Every Now and Zen...

I was recently reflecting on my past writings in an effort to see a pattern that might show why I've stopped writing as frequently as I once had. Oddly enough, I realized that while I started writing as a way of philosophizing about my mountain biking adventures (or, all too often -- misadventures). In more recent scribblings, I bitched about work and threw out some thoughts on life. I was, in essence, concentrating on life as a way of avoiding biking! How's that for an up-side-down paradox? As is usually the case, it took an obvious everyday situation to show me the obvious any day solution.

The prophecy of my January blog came full circle the day after Valentine's Day when I lost my job. While it was a pretty cushy job, it was sucking at my soul as a chef to go in every day. Having had the last five months off (I do have a new job, but don't start for a while yet), I've had some serious free time on my hands. So much time, in fact, that I don't have time for anything. I don't know what I do all day, but the calender is full. Thank goodness I don't have a job, because I wouldn't have time to do it! One of the things that takes up a fair portion of my day, is walking Zooey, our 19-month old Blue Heeler. With her, it's simple: the more tired she is -- the less trouble she gets in to. So this means long walks and lots of them. I'd been getting bored with the same ol' beach walk (plus, the summer tourists' presence means more time on the leash for Zo) and started thinking of new places to hike. We had hiked the woods along the river behind the quarry a few times and its closer to home than the beach, so we started there. After several trips to the quarry, I started refining our route so it coincided with the mountain bike course. And then it dawned on me.... I could ride this! The quarry was always just a section of the course I'd ride that wound its way through Maywood and Evergreen parks, as well as around the quarry. If I were to enter the course from the west rather than the south, I could hit the quarry section and join the traffic flow rather seamlessly. I would add distance by doing several laps instead of once around and back under the highway to Evergreen park. Viola! I ride is born! I got on my X-Cal the next afternoon and headed out. There and back plus two laps around came in at about five miles. A fairly typical mountain bike outing for me. I rode it a couple more times since, and my times are coming in line consistently. After the last couple of gun-shy seasons plagued with injury and basic white-knuckle riding habits, I've found a ride that fits. It's got all the elements I love: a few challenging climbs, lots of fast winding single-track, short quick descents and one or two launches off the quarry's slick-rock just to keep me from getting complacent.

It's unnatural for me to think outside the box all the time. I think most people are this way. Because of that, I spend a lot of time consciencely looking for a catalyst to help me see just beyond the shadows of my conscience thoughts. I look and listen and learn from what's going on around me. Seeing things from a different vantage point, listening to song lyrics, watching what other people experience. These are all valid ways I look for inspiration. This time around, it was Zooey. And I'm sure it will be again sometime.

Working Through My Mid-Life Crisis

In the spring of 2003, I was a salesman logging hours on end in a truck listening to the radio. When I heard an ad for a bike expo coming up at State Fair Park, my weekend plans were made. That bike expo was something of a milestone event in my life. I was given the OK to buy a new bike, it was this next bike that forever cemented my alliance with the Gary Fisher brand. Over the last eight years, I've been at this bike show numerous times. Spreading the enthusiasm and love of cycling to friends by helping them pick out new bikes. Last year a sales person suggested that with my knowledge and excitement, I should come down and [temp] work the show. When I was let go from my job (fulfilling the prophesy laid out in a previous blog), the opportunity to work the expo became available. I printed an application off their web-site and drove it down to Milwaukee. A few days later I received all the information and forms associated with being an employee. The schedule would be: a day of setting up, three and a half days of sale expo, and a half day to tear it all down. Wow, I was going to the show. I studied up on my bikes. Spending hours on-line pouring over models, components, and accessories. When the day came I showed up at the expo hall and spent the next six hour as part of a bucket brigade that unloaded over 1,000 bikes off of more semi trailers than I can remember. The bikes were then set up in rows so packed together that bumping one bike the wrong way would have knocked a row of 50 bikes down. Aisles for the customers were maybe six feet wide. It was a sight to behold. Hundreds and hundreds of road, mountain, dual-sport, cruisers, Hy-bred, triathlon, and kids bikes all lined the hall waiting for the doors to open the following afternoon. The first day, the sale didn't start until 4:00pm. I arrived at noon to help put the final detailed touches on my area of responsibility. My name badge said 'Jim [and under that] Mountain Bikes.' I would be planted in the section representing a sport that I've tried to align myself with for years. I don't know any cyclists that I don't look up to. Riders are riders, but mountain bikers are the coolest. And those are who I wanted to be hanging out with. A little before 4:00, the PR guru spoke up with the enthusiasm of a high school cheerleader and told us to, "Have a good expo, work hard, and have fun!" With that, the door opened and I became 25 again.

