The Challenge
The month of January 2001 appeared bleakly on my horizon. It wasn't just the cold rainy weather. I had undergone reconstructive knee surgery in November and my events calendar stretched into the future barren and empty. Where climbs, hikes, rafting trips, 10Ks and triathlons should have been there were instead numerous physical therapy appointments.
Never one to let moroseness get the best of me, I scoured the 2001 City Sports Keeper in search of an event to add to my calendar. The City Sports Keeper is a magazine that lists for the year all major sporting events on the West Coast. Also included are local 10ks, adventure racing clinics, bike-a-thons, and other miscellaneous outdoor adventures. Assessing my current situation with my doctor I had come up with a list of activities that I would be able to participate in over the next year while I recovered from surgery. The list was rather meager. I had to protect my knee against pounding, jumping, falling, running, and excessive weight bearing. As far as competitive sports goes, that left stationary biking, for which no event has ever been, or will ever be scheduled (note to readers: spin class with Madonna only counts as an event for non-athletes).
My doctor reminded me that I could also go swimming. As he is the sports doctor for the Olympic synchronized swimming team this was probably the obvious sport of choice for him. I had not considered it for numerous reasons, the most important being that I don't really know how to swim. However, there were a number of swimming events listed in City Sports. I decided to take a look at them to see if one piqued my interest.
As a life long runner I have a pretty good sense about major running events. For example, I know that the NYC marathon has one of the toughest courses so it isn't a good choice for a virgin marathoner. Unfortunately, I did not have that type of information regarding swimming events. But as I looked over the possibilities, most were easy to eliminate. For example, there was no way in hell I was going to do the Golden Gate 10k swim. Way too far. There was also a few lake swims. I eliminated those based on my dislike of pond muck and the possibility that a water moccasin would be hiding under a lily pad waiting to chew my face off as I swam by. Reservoir swimming conjured up images from those rescue shows on t.v. where some hapless idiot is pulled closer and closer to the dam waterfall where his or her skin will be ripped off as he or she falls 100 feet through a torrential downpour because someone accidentally opened a lock right after the race started. No thanks!
Then my eye happened upon the word "shark". Immediately I wanted to know more. The event was called "the Sharkfest", and it involved swimming from Alcatraz Island to San Francisco (www.sharkfest.com). I briefly thought back to the many trips I had taken to Alcatraz. It didn't seem that far away from San Francisco. Additionally, I was attracted by the name of the event due to my interest (though some might call it an "obsession") with sharks. Deciding fate was presenting me with the opportunity I had hoped for I compulsively signed up for the event on the web.
Did I mention that I don't know how to swim?
I reasoned with myself that the swim was in July, and it was only January, giving me more than enough time to learn to swim. Under the influence of a manic high I also sent out numerous e-mails to my athletic friends requesting that they participate in the event with me. When I did not get the desired responses of participation I then sent out some rather inflammatory e-mails calling people unflattering names, questioning their manhood, and rambling on for paragraphs about their cowardice. Looking back now, I believe that's where the origin of the bets concerning my ability to survive the swim originated.
I did manage to talk three people into doing the swim with me. I should mention that they are all accomplished swimmers, unlike me. And as March was drawing to a close, I still hadn't gotten in to the pool once. I wasn't worried about the upcoming event. None of my other friends who were participating seemed to be at all concerned and they weren't training too hard.
Then, one day at physical therapy, I was overheard bragging to my physical therapist Chris Kuhn about doing Sharkfest by another of his patient. She informed me that her son, a rescue swimmer, volunteered the previous year for the Sharkfest. She then went on to explain how in the last Sharkfest, 300 of the 600 swimmers had been assisted by the rescue kayaks, most being pulled out of the water for hypothermia. Her son's girlfriend, an accomplished high school swimmer, had been pulled out of the water 15 minutes into the race because she got caught in a current that had quickly dragged toward the open ocean. As I was contemplating this new information about "currents" in the bay the patient wished me luck.
The Training Plan
The next day I decided to embark on an information gathering mission to learn everything I could about the Alcatraz swim and workouts for open water events. By 11a.m I had not done any research so my friend Kerreck, who realizes I am a bit of a procrastinator, sent me a bunch of articles on both topics. What I found out both surprised and alarmed me.
The Alcatraz swim is actually very hard. There are strong currents, especially around the island. Guide boats lead the swimmers around the island to the open water between Alcatraz and S.F. If you don't follow the boats you get caught in a current that could pull you out to sea. The water is around 55° F. In a normal person, hypothermia will set in after 20 minutes in water that temperature. In addition, there are sea lions, which are apparently pretty aggressive. Most people in the water are concerned with sharks and tend to ignore things like sea lions because they are so cute and look like stuffed animals. But they are very capable of plowing their 2000-pound body into your side and chewing your arm off because you accidentally wandered onto their territory. The bay also contains such delightful surprises as floating diesel slicks from leaky boats and raw human sewage.
