LIVESTRONGwitchhunt

Imagine yourself standing at the fence of any grade school playground in America. You see a game of kickball between the third grade boys and girls in progress. In this game, the girls are beating the boys. And I mean beating! Let's say it's 15-2 in favor of the girls. Now the bell rings and the kids have to go back inside. The boys are stunned in disbelief. How did they get beat by girls? Then one boy comes up with a solution to their embarrassment: the girls must have cheated! No one saw or caught them cheating, but it's really the only logical explanation for girls beating boys, isn't it? Now for the purposes of this story, the role of the girls will be played by Lance Armstrong and the boys will be the ridiculous USADA, the French, the UCI, and the scorned cyclists that Lance humbled Tour after Tour. Apparently the unwillingness to continue fighting sensationalized claims of cheating, is synonymous with admitting guilt. The USADA in a likely alliance with cycling's UCI is dragging Lance through the mud, stripping him of all seven of his legitimately won...as in never caught cheating during...Tour de France titles (and all the prize money that went with them), and banning him from the arena of competition for life. All, essentially, because he's decided it's not worth the energy to continue to fight the charges. Lance Armstrong is a brash, possibly arrogant elite athlete who may in fact be a poor tipper at restaurants. This may come from the fact that he is an elite athlete celebrity.  Not the elite type of athlete that makes a spectacular one handed catch and ends up on Sportscenter's Plays of the Day and then is gone. No, Lance's 'moment' lasted nearly a decade. Lance Armstrong is the greatest cyclist ever. And those are the types of characters that become lightning rods for the media. The fact is Lance Armstrong may have cheated. But he was never caught. For the seven years that he ruled the tour, he was the most tested athlete in sports. Not once did he fail a test. Now it's seven years after his final victory and the whiners are still trying to prove he cheated? The fact this is still going on should be an embarrassment to everyone involved. He won, you lost. Get over it and get on with your lives. What's next? Should we review and demerit every long shot victory in sports history? "Hello, is this the 1980 US Olympic hockey team? Yeah, we're going to need those Gold Medals back. There's no way you could have really beat the Soviets." And if trying to take away the past isn't enough, the rule makers are going after his future as well. Lance wasn't allowed to run in the Chicago marathon this year and Ironman has barred him from all of their events as well.
You know, if this was just another ass-hole hedonistic self-involved jock I'd probably just shrug it off and not give it another thought. But it's not just another athlete. It's Lance Armstrong. He's an inspiration. He's a role model I want my kids to look up to. He's his own six million dollar man. But instead of crashing and having the government rebuild him into a half man--half machine that can do thing others can't; his own body turned on him and left him for dead. By his own will, he rebuilt himself from a triathlon prodigy into a honed cycling machine who could do things no one else could. If cancer can't beat him, do you really think he's going to be afraid of Travis Tygart (the USADA tool in charge of the witch hunt)? In accomplishing these layers of unimaginable feats, Lance inspired millions to an international call to arms against cancer. LIVESTRONG is everywhere. If you don't know about it, then you don't know anyone who's lives were touched by cancer (and if that is the case...you probably don't know many people).  Perhaps on the outside chance that there is a case against Armstrong in lieu of a positive drug test. Ban him from cycling competitively again. Send the message: 'We didn't catch you, but we don't trust you. So you can't race with us again.' But banning from every other sport is ridiculous. Hey, I have an idea. Let him race whenever and wherever he wants and give him drug tests. If he fails -- then kick him out of your event. Come on, who wouldn't want a celebrity of Armstrong's caliber in their event? It's just a poor business decision not to allow him to compete. Lance Armstrong is probably an arrogant jerk, but he has more socially redeeming qualities than most people sworn to public office. Leave him alone.  These stories of suits bringing forth allegations of cheating in races seven, eight, or even ten years ago just make me irate. Isn't there something better to do with your time? Maybe get out there and raise funds and awareness in the fight against a deadly disease? Oh wait, the accused is taking care of that already. Recess is over.