I really never aspired to work in a bike shop. However, now that my career has hit a wall (and hit it hard), I long for a job where I could get paid to do something I love. To spend the day talking about the bikes I ride and the places I like to go to ride them would be so refreshing compared to the career I've struggled with of late to even identify with. The day's first customers were in the door, and some of them were making their way to my section. I remembered what some expo vets had said at dinner the night after set-up, "Opening day is the easiest, because those are the people who know just what they want. They're coming in not to shop, but to buy." It was quite a confidence booster to sell two bikes right off the bat, including the newer version of the model I ride. My feet were firmly beneath me and my confidence soared.

In retrospect, the expo represented everything I felt a mid-life crisis should encompass. It was four days of hanging out with people (staff) much younger and more hip than myself. I knew it was really an unhealthy choice to have a Kopp's burger at 9:00 at night, but I did it anyway (I even added bacon). And I even tried to let go of everything else in my life at the moment that usually churned my guts into a daily caustic mess for the hours I spent at the expo.

Over the course of the next four days, I would end up selling more than forty bikes (mostly Gary Fishers). It turned out I was pretty good at this game. The training manual had been right; 'enthusiasm is infectious.' It was harder than I had worked in some time, but a thousand times more rewarding.

I returned to my life with a mildly melancholy feeling. I had been offered a dream job with a fantastic company. But I'm a 43 year-old family man, so I need a career not just a job. I'm eternally grateful to Wheel & Sprocket for hiring me and to my family for taking care of everything at home so I could go off to Milwaukee every day to be at the show. Maybe the fact that it only lasted a few short days made it better for my soul. A short, but sweet moment in a world I can appreciate more because I'm not in it all the time. I love going to cycling events to feel the energy of that community, but to a lot of the people at those events -- its hard work day in and day out. Hopefully next year my schedule will again allow me to indulge my soul in four days of spreading the gospel that is bicycling.

No Place Like Home

I was 3-months and 15-months old when the Green Bay Packers won Super Bowls I and II, so I wasn't really up to speed on the nuances of what it meant to live in 'Packer Country.' I lived out of state when the Pack won the Big Game in '97. In 1998 I lived through the rioting and chaos in Denver when the Packers lost to the Broncos. Man, I took a financial beating that year, playing the role of a faithful fan transplanted in enemy territory. The odd thing is, I'm not really much of a football fan. If you come from Wisconsin, however, you are a Packer fan. There's so much rich history, passion, and tradition in the Green Bay Packer organization that its hard not to get sucked into it. From the legendary persona of Vince Lombardi to the fact that the team is owned by the people of the city of Green Bay rather than some meglo-maniac billionaire; you can't help but root for this team. I'm not alone in thinking that, either. Apparently there's a Packer themed bar in every NFL city in the country. While I never really embraced the whole football sub-culture, I still quietly cheered for my home-town heroes. This season was no different, save one small thing. I lived in Wisconsin during a Packer post-season. This year's post season even had Cinderella thinking, "Nobody can be that lucky." Sneaking their way into the play-offs missing practically one third of their starters, they just kept rolling. Winning in convincing fashion, they went from mid-season mediocrity to play-off powerhouse. Before we knew it, the Packers we're going to Super Bowl XLV.

The morning of Super Bowl Sunday was business as usual for me. At 8:30am I was getting a coffee and heading to the lake front to walk the dog. As I drove through town, things were a subtly out of the ordinary. Guys in full Packer regalia were carrying coolers to their cars. The church's parking lots were full (normal), as was the liquor store's (not so normal for a Sunday morning). Wisconsin's faithful praying for a win and then buying the beer to make the ride smoother whichever way it went. Packer fans are that way. Football & God (usually in that order) are what Sundays in winter are all about here. We believe they go hand in hand. That's why I knew The Packers would win.