I decided to start training immediately. But soon it was the end of April and I realized time was slipping away. I had to take action. The first thing I did was go to a swim shop with Kerreck. There I was able to purchase a matching swim cap and goggles ensemble in hot pink. Though Kerreck kept trying to give me advice such as "You really shouldn't pick the type of goggles you buy based on their color" I decided that looking good for this race was going to be just as important as swimming well. I also purchased a horrific blue bathing suit that seemed to have been designed in the pre-bikini era of the 1940s by nuns. Although unattractive I was hoping the extra fabric would help keep me warm.
Finally, after 2 more months of listening to Grant describe the 100 different ways I could drown, I decided in the middle of June to take my new equipment into the ocean to test it. Capitola Beach, below our apartment, is a half-mile long. For my first swim I decided to swim the length of the beach. Although I didn't drown I'm sure people would have tried to rescue me had I not been a foot away from shore.
A few weeks after thrashing through the ocean water, which was becoming more and more polluted with overflow from the storm drain that empties onto our beach, I decided to go to the (poo-less) pool to work on my technique, which I was teaching myself based on some articles I downloaded from the internet. I made a few discoveries about swimming in public pools, including:
1. the pool at the Santa Cruz 24 hour fitness club is actually a gay bathhouse and those guys get really upset if you try to work out in their pool (picture 10 guys in a hot tub screaming and giggling as they pile foam on each other's heads and then jump into the pool to cool off and wash away the foam while I'm trying to swim laps)
2. I am allergic to chlorine which is why I swell up and turn red after swimming
3. old people (in their 80s) can swim a lot faster than me
I also discovered that ocean swimming in my wetsuit was not the problem with my stroke. The problem was lack of coordination on the part of the swimmer. In an attempt to be supportive in my time of stress and sudden realization that I was a horrible swimmer, Grant offered to take pictures of my swim stroke so I could compare it to my Internet pictures. Of course he e-mailed them to me with captions such as "Help me!". In addition I discovered how unattractive I look swimming, especially when lifting my head up and gasping for air.
At the end of June a letter arrived from the coordinators of Sharkfest informing me that I had been "selected" to participate (selected because my credit card went through the first time?). It also advised, in glaring capital letters, that this was NOT a swim for novices and that if I couldn't swim a mile in 40 minutes I should not attempt the swim. Since I had just started training I had not even had occasion to swim a full mile and had no idea how long it would take me.
The next day I went to the pool. I calculated that a mile would be 72 laps (a lap being a swim to the other side of the pool and back). I calculated this based on the estimate of the pool being about 22 meters. NOTE: When, in an attempt to add scientific accuracy to my calculation I inquired of the club staff what the distance of the pool was I got the response "20 liters". After pondering that for a moment I stated that I had actually been wondering what the length of the pool was. The guy responded "2 kilometers". I guess I shouldn't make fun of them, as I am still puzzled over the ratio of yards per meter. Damn those metric conversions!
Needless to say, after about 5 minutes of laps I had completely lost count. I finally stopped at 40 minutes and figured I had swum at least a mile. I hoped.
The Great 4th of July Brighton Beach to Capitola Swim
After months of preparation (and three solid weeks of swimming) it was time to attempt my first long open water swim. The swim occurred on July 4. I slyly talked Kerreck and Patty, two of my fellow race participants, into doing it with me. We swam from Brighton Beach to Capitola Beach, which is 1.5 miles as the crow flies. Grant and Patty's husband Matt manned the safety kayak.
The first hundred yards of the swim sucked for me. Kerreck and Patty were a lot faster so they were soon out of sight. I was bobbing up and down in the waves, starting to feel the onset of the cold water. I found myself wondering what the hell I was doing. The shore was too far away to return to, and yet the dock at the 1.5 mile mark in Capitola seemed unattainable.
Then from the shore, I heard cheering. Looking at the very end of Brighton beach I saw a bunch of people jumping up and down yelling. Although I was too far away to hear them it occurred to me that they must have realized that we were doing the Brighton to Capitola beach swim. Encouraged by these spectators, I began swimming again. It later turned out that they were in fact yelling at a dog that was running in the water to fetch a stick. Grant informed me of this after the swim when I was telling Kerreck and Patty about our impromptu fan club.
As I slogged along Grant and Matt pulled up along side me in the rescue kayak. It took me a while to notice them as I was so fixated on my crappy form to notice my surroundings.