Mission: Accomplished

It's safe to say that once you get to a point where your idols are younger than you are, you are apt to stop writing them fan mail and stalking them from your computer. Having said that however, I've come so close so many times to crossing paths with the one and only Gary Fisher, that I can't help but to keep an ear to the ground and still hope for the chance to meet him. I bought my first Fisher bike in 1994 when I was living in Oregon. That was when I started mountain biking with my mountain bike instead of just commuting as I had been doing with my old mountain bike. I loved that bike and was enthralled with the legend behind the mountain bike itself as well as the man who's credited with its' invention. Gary Fisher and his pals tore up a motorcycle, a ten-speed, and a cruiser and pretty soon...viola...the mountain bike was born. If you've ever heard Gary talk about cycling it doesn't take but a moment to realize 'this is a man passionate about this subject.' I think anyone who's a protegee in their field probably sounds like that. The kind of people who when 'thier' subject is brought up, you just stand back and listen to them go. I love being around that type of person. Even if they're talking about tires, you can't help but pick up on, and be inspired by that energy.

Back in 2005, I was at the Wheel & Sprocket bike expo buying a newer version of my old '94 HKEK  (Hoo-Koo-E-Koo is the Native name for the mountain range where Gary and company first rode  their mountain bikes). When I was checking out with my new bike, the clerk laughed and said, "You should have been here yesterday. Gary Fisher was here signing bikes." So close.... The next few years he was at the show, but for 'members only' type functions.

Fast forward to two riding seasons ago when I met and got to ride with former Elite Pro team Trek/Fisher rider Jesse Lalonde. He was pals with the guy known as 'the fish' and talked about Gary's fondness of Wisconsin. Especially the liberal Madison area. He assured me the next time the Fish came to town, he's give me a call. There were a couple close calls, but over the course of the next year, it still hadn't happened. I had even gone as far as finding a great print on ebay that I had acquired and put aside specifically for Gary to sign. Last spring I was unemployed and signed up to work at the Wheel & Sprocket bike expo as a salesman. That was the same year that the Trek and the Gary Fisher brands merged so the Fisher bikes were now just a line of Trek bikes. So it came as no surprise when there was no Gary sighting at the show. I did have a great time working the expo anyway and decided to do it again this spring. So on Easter weekend I spread myself very thin and hauled ass to Milwaukee to work for five hours every evening after putting in an eight-hour day at my regular job. I was only able to work three out of the five days, but if was still fun and I've gotten pretty good and matching up bikes and people. On Friday evening, I was finishing up a sale when a voice from the lecture area caught my attention. Only one person could sound that excited to be talking about dirt. The Fish was in the house! I stood outside the little tent for a while and listened to him talk. I was mere feet from the man himself. I had no camera, no paper, and I certainly didn't have my ebay print. When his talk was over, I stood in line with a half dozen or so riding disciples who truly understood we were in the presence of greatness. I talked for a few moments, trying not to gush. He is an amazing man to talk to. I jokingly told him about our 'close calls' as well as my beloved print that was some 60 miles away sitting on my desk. He laughed and said, "Don't sweat it. I'm here tomorrow, too." The next morning, I left even earlier than usual so I could stop and buy a new Sharpie. I had carefully packed my poster and an old Fisher Bikes catalog for him to sign. I went through my shift selling my bikes but never straying too far from the seminar tent. I heard when he started to speak and kept one eye on the time as I glided through more sales. When I heard clapping from the tent I waited for a few minutes to let the masses say hello. When I got to the tent it was completely empty. And I mean completely. Gary was gone! I asked the security guy by the door where the hell Gary went. He responded that Gary had a plane to catch and couldn't stick around. I started to panic. There was no way I could get this close and not see him again. I scanned the enormous hall for the Fish. He was a hundred yards away. Almost to the doors outside. I grabbed my mementos and ran through the expo hall. I caught up with him as he was saying good-bye to the Trek reps. He said he only had a moment, but took the pen from me willingly. He commented on the rare poster I had found and said I'd like the new version of it (if I could find it). We shook hands one more time and he was gone. Off to catch a flight back to the Bay area where he calls home. The next day was Easter and I'm sure he was eager to get back. I carefully rolled the poster back up and carefully slid it back into my backpack under the table of the DNR's booth. I retrieved my clipboard from where I had dumped it and returned to the sales floor. I had more bikes to sell. But for today, my mission was accomplished. I had met the one they call the Fish.