Last week, during the blizzard that completely shut the city down (except for my place of business. We remained open throughout the natural disaster, but ironically closed for Super Bowl Sunday), I sealed the victory with a simple act that made the football gods smile favorably upon my team. See, I have these neighbors.... In spite of the fact they have a monster snow blower and I have a shovel, they have never once cleared my walk; in spite of the fact their dog sneaks into our yard to crap almost every morning; and in spite of the fact they're Steeler fans; I helped them push their car out of the ridiculous pile of snow (that they refused to remove even though the have a snow blower) deposited by several passes of the city's snowplows. Don't get me wrong, it was a great game. Hard fought, talent ridden, well coached, very even (even in the unfair calls), everything a championship game should be. I was once again walking the dog when when the final whistle blew showing the Packers as champions. I would have know even if I hadn't been listening to the game on the radio. People whooping and yelling out their front doors and fireworks scattering across the February night sky told the story: the Lombardi Trophy was coming home. It was a very cool feeling. One I had missed in championships past. I was home for the home team's mighty win. I had faith, though. Karma works in strange and mysterious ways. That's why Packer fans believe in football and God.

An Open Letter To (insert any private club here)

In 1988 I was pursuing my double degree in Culinary Arts and Hospitality Management. During a management class, the instructor, a knowledgeable man with a penchant for loud ties said, "...and you want to steer clear of 'animal clubs' (his simplification of Lions, Elks Lodges, Knights of Columbus, Yacht Clubs, Golf Clubs, & Country Clubs)." So apparently it's been common knowledge since the dawn of time that clubs are poorly managed facilities and therefore black holes for culinary talent. Seriously? Didn't someone send the clubs a copy of this memo? Wouldn't they realize that they're the laughing stock of the culinary world and want to whip themselves into shape? I didn't give it a second thought at the time, but I did spend the next twenty years of my culinary career successfully steering clear of clubs. Eventually it came time for me to find out the answer to the questions I posed above. I had what seemed like a can't lose opportunity to be part of a club that really wanted to re-build it's integrity. And since I'd be going into it with a General Manager that I knew, trusted, and respected, I felt safe.

I couldn't have been more wrong. The GM bailed on me less than three months into it; and it turned out that only 3/400s of the membership truly wanted things to be better bad enough to make any real changes; and even they couldn't agree on how. On my first day, I sat before the elected Commodore and the committee that I would directly report to and explained to them my philosophy, "I am a restaurant chef. It's what I know how to do. And in a restaurant you're expected to make money. If you let me run this operation like a restaurant, I will make you money." Sounds simple enough, right? Everyone at that table shook their heads and said that that was exactly what they wanted. And then spent the next three years not letting me do it. Everywhere I turned there were exceptions, 'yeah buts', stubborn staff unwilling to change, narcissistic old timers, and another 200 members that know how to do everything better. I was given all of the responsibility and none of the authority to see it through. Every month we'd sit back down at the table with seven trees worth of graphs, charts, and reports that all said the same thing: this isn't working. Then the powers-that-be would look at me as if to ask, 'We've been chasing our tails all month. Why haven't we caught it yet?'

Once a month there is a membership meeting. At this meeting the members that care the most (or are at least the loudest) gather to match wits and discuss who's to blame for the latest set of catastrophic numbers. At this meeting I set out a buffet which no one pays for. I was told of an individual who stood and ranted that my food cost should be this specific magic number. I wish I could have been there to charge him $8 for the sandwich he was eating. I can ultimately give them any number they want to see. But that would mean they would have to succumb to doing things my way. That, of course, will never happen. After all, owning a boat trumps a culinary degree and 20 years of experience any day in the mystical world of animal clubs. Whether it be tomorrow, next week, or next year; the smart money is on the talentless waitress will still be shooting off her mouth and doing whatever it is she wants completely unchecked and will still be working at the club while the intelligent, well-travelled, reasonable chef will be gone. Drained of his energy and motivation by arrogant members and spineless managing of resources; leaving another committee asking a another fool, 'Why can't we catch our tail?'