Swimming in that part of the bay is a bizarre experience, especially for those used to East Coast swimming. The water is so cold that when you put your face in it, it causes a slight feeling of shock and disorientedness. Then before your eyes all you can see is green sludge with brown bits floating in it. The brown bits are either duck poop or kelp bits; I have never really examined them in detail to find out specifically what they are. If visibility is 6 inches it's a good day. On parts of the swim I literally could not see any of my hands or arms even though they were just inches from my goggles.
There's also the fun of swimming in kelp bushes, the non-scientific name I just made up for the big mass of kelp plants that grow from the ocean floor. Kelp grows 3 feet a day and usually consists of the main stalk with the tendrils floating on the surface of the water. The sensation of swimming through this mess is similar to swimming into a fishing net. The tendrils wrap around all extremities and pull you down or back as you try to thrash your way out of the mess. Some of the kelp has sharp points that sting. Flailing along in the ocean you ride up a two foot wave and as you crash down you suddenly find yourself flying towards a huge black object underwater and then your face is in the middle of a bunch of leaves and kelp crap. That's when, for some unknown reason, I would open my mouth and swallow salt water. I might have even swallowed a few kelp pods. I took in so much water on the swim that afterwards I threw up enough salt to remake Lot's wife.
I finally made it to the surfers in the Punch Bowl, located a few hundred yards from my final destination, the Capitola dock. Patty and Kerreck were a quarter of a mile ahead of me and out of the water long before I was. To keep my spirits up for the remainder of the swim I began planning a dramatic exit strategy. I would run out of the water like Ursula Andress in Dr. No and then do a little end zone dance on the sand. Instead I threw up salt water and my dramatic exit was ruined by the fact that I had seaweed wrapped around my face and some drunken guys on the wharf were throwing empty Snapple bottles at me. But I completed the swim in 53 minutes and felt well on my way to being a contender (okay, realistically, a completer) of the Sharkfest.
The Breakthrough
In the middle of July I had a breakthrough in my swimming technique. I learned how to swim freestyle. I was at the Mountain View 24 hour fitness club pool. I was swimming in the middle lane with a guy who had more hair on his back than I have on my head. The best lane, which is the last lane, was occupied by the only really good swimmers I had seen at the club. One of the swimmers was a guy about 5 years younger than me. He had a very professional looking swim cap and the few times he was stuck swimming in a lane with me he made his distaste of sharing space with such a sucky swimmer known by smacking the bottoms of my feet every time he passed me. The other swimmer was an 11 year old girl that I was really growing to hate. I constantly found myself embroiled races with her, but since she could swim freestyle she would toy with me for one or two laps before leaving me in her chlorinated wake.
That day I had had a particularly bad time at the office and I found myself channeling all my negative feelings towards this skinny little punk. I glared at her as she smugly put her little goggles on and then we were off racing. She didn't even wait one lap before trying to pull ahead of me. Something snapped inside. My sole focus became beating this stupid kid. Realizing my lame rendition of the breast stroke wasn't going to cut it I began my usual flailing attempt at freestyle.
The next thing I was aware of was my face smashing into the side of the pool. Then I realized I had swum the entire length of the pool freestyle. Being so focused on beating the 11 year old allowed me to swim without getting worried that my form was so awful and somehow not paying attention to my swimming form made it possible for me to have good swimming form (don't ask me - it must be blonde logic). From that point forward I found freestyle very easy to do, except for the breathing aspect, where I was still managing to ingest an inordinate amount of water. But even with my breathing and water swallowing issues I still managed to beat her in every race afterwards. She took it like the sore loser I had assumed she would be. After one or two laps of me kicking her ass she would go get a paddle board and spend the rest of her pool time sulking. Eleven year olds can be so immature.
Unfortunately, the sense of triumph I had from teaching myself freestyle began to fade immediately. The last week before the race I found myself hating the idea of swimming. The water in Capitola had dropped a noticeable 10 degrees and the current had picked up considerably. I was getting thrashed around in huge piles of kelp and after one fairly traumatic swim, at the conclusion of which I threw up a kelp pod on the beach in front of 50 kids who were taking life guard school, I decided I would never swim again after the Sharkfest.
The pool was an even more unappealing situation than the beach. The stink of chlorine invaded my car and any clothes that were within 5 feet of my bathing suit (which I refused to wash from the time I bought it until after the Sharkfest, which probably explains why the fabric had started to rot). I was starting to feel like Elton John with my pink goggles and cap. My poor hair was becoming a mess of dried up colorless strands that I couldn't get a comb through.