The Single-Speed Lifestyle

Since Zooey (our two-year-old Blue Heeler) came into my life, cycling has really taken a back seat to walking and hiking. But as the spring has been warming up, I've been getting back in the saddle again...so to speak. I started riding to work as soon as the thermometer started to reach the 50s on a consistent basis. Recently I've been riding more often than driving. That, I am pretty proud of. I knew if cycling to work was going to become a routine for me, I was going to have to keep it simple. No special high maintenance outfits or gear. I'd ride to work in my work clothes and carry only my lunch, wallet, lock and iPod. To keep in the spirit of  'keeping it simple', I chose to ride my Organic Bikes Dylan. A single-speed who's frame is made from recycled aluminum and bamboo. Yes, I ride a wooden bike to work. I haven't ridden a single-speed since I was learning how to ride a bike some forty years ago. I was actually a little reluctant to embrace this emerging fad. It took bikes all these years to evolve into this machines/works-of-art that they are now: 30-speeds, carbon fiber, disc brakes, full suspension..... Why continue to develop all these upgrades when the masses are returning to their roots? It wasn't a fad I was in a hurry to embrace. The Dylan sort of fell into my lap. The concept of an organic bike was what drew me in. Choosing a single-speed just seemed the natural choice of model if you're going to ride a bamboo bicycle. It's been several weeks of consistently riding to work and I'm still feeling for a groove. Riding a bike with only one gear is a lesson in life. There is no hurrying on a single-speed. These is no down-shifting to make a hill easier. There is no speeding up or slowing down your natural cadence. Just as in life, its not you that sets the pace. In this case, its the bike. That is something that takes a measure of acceptance to get used to. I have a computer on all my bikes. Putting one on this bike is either going to teach me to relax or drive me insane! I know my cadence wants to push the pedals to the tune of about 15mph. Going down a hill with the wind at my back, the Dylan will barely push 13pmh!  Little by little, I'm accepting what we can and can't do together, Dylan and I. I know we have to leave by a certain time because there is no such thing as rushing a single-speed's commute. I know I have to bring a water bottle or my pant leg will get snagged on the empty bamboo water bottle cage. I know when I leave work, getting up that long winding hill out of the parking lot is going to make my heart pound even before the access road meets up with Erie avenue and continues uphill for another block. All in all, I feel me as a commuter is growing. I've accepted certain aspects of cycling I took for granted before. Riding a single-speed is freeing in that is allows you so few choices. There's only one way of getting from point A to point B: Dylan's way. And get there, you will. And if I embrace this method of transit, I stand to arrive at point B a more zen rider than those burdening themselves with all the choices of options on their more elaborate machines. Don't get me wrong; there's a time and place for a multitude of gears and long-travel shocks, but 'on the way to work' is not one of them. Today on my way home I started pondering a single-speed mountain bike. Without having to worry about the lame conditions of our roadways, I could achieve a whole new level of zen.                                                                                             

A Letter to My Family...