Do Over

When reflecting on where you are in life, it's possible you may look back on the events that transpired and think to yourself, "I wish I'd done that differently." I'm not talking about the ugliest person you dated, buying a lemon of a vehicle, or actually paying to see Dirty Rotten Scoundrels in the theatre. I'm talking about the huge life events. Something that inevitably changed the outcome of your life to date. I was recently reminded of my 'do over'. In the mid-90s I was in my mid-20s and had it pretty sweet. I had a nice apartment within walking distance of my two good jobs. I made decent money and drove a really cool Jeep. On the surface, it was truly ideal. But I was in my 20s and 'ideal' wasn't good enough. So when my culinary Yoda called me and wanted me to move 2,000-plus miles to become his sous chef in Oregon, my mind was made up before I hung up the phone. Unfortunately for me, I wasn't the most confident young man back then and didn't have the stones to move cross-country all by myself so I brought along my on again/off again girlfriend of the past eight years. After the first day on the road, I knew I had made a mistake, but I was a man true to my word so we got married and I put my best foot forward. Our lives quickly fell into a pattern. Our days off together were so routine that we didn't even have to discuss what we were going to do. I guess that did save time. She had got a husband, which is what she wanted. I got someone who willing to follow me anywhere and pay her half of our bills. I think we both secretly hoped for more, but it never came to the surface. On the professional front, my life was a whirlwind. New positions, new restaurants, new cities, new challenges came at me at blinding speed. Near the end of my time in Oregon, I crossed path with a woman who owned a vineyard in the Willamette Valley. The word around town was that she was contemplating opening a restaurant at her vineyard so I called to offer my services. We talked for a while and she explained that a full-blown restaurant was a few years off and right now the operation didn't require someone of my experience. We agreed to stay in touch, and that was that. I hadn't given that conversation another thought until a few days ago when I was reading an article about Pinot Noir in a trade magazine. The backdrop of the article was the bistro at the Ponzi Vineyard in the Willamette Valley. The lustrous photos of the dining room and surrounding Oregon countryside brought back feeling of regret and resentment. A longing to have done something differently plagued me for days.

When you're standing at the cross-roads and have to make those big decisions, all you have to base that decision on is the information and experiences you have before you. It's easy to beat yourself up over the 'should've, could've, would'ves' of your life when you can look back at them in the distance. And even when you look and those defining moments of better or worse, would you really change them? To change a moment in your past, you must also realize how everything in your life would be different now. The people you wouldn't have met, the experiences you would have missed, and places you may never have seen. This is why Hollywood can't do justice to a time travel movie, there are just too many variables. Are any of these variables worth giving up? Again it's easy to make the calls in retrospect. Even if you can choose the things you'd do and places you go, you'd still be cheating yourself out of the spontaneity of the experiences.

Before you go down that road of self-pity, thinking 'if only I'd done this...', look around you now. I'd be willing to bet that right here and right now isn't worth losing a single second of. Especially to another set of blind circumstances.

If The Salomon XA Pro 3D Ultra GTX Trail Running Shoe Fits...