On 27 July, my last day of work before Sharkfest, I briefly contemplated deleting my personal files off my machine just in case. My stomach was a knot of tension and stress. I was looking forward to the end of this little endeavor. My boss Nick Salvador showed me a web site for looking up the tides, and explained to me how to interpret the information. Although I didn't quite follow what he was talking about, I did focus on one comment which was "Oh, it looks like the tide is going towards the city so I guess you won't be swept out to sea". Was that disappointment I detected in his voice?
The Sharkfest
The day before the race we went to Luke's house for dinner and then we drove to the Aquatic Park, where the race finished, to check out the course. Standing on the shore of San Francisco, Alcatraz did not seem that far away. Also, the last quarter mile of the race would be through Aquatic Park. Aquatic Park is a small circular marina, with curved concrete piers surrounding either side.
Aquatic Park has no waves and the water is usually at least 5 degrees warmer than the Bay. I somehow convinced myself that this would make the race easier. I told everyone that all they had to do was make it to Aquatic Park and the race would be effortless.
I should point out that to get a true feeling of the distance between Alcatraz and S.F. you need to go to the island. Because of Alcatraz's size it looks a lot closer than it really is.
Sunday I found myself climbing out of bed at 5:20 a.m. after a completely sleepless night. We arrived at Aquatic Park for check-in for the race at about 6 a.m. The race would officially begin at 9 a.m. so we had a lot of sitting around time before things got started. My stomach was in such a tight knot that I could barely finish my can of Coke, the breakfast of champions for race day.
The weather was overcast and about 60 degrees. I attempted to do some exercises to warm up for the race, since it didn't seem feasible to go for a swim. I didn't want to get wet and then have to stand around in the cold for two hours waiting for the race to start.
Being my usual obnoxious, bossy, cranky self I kept lecturing Kerreck, Patty, and Luke to do some kind of warm up before the race. Egged on by a group of female swimmers, Kerreck, who is an ex-Chippendale's dancer (he had to quit when the intelligence agency he works for threatened to pull his clearance), decided to do a little strip tease on the beach. I won't go into much detail about the incident except to say that it certainly warmed up things for the female fans and Kerreck was threatened with disqualification from a race official if he didn't put his swimming suit back on. He was showered with adulation and dollar bills from his female fans although he claims that he usually brings in more money than he made from the Sharkfest crowd.
At 8:00 a.m. we had a race "briefing". We assumed they would tell us what the race strategy was, how the currents were, and all the other useful information we needed to know. Instead the guy doing to briefing asked the crowd the age of the oldest (77) and youngest (12) people doing the swim and then asked where everyone was from. The only advice he gave us was to "aim for the ship with the three masts at the edge of Aquatic Park". As I looked around at the crowd I noticed that I was the only one who seemed a little worried about the lack of information. In fact a number of people were so busy smearing deodorant all over their bodies that they didn't seem to be paying attention to anything going on. I'm not sure WHY they were putting deodorant all over their bodies, but I will never again smell Brut without thinking of Sharkfest.
At 8:30 we walked a short distance to Pier 39. We took two Blue and Gold ships over to Alcatraz (these are the ships that normally take tourists to Alcatraz for those of you who have been). Most of the swimmers on the boat were trying to out talk each other with their swimming achievements. Machismo was in the air. We circled around the far (North) side of the island and then the boat pulled up about 5 feet from the Eastern side of the island. For those of you who have been there before, we were parallel to the place where the canon is as you walk up the hill towards the prison. We were then told to jump off the boat and swim to the start line, which is where the boat dock on the island is.
They opened up the gates on the side of the boat and told us to jump in. Patty went first, followed by Kerreck. Then it was my turn. It was a three foot plunge from the boat deck into the water and I really didn't want to go. I held my goggles on my face and jumped. I dropped down into the icy water and immediately breathed in, taking in a huge mouthful of water. I popped to the surface and began choking. All my mental preparation was out the window as I started to slip into full fledged panic. I couldn't even remember how to swim.
Kerreck swam over to me and started talking to me in a very calm voice. Then he started guiding me towards the start line. His reassurances helped me regain my swimming ability and as I started moving through the water I relaxed. Then the air horn went off and the race started.
We were supposed to follow guide kayaks around the island. I never saw them, although I'm sure they were there. I was busy trying not to get killed in what was slowly becoming an aquatic stampede. People were swimming over me, kicking me in the face, and hitting my arms and legs. I randomly punched a few people myself (in the hopes of improving my race standings of course - just kidding!). The current didn't seem that bad going around the island so I started freestyling like crazy to keep up with everyone else and to get the race over with.