Now that our summer vacation has been booked, it's time for each of you to start thinking about it and how you can each get the most out of our time together. We are going to be staying in Ashland but gallivanting to the surrounding communities, including Bayfield to explore the Apostle Islands. From there it's north to Ely, Minnesota. The town that was voted 'Hippest small town in America' not too long ago. I encourage you to look up these places on line. Bookmark their web-sites and monitor their weather. Mom's already found a vegan cafe and coffeehouse that's close to our hotel, so unless you want to be stuck eating sprouts three meals a day, you'd better do some research for yourselves. The reason I ask this of you is because I know this isn't the kind of trip any ol' kid would choose for themselves. This is no trip to Disneyland. This trip was designed to unplug us as a family. To get us together by taking us away. There was a day last week when all five of us were on a computer, phone, or iDevice; and each in separate rooms. No wonder we never know what's going on in each others' lives. I want a chunk of this trip to be left up to each of us. If ever on this vacation you need to say, 'what are we going to do next,' then you didn't take an active enough role in planning. We'll be gone for seven days and only have about four things planned. That leaves a lot of time to explore. The towns we're visiting are know to be small and friendly. Mom and I probably wouldn't even have issue with you walking on the beach or walking to town for ice cream without us (so long as you bring us a treat). The room we'll be in for the first three nights is a family suite with a private porch overlooking Lake Superior. I can't imagine a more perfect place to write, drink tea, or unroll a yoga mat. This being said, I also need each of you to start mentally packing and making lists for this trip as you plan our agenda. At the most northern spot we will visit, we'll be about three miles south of the Canadian border and about forty miles from a Wal-Mart is the opposite direction. So if you forget your toothbrush......please don't breath on me. You get the idea, right? To get you pointed in the right direction -- Remember when we'd go to Mauthe Lake for a day of kayaking and a picnic? Imagine doing that for a week. We'll probably each need to get some quick-drying shorts/capris, a long or short-sleeved sun shirt, and water shoes/sandals for the trip. Other things you'll need to remember are: camera batteries, a book, a journal, pens,{relaxing} music, and whatever 'personal time' items you think you'd need. I'm going to trust you can each get what you need packed. If there's anything you need, let us know as soon as possible. I'll be working up to the night before we leave, so any last minute shopping won't work. And I refuse to spend the first few hours of our vacation in Wal-Mart before we leave town.
Mom has referred to this trip our 'vision quest'. Our trip to look into ourselves. I hope you all take that into consideration. Take this opportunity to find out who you are when there's no one watching. Take this time to enjoy each other, as well. These are the most important people in your life. And, all too often, they are the ones who get the smallest piece of your time. I personally, can't wait for this trip. I've waited a long time to visit the Apostle Islands. The town of Bayfield was featured in my Natural Geographic Outside magazine as one of the coolest small towns in the Midwest. And I've wanted to share Ely with you all since I got home from my cousin Matt's wedding. I'm excited to experience all of this with each of you. And I'm also excited for each of you to help figure out how we'll spend our days. It'll be quite the change of pace to be leaving behind our chaotic world of school, therapy, work, practices, and appointments and fill our days with kayaking shoreline caves, hiking along waterfalls, and watching the sunset from the porch with a warm beverage in hand not worrying where we have to be and when. If this turns out to be the vacation I'm hoping for..... No one will want to return from it.