Sometime during the era of me moving to a big city and the emergence of the grunge scene, it became impossible to '...gage a man by the cut of his suit.' The obscenely wealthy rock stars were growing their hair long, not shaving, and wearing thrift store flannels. Roughly the same get up as the average homeless man. This coming in the wake of the 80's decade of excess where clean-cut, but usually broke college graduates showed up en mass to Wall Street dressed to the nines in a mortgaged three-piece suit to become the next Donald Trump. There had seemingly been a wardrobe paradigm shift. But through it all, I observed there was a foolproof way of identifying the posers from the real deal: their feet. No matter what you choose to wear; no matter what genre you align yourself with; your choice of footwear will always reveal your true identity. Whether you're a rock star wearing $200 Doc Martins with your $5 flannel shirt or the wet behind the ears college kid in an Armani suit and the same penny loafers he graduated high school in -- the shoes never lie. This being said, what to your shoes say about you? Are your shoes expensive and stylish, but barely comfortable enough to wear sitting behind a desk all day? Are you still wearing the same Birkenstocks you wore following The Dead? Either of these scenarios paint a pretty vivid picture, don't they: A corporate stuffed shirt and a idealistic hippy. I confess that all too often I let my somewhat distorted self-image sway my shoe purchases. "These are perfect! I can wear them hiking around here. And if this is the year I make it to Tibet, I'll be set there too." Image plays a big role in one's personal choice of footwear. Its not always so much what we need as what we want to need. For example; if you notice a guy in a nice pair of New Balance running shoes and he happens to be standing behind you in line at the grocery store buying a TV Guide and cat food, he probably wishes he was that guy stretching his legs at a picnic table in the park. His well-worn New Balances barely discernible through the mud and wear of a marathon seasons' beating. I bought a pair of $110 high tech water shoes that would much rather be portaging a kayak though the Boundary Waters then strolling on the shore looking for beach glass, but someday when I head back up to Ely to see my cousin and his family, I've already got the shoes. Or at least that's what I tell myself. Sometimes though, function compromises with function. Even if its not by design. I have a nice pair of cross-trainers and they really work well for my particular brand of cross training: running my Blue Heeler, and.......well, running my Blue Heeler. That's likely where most of us land. Somewhere between qualifying for the Boston Marathon and putting our feet up on the ottoman. Mom buys expensive running shoes because maybe she'll start running every day again. But the shoes will come in handy chasing around her kids all day. Dad buys a $200 pair of Air Jordans not because he's going to try out for the Lakers, but so his knees don't ache after basketball league night at the YMCA. I'm sure if you look down at your feet now you could think back at why you bought the shoes you're wearing and what you've actually worn them for up to this point. Since you probably didn't buy 'reading shoes,' you'll find your mind wandering. Were they for a job interview? To go with a pair of jeans that are completely worn out by now? For a trip you did (or didn't) take? I'm sure that the ten minutes you spent reading this is the longest you've spent thinking about shoes since you pondered buying a new pair. But now the next time you go to your closet to pick a pair of shoes, you may pause for a second to think about what image you're conveying by choosing the pair of you're about to reach for. Or maybe I'm blowing this completely out of proportion. I can tell you this though, if I met you tomorrow I'd look at you to greet you, maybe shake your hand, and then I'd glance casually down to see if you were wearing wing-tips or Keen sandals just to see if you're someone I'd be interested in knowing. It still may be true that clothes define the man. But its the shoes that show who we really are and who we really want to be. Perhaps that's why its called the sole(soul)?

Spontaneous Parenthood

Five days before my forty-third birthday, I prematurely spent my gift money on a puppy. It wasn't a very well thought out purchase to be sure, but it wasn't completely irresponsible either. I've wanted a pet since I was a little boy. Who hasn't, right? Getting a dog has come up in casual conversation on and off over the last year or so. Even more regularly in the last few months now that Koval has overcome his fear of four-legged anythings. About a month ago, Ellie came up on our radar. A 10-month old Blue Heeler who was living in a kennel in Appleton. It sweetened the pot considerably that she was a breed I was fascinated by since my days in Oregon where a friend of mine raised them. Plus, it was a Heeler that played the supporting actor role in one of my favorite movies, 'Last of the Dogmen' opposite Tom Berenger. Heelers are an active and protective breed known also to be highly intelligent. Everything seemed right, so we jumped through the appropriate hoops, got the needed approvals and glowing references needed to begin the adoption process. We then drove the 90-miles to meet the pup in question and interview with the agency who'd been caring for her. While Lori talked shop with the agency rep, Ellie and I romped though the field behind the kennel. It was somewhat surreal that after 35 years of not having a pet, I was most likely about to become the owner of this dog who was presently gnawing on my forearm. It's a lot like owning a Ferrari: it's something cool to think about, but I've accepted it would never happen.

Ellie's story began when she moved to Wisconsin from Ohio to work as a herding dog on a dairy farm. After almost being hit by a tractor several times her first day on the job, the farmer brought her to a vet where it was determined Ellie was deaf. Having no need for a deaf dog, the farmer dumped her at the local Humane Society. Being handicapped, her fate seemed sealed until an animal rescue agency saved her. She was then adopted by a family in the Fox River Valley and moved north. Her stay in that new home was short lived when a sudden and serious illness forced the family to surrender Ellie back to the rescue agency. This is where we enter the story. The therapist who helped Kovi over his fear of dogs, gave Lori a link to a friend of hers who was associated with O.A.R.s (orphaned animal rescue), the agency responsible for Ellie. She had been staying with a foster family that was a couple who did wedding photography, so the pictures of Ellie on the O.A.R.s web-site were of this beautiful, smiling (yes, smiling) puppy. We were smitten. I wouldn't be writing this if we hadn't been approved. We wrote a check and headed home, completely unprepared to bring home a dog. Two stops and a couple hundred dollars later we were on our way.