When next I looked up I realized that I had somehow managed to swim towards the Bay Bridge and that I was swimming virtually by myself. The current had picked up and the chop was about three feet. A wave would pop me up for a few seconds at which point I could barely make out the shore through my fogged up goggles. Then I would drop down into a little water trough where I couldn't see anything but walls of waves. I then managed to spot a kayak and so I swam towards it. As it appeared to be moving in the direction of the shore I decided to follow it. It was only after about 20 minutes of swimming, when I noticed I was even closer to the Bay bridge, that the kayaker told me she wasn't part of the race and that she was just there to take pictures. I spent the next half hour trying to get back on course through a bad chop and strong current.
The open ocean was a lot harder to swim in than I had imagined. Waves would pull me up out of the water and turn me over almost completely on my back. Then I would get flipped forward and my face would smash into the water. Sometimes the force of the wave breaking on my back would knock me a few feet down into the murky green of the Bay. I soon reached a point where I began to seriously worry for my safety as there were no swimmers or kayaks in sight and the waves were so bad that I couldn't see the shore line at all. It's only 1.5 miles to the shore but it seemed like an unreachable distance from the place where I was.
I started looking back at the island to re-align myself with the course. Soon I happened on a young, very muscular guy in a farmer john wet suit. The guy was laying on his back staring at the sky. He had obviously had it. He was trying to signal a kayak so he could quit the race. I began to give him a little pep talk to get him moving. We swam together for about 5 minutes and then I picked up the pace. He didn't follow. About 5 minutes later a boat pulled up next to me. The captain asked if I was okay. He then warned me to pick up the pace as they were worried about the weather and the currents were changing. As he pulled away I noticed the farmer john guy in the back of the boat. He had quit as soon as I swam away from him. I suddenly became irrationally upset that he had given up. I suppose this line of thinking was caused by the onset of hypothermia, but the adrenaline helped me pick up the pace.
Soon I found myself in a pack of about 5 swimmers. Most of them were dead in the water. The kayaks kept circling around, pulling people out. I became worried that they would try to pull me so I worked extra hard at my form and tried to smile as they floated by me to indicate that I was having the time of my life, even with fogged goggles and a river of snot coming out of my nose. As the boat would go by with more people I admit to being a little envious of them but I decided to soldier on, mostly because so many of my friends were expecting me to fail and I refused to give them the satisfaction.
Eventually the shoreline became a close and obtainable object. Then disaster struck. Aquatic Park, as I have said before, is surrounded by two circular piers with an opening onto the bay. I found myself located somewhere along the cement pier with no idea which way the entrance to the park was. I completely stopped swimming and tried to think of something to do. My mind was blank. At that point I had been in sub-60 degree water for almost an hour. I couldn't feel my hands or my feet at all. My goggles were badly fogged but my hands were so frozen and I had become so uncoordinated that I couldn't clear them. As the waves bashed me into the cement pier I began crying into my goggles. I figured this was it for me. The race was over.
A man in a kayak pulled up next to me. He asked if I was okay. I tried to say "yes" but was so hypothermic I was no longer able to even talk. He pointed towards the right and said "that way to the entrance". I tried to thank him but I couldn't form the words. He coasted next to me as I began the laborious task of swimming against the current to the entrance of the park. He told me that if I didn't make some good progress he was going to pull me out of the water. To induce some high powered adrenaline to prevent that I tried to picture a great white shark swimming beneath me, ready to chew my legs off. I actually found that scene to be a relief. At least I would be able to quit and the force of the shark attacking me would surely propel me closer to the park entrance. Lucky for me, I have some serious anger management issues and I was able to reach deep inside for some suppressed hate and channel that rage towards the race. Pushing myself along on fury energy, I managed to reach the entrance to the park.
As my kayak guide swam away I found myself floating just inside Aquatic Park, completely lifeless and drained. I could see the finish line but it was still a quarter mile away. Aerobically I wasn't tired but the cold water had completely exhausted me and I had become so hypothermic that I was taking a long time to rationalize my next move even though it was completely obvious what it should be (swim to the finish - duh!).
Then I noticed a pink buoy floating in the middle of the water that was the same color as my goggles. For some irrational reason I decided that all I had to do was swim to this buoy and I would be okay. In my hypothermic state it seemed to make sense that I should swim towards objects the same color as my goggles. It was a lot closer than the finish line so I managed to start swimming again. When I got to that buoy I noticed a second one and swam to that. Then there was a white buoy. And suddenly, in front of me, about 20 feet away, the finish line.
About three feet off the beach I noticed people standing up and walking out of the water. I tried to stand up but couldn't. Then my hand touched sand. That was when I realized that my feet were so numb that I had been touching the sandy bottom of the park without realizing it.