Caffeinated Dreams

I had promised myself I'd never write anything as cliche as an 'ode to coffee.' But last week while walking on the beach with Zooey into a sub-zero wind off Lake Michigan clutching my Starbucks the phrase caffeinated dreams popped into my head. "What a great name for an album," I thought to myself. As I'm not a rock-star, this is the only outlet I have to utilize such a phrase. At that point I started rehashing my relationship with coffee to find it holds a prominent place in some of my fondest memories. I'm not a coffee aficionado by any means. I don't have a bumper sticker that says, 'friends don't let friends drink Starbucks.' I don't sniff, swirl, and spit like a wine snob. I just like what I like. I appreciate good coffee. There are certain coffee houses I will only go to when I have time to embrace the whole of the atmosphere. At the same time, I'm not above driving through for a McMocha when that's what my lifestyle demands. I even like cooking with coffee. In fact, I am currently working on developing a coffee related.... Well, that's a story for another time.
I grew up around coffee during a time when coffee came ground in a can and was made in curious vessels called percolators. It was all very strange. Coffee smelled delicious, but tasted awful! Neither of my parents drank coffee. My mom always said, "if coffee tasted as good as it smelled, I'd drink it." My best friend Jim drank it before and after swim meets. My girlfriend in college drank it. All four of my grandparents drank it morning, noon, and night. But not me. It wasn't until my 20s that someone actually peer-pressured me into drinking it. It was during my time cooking at Christie's that I first discovered real coffee. Christie's was one of the finest (in the top three according to AAA) restaurants in Wisconsin and I was lucky to be working there right out of culinary school. At the time, I was working two jobs. I worked as a lifeguard at the YMCA from 5:00a.m. to 10:00a.m, then I'd go home, have a bowl of cereal, and sleep until it was time to work at the restaurant from 2:00p.m. until 10:00p.m. (or midnight if I had to close the hotel's room service kitchen). After work I again would go home, have some cereal, (and if I was really ambitious, an English muffin), and catch a few hours sleep before doing it all again. At Christie's, I worked alongside some characters who drank more and slept less than I did. One in particular, Jesse, would come staggering in twenty minutes after me, throw down his knives and make a pot of coffee. Every day he'd offer me a cup and every day I'd say, 'no thanks.' Finally one day he asked why I didn't drink coffee. I just shrugged. At this, he grinned and insisted he'd make a cup that I'd love. The reason I pointed out that Christie's was a fine-dining establishment was not to brag so much as it was meant for you to realize we served good coffee. Kona, in fact. One of the finest coffees in the world. To this fresh brew, Jesse added heavy whipping cream and natural sugar. That was it. Once it hit my lips, there was no turning back. I liked coffee. In retrospect, I believe Jesse's true motivation to get me drinking coffee, was so that I'd have a pot brewed by the time he made it in. Eventually my chef had to start limiting my intake based on my nightly level of obnoxiousness. I also learned quickly that if I wanted any sleep before going to the Y the next morning, I had to quit the coffee by 6:30p.m. From Christie's, I moved to Oregon. Right about the time a little shop called Starbucks began a growth spurt that hasn't stopped to this day. Coffee places were everywhere out west much like bars are everywhere here in the Midwest. There my drug of choice came in designer varieties and flavors like lattes, cappuccino, and my personal favorite: mocha (chocolate & coffee. Seriously.... What could be better?). But it wasn't really until I moved back to the Midwest that coffee starting being pared with my lifestyle. The earliest memory where I can match a good time and coffee was when I lived in Door County. On my day off, I'd put my mountain bike on my Jeep and head north to Peninsula State Park for an afternoon of trail riding. On my way home, I'd always stop at Door County Coffee Roasters for a mocha in a hand-made ceramic mug (and a bowl of soup in the spring and fall). That theme transferred over to my moving to Sheboygan where a trip to the kettles to ride always warranted the phrase, 'daddy's riding for a mocha,' as I'd leave the house. Last year when we got Zooey, an Australian Blue Heeler herding dog, brisk morning walks often called for a detour to Starbucks en route to the beach. If memory serves, I even mentioned my Sunday morning mocha a few blogs back where I pay homage to our weekly morning ritual.
Coffee has evolved along with my life. Where it used to wire me for long nights cooking on the line, now its matured into a treat to be savoured during my quieter moments. Sometimes its the treat of an iced mocha after an exhilarating afternoon tearing through the woods. Sometimes its a steaming latte on the couch of a coffee house next to my wife. Sometimes its waking up to fresh-brewed coffee on a winter morning before heading out for the dog's morning walk. All-in-all, its easy to say that my life goes better with coffee.