Part ll: Raising Chaos

The best part of having a deaf dog is that you can change her name every day if you'd like. It was Maui for a day and a half. Then, while we were on a walk, Sydney and I came up with Zooey, and it stuck. One of the things we had going in our favor as being responsible pet-owners is that the dog would only be home alone for six hours a week. However, in her first 30-minutes alone, Zooey opened the bread box and mauled a bag of kaiser rolls, ate my last peanut square (white cake frosted on all six sides and coated in peanuts) bag and all, leaving only the still sealed zip-loc closure, and turned Lori's decorative driftwood collection into a pile of mulch like a canine wood chipper. It wasn't long before we realized this was going to be a long tough road. I described it to a co-worker as "...having a baby without the nine months of preparation." How do you call, scold, or praise a dog that can't hear? A Blue Heeler is a breed that wants to run. And I mean run. I could run her to the county line and back, and after a 20 minute nap on the end of the couch she'll look up at me as if to say, "So are we going for a walk, or what?" She's 35lbs of pure energy. I think she alone could disprove Einstein's E=mc2. Zooey's 'E' is greater then her M (mass) at rest! I'm just sure of it. The first couple of times Zo and I were alone she was laying in the sun on the dining room floor after our walk and I found myself thinking, "nap or lunch?" I opted for nap both times. You sleep when baby sleeps! Having this dog is going to take a truckload of patience as we still have to be in the same room with her to make certain that she doesn't disembowel the furniture. It'll take crafty planning to make sure everything gets done and everybody gets the attention they need. Zooey's another piece in a big complicated puzzle that comprise the family. And like the rest of the kids, she's fairly spoiled. She's slept on our bed since day one. On her first night with us, we put her in the brand new kennel we had just bought. She whined and barked until Lori came downstairs. They ended up spending all night up and down between the couch and the floor. Indigo suggested we move the kennel up to our room so Zooey wouldn't feel alone. Again, she cried when when we kenneled her. This time Lori brought her pillow onto the floor and spooned with the puppy next to her kennel. By the time I got out of the shower, Lori was fast asleep on the floor and Zooey was curled up on the down comforter. She's spent every night there since. Will Zooey continue to run this household? You decide... The issue of the dog sleeping on the bed has been solved: We're getting a bigger bed.

Serendipity, Syncronicity, and Other Phenomenons I Can't explain (or spell)

It's easy to say "everything happens for a reason," when you can look back to the events of your life and connect the dots. But when it's happening around you, you have to take a step back and scratch your head. For me, there were two big events to my summer. They couldn't have been less similar and yet were only possible because of a food vendor. As bizarre as it seems, I got to mountain bike on the private trails of Trek bikes because I started buying appetizers from a new source. Here's how it all started...
Last year, I was approached by a new specialty vendor out of Madison that was bringing in high-end appetizers, desserts, and imported items. The fine dining chef in me salivated at some of the possibilities (at last, I can get squid ink). I accepted the fact that the only thing I'd probably get was the smoothie base that would save me a fortune at the coffee house where my wife and daughter loved to get insanely over priced beverages. I tacked on a few appetizers for our Christmas party and that seemed to be that. As their company grew, they expanded their sales force. Now I had a sales person checking in on me (and bringing delicious samples) almost weekly. As sales people are known to do, a good deal of small talk took place during these sales calls. At one point, she mentioned that the owner had just bought a place up on Washington Island, in Door County. I mentioned that a long lost colleague of mine was last seen on the island. Low-and-behold, two phone calls later, I was holding the number of the chef who I had worked beside at three different restaurants, in two different states. The chef who became my mentor 20 years ago. The chef I had last seen just before my now 10-year-old daughter's birth. A few months later, my family and I ate at The Wild Tomato, his new restaurant in Fish Creek. It was a fantastic reunion and it felt so good to be back in touch with him.
Fast forward another six weeks... I received an invitation to the Elegant Foods' open house in Madison which was conveniently scheduled on a Monday (my guaranteed day off, as the club is closed Mondays). "Hmmmm," I thought, "I have a standing invitation to tour Trek that was extended to me by a pro mountain biker." Did I dare make that call? I hadn't been in contact with said racer since last Christmas. Well, if you don't know how that story ends, read my last blog: Creepy Friendly and the Introvert.
Two seemingly polar opposite events connected, oddly, by a food supplier. Albert Einstein once said, "Coincidences are God's way of staying anonymous." Sometimes it's hard to argue with that logic.