I ripped my swim caps off and stumbled onto the beach with huge trails of drool and snot hanging off my face. I heard someone call my name and turned to see Kerreck with a camera, capturing me at my finest hour. A guy at the finish line reached out his arm to help me walk as I still hadn't managed to pull myself up beyond a slouchy half crawl, but I couldn't figure out how to get my arm to move towards him so I just ignored him.
Grant ran up to me and wrapped a towel around me. By that time I was shaking uncontrollably and breathing in short gasps. I started crying so he led me over to a bench. I'm not sure why I was crying but I couldn't stop. He ran off to find everyone else as I was the last swimmer in our group out of the water. He left me sitting with some drunken homeless guy who started telling me about surfing in Alaska.
I felt faint so I stood up and then I decided that I needed to start moving around. We eventually made it back to the car and I warmed up once the heater was on full blast. It took about three hours for my normal body temperature to come back. To add to my post-hypothermic experience, I had a moment of panic when Patty's husband Matt mistakenly informed me that I hadn't crossed the right finish line and that my time hadn't been recorded. Grant ran back to the finish line and confirmed that I had crossed.
We ended our Sharkfest adventure by having brunch at Top of the Mark, a great restaurant on top of the Intercontinental Hotel on Nob Hill. Grant got champagne to celebrate my feat. I was happy to have finished the race especially given my gross inexperience and complete lack of talent in swimming freestyle.
I have had many adventures that I will look back on fondly. The Sharkfest is not one of them. It was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. I hate the cold and swallowing gallons of salt water is not my idea of fun. Swimmers don't seem to have the same camaraderie that runners have. No one offered me a single word of encouragement during the entire race, and those that I tried to cheer on either quit or left me in their wake. You can't really see where you're going and by the time you get to the finish line you are so frozen that you don't care about the people screaming for you on the beach.
Of course, I didn't really have the proper resources for training. And I bet that if I had stayed on course I could have improved my time tremendously. A year can wash away a lot of memories, especially those involving pain and suffering. Sharkfest 2002? No way. Absolutely not.
Well, maybe I will do it again next year to try for a better exit photo. But this time, I'm taking swimming lessons from somewhere besides the Internet.
To view the results go to http://www.pmevents.com/sharkoa01.htm. I am #187 under women with wetsuits, with an overall time of 1:12.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
San Jose Sharks Hockey Game (playoffs 2001)
Last night was the third game in the playoff series for the San Jose Sharks. They were playing the St. Louis Blues. I attended the game with Grant. My boss Julianne was kind enough to give me the tickets.
This playoff game was important for two reasons. The first is that if the Sharks lost they would be out of the playoffs. More importantly, though, it was my first professional hockey game. Professional hockey differs from the college hockey games I've been to in a number of ways, the most obvious being: 1. there is only one puck in play during a professional game 2. the players don't vomit when they get hit 3. there were no cheerleaders serving beer to the players who were sitting in their little resting box .
When we arrived at the game I realized immediately that this was a much different crowd than the people who go to ballet. A lot of people were painted green. This is because the team color of the sharks is teal and most men are color blind and think teal is the same thing as green. We forked over our life savings for two beers (am I really old or does anyone else remember a time that you could buy a whole six pack of Budweiser for $6 instead of just getting one 12 ounce bottle for that price?) and entered the stadium.
You can tell the game is starting because a smoking shark head lowers from the ceiling. It has flashing red eyes. Although an incorrect depiction of a shark I immediately realized that a hockey game is no place for a lesson in marine biology and I didn't say a word as the players skated out of the shark mouth.
As the game got underway I made a startling discovery. Contrary to my assumptions, you don't have to be a good skater to play hockey. If you want to stop you run into the rink wall. If you want to turn you run into the wall. Sometimes, if there's no wall, you just run into other players. Also, you can smash people into the wall if you want. People get smashed into the wall for being on the other team. If you score a goal your own team smashes you into the wall. And you can hit other players with your stick as long as you are standing behind the referee. Occasionally, while your team mate is waiting for the ref to drop the puck you poke him (the team mate) in the butt with your stick (this is for good luck?).
There were a number of unintelligent people sitting around me at the game. These are actual quotes: wife: This is a great game. No penalties. They are playing very clean hockey. husband: Shut up. (yells to the rink) Smash him into the wall!!!! drunk guy behind me: "Win one for the kipper!" drunk guy behind and to the right of me: "Hey screwy, go back to St. Louie!"
