Lose Your Appetite

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

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

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

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

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.