Creepy Friendly and the Introvert

It was about a year ago that I wrote a blog entitled 'Hero Worship.' It's inspiration came with the realization that at 42 years old, my idols were all now younger than me. It traced the individuals that I looked up to from Kiss bassist Gene Simmons to mountain biker extraordinaire Jesse Lalonde. In the end it was not so much about who you look up to, but how they impact you. And as a result of that impact, who will, in turn, look up to you. Through our intermittent correspondence following that blog, Jesse offered a standing invite to show me around the Trek campus. After a year of wondering, I set out to Waterloo Wisconsin.
It all started with a brief stop at a food show being hosted by one of my relatively new purveyors. That was my initial rationalization for being in Madison in the first place. From there it was about a half hour to Waterloo. If it hadn't been for GPS, I'm sure I would have turned around and figured there was nothing but corn out there. Yet after miles of tiny farming hamlets, there it was: the mother ship! After a year of scattered e-mails, I was about to get the grand tour of Trek cycles by a guy I've looked up to for years, but have never formerly met. Hell, I didn't even think I'd recognize him, as I'd never seen him without a helmet and sunglasses. Jesse had always referred to himself as just a regular guy 'living the dream.' And he is. On the surface, he blends in with the rest of the crew at Trek. As conservative of a company as Trek is, there's such a laid back aura to the place. Everyone seemed as though they just got back from or were just about to leave for a bike ride. No one seemed to wear sleeves. And there sure wasn't a tie to be found in the entire building (at least not in the creative side of the shop). The tour started with the lobby where a decade of Lance Armstrong's tour bikes were displayed. There was the obvious uncomfortable formality between Jesse and I as we were two complete strangers, so it was perfect that all the touristy stuff came first. Eventually we got to the door that led to the more behind-the-scene stuff. At this point I had to turn off my camera. Now it was going to get good! I got to see projects that are still in the works, like custom bikes for pros world-wide, Lance's mountain bike, and a rack of frames from the Tour De France. After snooping from one end to the other, it was time for the crowning moment of my visit to Trek: "Ready to hit the trails?" Jesse asked.
Nine miles of the best single-track around. That's how I'd have to describe it. Tons of rough-and-tumble obstacles, but each had an alternative route for white-knucklers like me. The trails were all hard packed single-track with minimal roots and rocks to slow you down. It was a dream ride. I found myself fantasizing about how good I'd get being able to ride this labyrinth every day. Chasing Jesse through the woods, I realized what separates the good from the great. Watching Sidney Crosby skate, Nolan Ryan pitch, Micheal Jordan soar, or Tiger Woods swing; you see the same thing: effortlessness. The fluid movement of what they do gives a whole new meaning to the word natural. As my shoulders grazed saplings and tires slid uncomfortably off rocks I hadn't hit squarely, Jesse hopped up and down stumps and boulders the size of Volkswagons with what only can be described as grace. He can ride smoother then I can walk. It was something to behold. The ride was amazing. I didn't feel self-conscience or slow or unworthy to be riding with a three-time Elite champion. It was amazing. Now it was time to eat.
When we returned to Trek, he needed to shut down his office before we headed back to Madison for a bite. I took the opportunity to slump into my Jeep seat and pound a 32oz Nalgene of water. I was spent. He led us to a hip brew pub near the capital where we feasted on more meat then any two adults should consume.
The day was nearing it's conclusion, and the conversation never lulled. It was kind of funny that way. Usually conversations follow certain rules. Not tonight. I credit that with Jesse's unreserved ability to put the whole situation at ease. I think that comes from small town/Midwest sensibilities. We seemed to cover all the usual stuff, yet bikes and cycling were never far off. In the end Jesse is living the dream. I can't conceive working at a place that brings your career and your passion into the same building. I wonder if Trek's got any plans to add a food service facility in in the near future? He even offered to have me come back when Gary Fisher himself is back in town. It was definitely a day worth bragging about.
Being the introvert that I am, most of my 'great times' are well thought out and include people I am already close to. I'm 42 and still have the same four friends that I did twenty years ago. I'm sure for an outgoing person days like this are pretty normal, but for someone like me, they're extraordinary. Putting myself out there is uncommon. But when I do, great thing have happened... And a bike is usually involved.