Grant attempted to explain what was going on. Hockey is a very fast, complicated game. Here are some of his better explanations: "What just happened was really bad." "I don't think they are supposed to do that because it's bad." "The ref is making him leave the game because he's a bad man." "If the other team is trying to score on your team that's bad."
Unfortunately, the last 8 seconds of the first period, St. Louis scored a goal. There was a near riot in the stadium. Some kind of argument ensued over whether or not the puck actually went in. I didn't really follow what was going on but I figured it was bad for the Sharks.
After the first period was over (leave it to a guy's wishful thinking that a period only lasts 20 minutes) there was a 20 minute rest time. During this time a guy came out and played an organ with bouncing balls. The guy next to Grant got very excited. He told us the Sharks always play better after the bouncing ball organ playing guy. Then this Shark man started launching t-shirts into the crowd. I had considered myself safe from flying pucks as our seats were not on the rink. I didn't realize they would be throwing vacuum sealed shirt grenades. I cowered down in my seat until the shirts stopped flying around.
The second period moved slower than the first, although the Sharks scored two goals, which was good. Every few seconds the ref was picking up the puck and moving it around on the ice. Sometimes a guy would get all smashed up and nothing would happen. Other times the smasher had to go sit down for a while. When that happens it's called a power play. The way you know a power play is going on is that everyone is chopping their hands up and down like a shark biting the air.
Nothing much happened during the rest time after the second period, except that there were some guys driving around on zambonis and the crowd was singing the "I Love Hockey" song that's about this guy from Canada who loves hockey. The third period everyone looked kind of tired. Some of the hockey players were even falling down on the ice. The Sharks scored another goal, which was the coolest goal because it was a line drive right at the goalie. The goalie seems to be the best position. You get to wear these huge gloves and a bunch of other complicated padding. Normally you stand in front of the net looking very laid back. If someone shoots the puck to you, you can pick it up and throw it. The goalie is the only one wearing gloves so he's the only one who can pick up the puck. Also, if the puck gets close to him he can lay down on it so no one can hit it. When this happens all the players make a big pile near the net. That's when it's probably bad to be the goalie because they land on him or hit him with their sticks.
Three minutes into the third period something really strange happened. Everyone started screaming "Barry Bonds!" As it turns out, Barry Bonds is not a hockey player and he wasn't even playing in the game. You can tell a hockey player by the last name, which usually has 14 letters, only two of which are vowels. The best players have names that end in "vek" or have names that aren't pronounced the way they are spelled (e.g. Ricci, which looks like "Ricky" is actually pronounced "Rishy" or "Reeshee").
Then, with 5 minutes left in the game, the St. Louis goalie decided to leave. This happens when you decide to sacrifice your goalie to get another player. This is different from a power play, but I'm not sure how unless it's the addition of one player instead of the subtraction of a player from the other team. But a power play can still occur so the extra guy that you have in place of the goalie has to go sit down. Then you're right back where you started before, except now you don't have a goalie, which is bad. Personally, I think they should always keep the goalie in because he has the best costume.
I later found out Barry is a baseball player and he hit 500 home runs. Why they decided to bring that up during the hockey game, I'm not sure. But one thing I am sure about is hockey is a confusing and complicated game. I don't think anyone really understands the rules. The best thing to do is just drink a lot of beer and have a good time.
Thanks again Julianne!!!!!!!!!!
This playoff game was important for two reasons. The first is that if the Sharks lost they would be out of the playoffs. More importantly, though, it was my first professional hockey game. Professional hockey differs from the college hockey games I've been to in a number of ways, the most obvious being: 1. there is only one puck in play during a professional game 2. the players don't vomit when they get hit 3. there were no cheerleaders serving beer to the players who were sitting in their little resting box .
When we arrived at the game I realized immediately that this was a much different crowd than the people who go to ballet. A lot of people were painted green. This is because the team color of the sharks is teal and most men are color blind and think teal is the same thing as green. We forked over our life savings for two beers (am I really old or does anyone else remember a time that you could buy a whole six pack of Budweiser for $6 instead of just getting one 12 ounce bottle for that price?) and entered the stadium.
You can tell the game is starting because a smoking shark head lowers from the ceiling. It has flashing red eyes. Although an incorrect depiction of a shark I immediately realized that a hockey game is no place for a lesson in marine biology and I didn't say a word as the players skated out of the shark mouth.
As the game got underway I made a startling discovery. Contrary to my assumptions, you don't have to be a good skater to play hockey. If you want to stop you run into the rink wall. If you want to turn you run into the wall. Sometimes, if there's no wall, you just run into other players. Also, you can smash people into the wall if you want. People get smashed into the wall for being on the other team. If you score a goal your own team smashes you into the wall. And you can hit other players with your stick as long as you are standing behind the referee. Occasionally, while your team mate is waiting for the ref to drop the puck you poke him (the team mate) in the butt with your stick (this is for good luck?).