My Eulogy

Our Matriarch (center) and her subjects. Christmas 1984

What image pops into your mind when you hear the word 'grandparents?' To me it's a white haired woman at the stove either making cookies, home-made soup or tea and a nearly bald man in bifocals reading the paper. Now as normal as this scene seems, it's an image locked in time for nearly a generation. That is to say, I remember all four of my grand parents in the same light from the time of my earliest cognitive memories to the time I got to the age that I started missing family gatherings due to school or distance. Yesterday my dad's mom passed away at 96. She was my last grandparent. This is naturally a time to reflect on what role grandparents, and especially Grandma Fetterer played in my life. Grandma & Grandpa Fetterer's house was the sight of many a holiday gathering. Actually every holiday was celebrated there! There were brat frys after any holiday that included a parade. And we were always there for Christmas and Easter. It had a perfectly rectangular yard which made it perfect for cousin vs cousin team sports; and a huge living and dining room for Christmas and Easter feasts. Then there were the lesser known, more private holidays when mom & dad would let my brother and I sleep over. Their's was a big house, so sleeping there afforded my kid brother and I the rare opportunity to have our own rooms. Most of the smells that trigger nostalgic reactions for me can be traced to that house. Chamomile tea, beef broth, moth balls, and snickerdoodles can all be traced there. That was Grandma's house. She took care of the house so that it was always a home to those who were there. She raised a family there -- my family.
Grandma may have been the originator of 'thinking outside the box.' That's the only way to explain some of the stories that came out of that house. Stories that seemed funny and cute when I was young, but now seem bordering on the verge of urban legend. Who in their right mind, after all, would save bacon fat and ham drippings, mix in some spices and flour and fry it as a breakfast meat? Grandma, that's who. And it was delicious (if you could get past the fact it was as black as road tar. The outside was crisp as a potato chip and the inside was the consistency of raw ground beef)! Who would think to market ketchup between two slices of bread as a black cat sandwich for a Halloween Boy Scout fundraiser? Grandma, again. Who would think to open all her canned vegetables and soup from the bottom so when the grandchildren would play 'store' all the shelves would appear to be stocked with full and proper canned goods? Yep. Grandma. This one though is by far my favorite, and so absurd I have Snopes.com looking into it's validity. I don't remember the orgin of this story, but somewhere I heard that grandma on vacation would float around the lake in an inner tube snacking on fresh radishes that she would dip in the salt that she filled her navel with. Now this begs all kinds of questions that I never thought to ask back when I originally heard this story. Primarily, who filled her navel, because she'd have to be laying down to do it? And, did grandma wear a bikini?
Through the years, the image of our grandparents doesn't waver. Even now that they're gone, we can picture their smiling faces greeting us at the door on a brisk Christmas morning. Their stories still make us laugh, they fortitude inspires us, their legacy moves us. They raised our folks and our folks raised us. Now we remember that wisdom, humor, and courage as we raise our own children. I still now remember that house, those smells, and that woman at the stove pouring me a cup of chamomile tea. That's my grandma.

Going to Church

"Go home, Jim. This job is a marathon, not a sprint." With that, my thirteen-hour Saturday came to a close and I went home. My first real week working my new job was now complete. It had been capped off with back-to-back 12+ hour days and I was feeling it. As a chef, I had worked plenty of long days (...and weeks, and months, and seasons...). That was nothing new. What had changed, is now I'm over forty and my body complained adamantly when I did anything for that long. Now it was Saturday night. I was home with family and looking forward to tomorrow. You see, I have a Sunday ritual. Even though I had been up at 5:00a.m. every day, I still got up early and headed out. Zooey and I made our usual stop for a mocha which she will try to lick the whipped cream off of, and we headed to our place of worship. In the six months I was unemployed, this walk was commonplace, but the Sunday version had become special. Before Zooey, I used to go for a bike ride religiously on Saturday or Sunday mornings. As the town's faithful drive to church, Zo and I arrive at our place of worship. As we get out of the Jeep, a different kind of music draws me in. It's the sounds of Lake Michigan, not an organ that beckon us closer. At this point, Zooey takes off to do her own thing. This usually entails her darting through the beach grass, with her nose down, after invisible rabbits. I make my way along the trail down to a soft sandy beach that stretches for miles. I look for the perfect seat. One with plenty of sand and very few Zebra mussel shells. I set down my coffee and Zo's leash and kick off my shoes. After I check on the dog's whereabouts and whether she stands to bother anyone, I lean back with my eyes closed and breathe in the morning. The early morning light on my face, the sound of the waves, the fine sugar-soft sand on my hands and feet, and the cool fall breeze all around me bring a kind of peace that only a beach can give. This is where I talk to God. I thank Him for my health, my family, and this day. I ask Him to help us all with our individual challenges. And I ask Him for continued strength and patience.
Eventually Zooey finds me again and we get up and continue our walk along the beach and up the boardwalk along the river and back to the jeep. We drive home amidst the other returning church-goers. Home to thier brunches, football games, and lazy Sunday afternoons. I often wonder during my Sunday meditations whether those dressed in dresses and suits enjoy their time with God as much as I do. Since we moved to this town, we've been 'shopping' for a church we could embrace. But to me, there's no church like the outdoors. Where God's work is all around you. The woods and the beaches is where the peace is. Where the magic is. Where God not only shows up, but also shows off. And there's no place I'd rather be on a Sunday than outside.