Thanks again to all who made the day possible: My wife for taking care of the juggling act that is our family's Mondays, my folks for the GPS and picking up Kovi from school, and Jesse Lalonde for the generous gift his time and his easy-going kin-ship. Bikers rock.

Cookin' it Old School

I'm a chef. It was a fact I used to be very proud of. People made reservations weeks in advance to eat my cooking. The cities biggest chefs stood next to me and graciously accepted their silver medals while I was bringing home the gold. I got to travel to cool cities and be immersed in their trendy scenes, while headhunters tried to lure me to the next big thing. It was a very cool life. Recently I feel I've lost that flair and passion that inspired me to dazzle all those years ago. I feel I've whored myself out for a paycheck because I have a skill to do something better than most others. My desire to impress has been replaced with a desire to pay my bills and have a little time left to spend with my family. Every once in a while, however, something happens... A few weeks ago, I was saddled with a project. I was to create a menu of appetizers representing the nine countries that would be taking part in an event being hosted by my restaurant. The pre-event reception would be attended by VIPs, sponsors, and the countries' athletes. So it was time to put on my game-face. Instead I did what I usually do: I started shopping for where I'd find these appetizers. Actually, that's not entirely true. I ignored the whole thing for two weeks first, then I started shopping. Six days before the event, I was laboring over the preparations for a different event and the weight of this VIP gig loomed heavy on my mind. I had to get moving on this. Somewhere during the course of regular dinner service, it happened: I had an epiphany. It's the only thing I can call it. Without the presence of any reasonable catalyst, I went from an inside the box mind-set to an outside the box state of mind. My brain literally went from thinking, "Where can I buy a lamb-based appetizer?" to "I'm going to make braised New Zealand Lamb tartlets with Cabernet creme fraiche." Once that happened, I was inspired to create something for each country (don't be too impressed, I'm still doing mini chili-cheese dogs to represent America). {The rest of this was written the week following the event} Success! The afternoon of the event, after regular lunch service was over, I sent the rest of the staff home and changed into my chef's whites for the first time in months. You see, it was the first time in a long time I was proud to stand behind the food that was leaving my kitchen. The event want smooth. I was in the zone. And without anything or anyone to slow me down or riddle me with questions, I was able to just rip through the cooking and serving like a precision machine. It felt good. When the dust settled and the last hors d'oeuvres had left the kitchen, I grabbed my legal pad and went outside to catch up on some book work. I was seated about fifty feet from the hospitality tent where the event was being staged. I couldn't hear anything, but I could see the guests congregating around the food. Eventually the crowd started breaking up and had to pass where I was sitting to get to the parking lot. Several of them stopped by to extend their congratulations and gratitude as they passed me. Some rather enthusiastically. I smiled and thanked them politely, but inside I was aglow. Over the next several days, more and more compliments come pouring in. Ironically, one of the biggest compliments come from the individual who asked 'where did you buy these appetizers?' Because I can answer, 'I made them, dumb-ass,' (well, at least I can think it). The next day, life at the restaurant went right back to normal. People went back to ordering hamburgers and perch dinners, and I went back to cooking them. Late the following afternoon, my phone rang. It was the events organizer calling to extend a heart-felt 'thank you' for making the event a great success. She told me she had received a number of compliments from the guests, and was extremely pleased with how the event turned out. I humbly thanked her for the kind words, but again I was doing a big gloating dance inside my head. All I could do was reply, "It's what I do. I'm a chef."