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.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Retail Junkie Superstar: Working Hard, Like Dogs in Fact, in Utah
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Riding Back From the Sunset
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.
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