To Make a Short Story Long...

Back when I still had a job as a chef, I came across a recipe contest in a trade magazine that I had entered once before back in 1994. Last week I came across the torn out ad in a pile of papers on my desk. I looked it over to realize that the deadline was only a few days away. I thought to myself, "Looks like I've some cooking to do this weekend." Well, needless to say, the weekend came and went without me doing a single thing regarding the contest. Now its Monday morning. Kovis off to summer school, the dog is walked, and the deadline is mere hours away. this sounds like a good time to hit the kitchen and whip up a dish worthy of dubbing me 'The Hottest Chef in America.'

Spicy Coconut Cilantro Gazpacho with Grilled Shrimp

Tabasco puts on this contest to feature their products in recipes. This shouldn't be too tough for me to do, since I put their products in practically everything I make already. My wife gave me a sort of culinary challenge a while back to combine two of her favorite flavors: cilantro and coconut in a single dish. After a little brainstorming, I decided gazpacho would be an ideal vehicle for combining all the necessary elements. Gazpacho is a Spanish chilled tomato and cucumber soup. I figured adding cilantro, coconut, and a note of spice would actually make a pretty kick-ass soup. Until recently, I've cooked flying by the seat of my pants. Creating dishes with 'a little of this and a little of that' and never writing anything down. This winter, when I started creating my own granola and energy bars, I've actually gotten into the habit of starting with a written recipe and taking meticulous notes as I went along. So I grabbed a legal pad and started constructing a soup. I started with the basic building blocks of a gazpacho and added to it the ingredients that would give it it's signature. When I felt it was ready, I sat down to enter it in the contest on-line. Tis true -- I was about to enter a recipe for a dish no one, myself included, had ever tasted. But, what the hey? Its not like entering was costing me anything. As I sat at the computer, roadblocks came at me right and left. To enter, the cook had to either be a student or work (in a leadership position) in a professional kitchen. This presented all kinds of problems. First of all, while I am once again employed, the building isn't even done being constructed. So what am I to enter on the 'address' and 'phone number' lines? Plus, I've only met my new boss once and didn't even know his last name let alone his phone number. By the time I limped through the first section of the registration form, it looked as though a 6-year-old had filled it out. (Heavy sigh) On to the actual recipe... With a tinge of guilt, and my shoulder angel screaming in my ear, I began to enter an untested recipe in a nation-wide contest. Then came the kicker: The last line was where the contestant was to enter a photo of what the final product was supposed to look like. How was I supposed to know? I've never even made it, let alone seen it or photographed it! With drooping shoulders, but a renewed sense of pride, I grabbed my keys and wallet and called to my daughter that I'd be right back. After two trips to the grocery store and a thorough cleaning of the kitchen, I had a final product ready to be tasted, refined (adding grilled shrimp if only to make the eventual photo more appealing. Hence the second trip to the store), and finally photographed. The morning had started out with a half-fast, last ditch effort to get a recipe in on time, that should have taken me fifteen minutes. Stopping only to get Kovi off the bus and make him lunch, the project was now on its third full hour. I have to say that the final product was worth the extra effort. The gazpacho was well received in local circles. By 'local circles', I mainly mean, my wife Lori and her friends. All said and done, it was an eventful day. Thank goodness I'm unemployed, if only for one more week. In no time at all, I'll be back in the workforce and have to be much more careful not to squander any of my time.  But as for this moment today: I wouldn't have time to be so reckless if I wasn't so busy being reckless. Next year, when this contest pops up, I'll know better. A little planning can go a long way.

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.