grilling, and anyway, my George Foreman is only big enough for two.

Still Workin' at the Bike Store

2007-10-02T06:46:00.000-07:00

I am a rock star, by the way. Seriously. Just because I am not in a real band, don't have any albums on the charts or even in existence, am unknown, and totally broke, I am still a bonafide rocker. I wrote this tune as therapy and play it "whenever I'm feeling down." I have a live recording of this song, played with my side project Mamband, but there is no way I'd ever let anyone hear it, because I am lousy at guitar and even worse at singing, but I am nonetheless a rock star goddammit. Here are the lyrics:

Whenever I’m feeling down
My heart falls to the ground
And I know one thing for certain
I’m not too good at hurtin’

I still remained perplexed
About what to do next
But I know one thing for sure
Still workin’ at the Bike Store

Well at least I can proudly say
That I’ve lived every day
As if it were my last
And I’m having a blast

‘Bout my troubles I can say
Left alone they’ll go away
But one thing I can’t ignore
Still workin’ at the Bike Store

All the grown up things I should do
Like save a dollar or two
Are currently on hold
And I’m getting old

Maybe this will be the year
I’ll pursue a new career
But until I open that door
Still workin’ at the Bike Store

Got a smile and an English degree
Not much else going for me
Drive around in a beat up car
They know my name at the bar

People say you can do anything
Put your mind to it, just take a swing
But until I go on tour
Still workin’ at the Bike Store

You don't need a stage in front of 10,000 screaming fans or even a decent rehearsal space to be a rock star. It's all in your heart, dude. As you can see, the basement of the shop provides a cool, industrial type setting, and we can be as loud as we like.

Could you tell me the difference between these socks?

2007-09-28T07:26:00.000-07:00

Yes, I need some assistance buying a pair of socks, and I've got a good hour to spend contemplating which socks I should purchase, so where shall we start?

And then there’s the heart surgeon guy, a man who can take your heart out of your chest, place it on your belly and put it all back together again, but cannot comprehend the workings of and is downright dumbfounded by a trunk mounted car rack. Yesterday, the heart doctor guy, who we lovingly refer to as the penis guy, (more on that later), and who I will henceforth refer to as Dr. Penis, came back in after I thought he had finally left, to inform me that the instructions for the rack were not included in the box. Again, here is a highly educated man, who understands the vastly complex functions of the human body as well as the universe of medicine, but who cannot conceive that perhaps the instructions could have slid to the bottom of the box, below the rack, and therefore out of view. You should have seen the astonished look on his face when I reached down in there are produced the instruction packet. I might as well have pulled out a little bunny he was so bowled over. And then he asked, for at least the fifth time, “Is this rack difficult to install?” “You’re a doctor,” I said, “You’ll be fine.”

Five Easy Steps

2007-09-28T06:04:00.000-07:00

Each morning when I wake up, I ask myself, do I have to work today? If the answer is no, I smile, feel an overwhelming rush of joy pass through my body, and try to go back to sleep, but falling back asleep is usually impossible, considering how exuberant I feel knowing that I have the day off. If the answer to whether or not I have to work is yes, well, then I begin the process of preparing myself for the inevitable eight hour slog, in just five easy steps.

Step 1: Brew and guzzle a pot of coffee. Aside from facilitating the wake up process, this is an especially effective way of diverting the pain of going to work to your stomach. A pot of coffee swirling around in an empty stomach results in such an unpleasant feeling, you will temporarily forget about work and can instead dwell on your caffeine-induced queasiness.

Step 2: Flicking your balls. On particular days, such as sale days or days when you know that a customer is coming in early for a comprehensive bike fit determined to eliminate discomfort in their knee or ass or toe, the coffee-pain diversion trick isn't enough, and more effective technics are necessary. Pounding your pinky toe with a hammer, I've found, is also quite effective.

Step 3: Brainstorm for any reason to not go to work. Although rarely a fruitful endeavor, occassionally inspiration strikes, and a perfectly legitimate reason, such your kid is sick, will arise, and you're golden. If you're a person who doesn't have kids, such as myself, you're totally screwed and you're totally going to work, and with only ten minutes to go, and excruciating pain in your balls combined with a naseous feeling in your stomach, it's time to bite the bullet and suck it up.

Step 4: Look in the mirror and give yourself a motivational speech that would bring Deepak Chopra to tears. This is the last resort, when there is no more hope, and when you realize, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Make a pitcher of Kool-Aid, cause you're gonna drink it, kid.

Step 5: Be strong, be brave, and go.

If you follow these five easy steps, you will be ready for your day, and you will look like just like this poor bastard:

And you must do your best to remain in this state of mind for as long as you can. For me, I can usually do this for a good twelve minutes or so. By the end of the day, despite being as strong and as brave as I can, I end up looking more like this poor bastard:

The Cast of Characters: Part 1

2007-09-27T17:07:00.000-07:00

Hi. What direction can I point you to?

You are never supposed to ask a yes or no question on the battleground known as the retail sales floor, such as, "Are you gonna buy something today, or what?" because then the customer has the opportunity to say no, and subsequently has the opportunity to actually not buy something. I don't want to ask you, the discerning reader of retailjunkieburnout.blogspot.com, a yes or no question either, such as, "Do you want to read any of these ramblings?" because you may say no, and I wouldn't have the chance to trick you into reading any further, which would be a shame, because I'm about to introduce a few of the characters that will make reading this blog intriguing and worthwhile. These characters, who will be developed in techicolor-like detail, will be affectionately referred to as...the Super Friends.