Zombie Dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.