There were a number of unintelligent people sitting around me at the game. These are actual quotes: wife: This is a great game. No penalties. They are playing very clean hockey. husband: Shut up. (yells to the rink) Smash him into the wall!!!! drunk guy behind me: "Win one for the kipper!" drunk guy behind and to the right of me: "Hey screwy, go back to St. Louie!"
Grant attempted to explain what was going on. Hockey is a very fast, complicated game. Here are some of his better explanations: "What just happened was really bad." "I don't think they are supposed to do that because it's bad." "The ref is making him leave the game because he's a bad man." "If the other team is trying to score on your team that's bad."
Unfortunately, the last 8 seconds of the first period, St. Louis scored a goal. There was a near riot in the stadium. Some kind of argument ensued over whether or not the puck actually went in. I didn't really follow what was going on but I figured it was bad for the Sharks.
After the first period was over (leave it to a guy's wishful thinking that a period only lasts 20 minutes) there was a 20 minute rest time. During this time a guy came out and played an organ with bouncing balls. The guy next to Grant got very excited. He told us the Sharks always play better after the bouncing ball organ playing guy. Then this Shark man started launching t-shirts into the crowd. I had considered myself safe from flying pucks as our seats were not on the rink. I didn't realize they would be throwing vacuum sealed shirt grenades. I cowered down in my seat until the shirts stopped flying around.
The second period moved slower than the first, although the Sharks scored two goals, which was good. Every few seconds the ref was picking up the puck and moving it around on the ice. Sometimes a guy would get all smashed up and nothing would happen. Other times the smasher had to go sit down for a while. When that happens it's called a power play. The way you know a power play is going on is that everyone is chopping their hands up and down like a shark biting the air.
Nothing much happened during the rest time after the second period, except that there were some guys driving around on zambonis and the crowd was singing the "I Love Hockey" song that's about this guy from Canada who loves hockey. The third period everyone looked kind of tired. Some of the hockey players were even falling down on the ice. The Sharks scored another goal, which was the coolest goal because it was a line drive right at the goalie. The goalie seems to be the best position. You get to wear these huge gloves and a bunch of other complicated padding. Normally you stand in front of the net looking very laid back. If someone shoots the puck to you, you can pick it up and throw it. The goalie is the only one wearing gloves so he's the only one who can pick up the puck. Also, if the puck gets close to him he can lay down on it so no one can hit it. When this happens all the players make a big pile near the net. That's when it's probably bad to be the goalie because they land on him or hit him with their sticks.
Three minutes into the third period something really strange happened. Everyone started screaming "Barry Bonds!" As it turns out, Barry Bonds is not a hockey player and he wasn't even playing in the game. You can tell a hockey player by the last name, which usually has 14 letters, only two of which are vowels. The best players have names that end in "vek" or have names that aren't pronounced the way they are spelled (e.g. Ricci, which looks like "Ricky" is actually pronounced "Rishy" or "Reeshee").
Then, with 5 minutes left in the game, the St. Louis goalie decided to leave. This happens when you decide to sacrifice your goalie to get another player. This is different from a power play, but I'm not sure how unless it's the addition of one player instead of the subtraction of a player from the other team. But a power play can still occur so the extra guy that you have in place of the goalie has to go sit down. Then you're right back where you started before, except now you don't have a goalie, which is bad. Personally, I think they should always keep the goalie in because he has the best costume.
I later found out Barry is a baseball player and he hit 500 home runs. Why they decided to bring that up during the hockey game, I'm not sure. But one thing I am sure about is hockey is a confusing and complicated game. I don't think anyone really understands the rules. The best thing to do is just drink a lot of beer and have a good time.
Thanks again Julianne!!!!!!!!!!
Pikes Peak Epic
WARNING: this story contains two mentions of vomit - I know, shock and surprise, a Franki story involving vomit
Just to confirm that irrationality does run in my family, my dad flew into Denver late yesterday and decided today would be the perfect day to get acclimated by climbing Pike's Peak by the hard route (24.6 miles, but very scenic and wonderful).
The day started out by me getting lost finding my dad's hotel. Then we hiked for about 30 minutes and HP decided he wanted to go up ahead of us (I somewhat suspect he was chasing after some scantily clad high school girls who would have been hard to pick up with my dad and I there to make fun of him or that he really wanted to play with a walkie talkie but that's just my opinion). HP got a little lost as he still hasn't mastered that important mountaineering skill that involves reading signs that tell you which way to go. That's how he ended up climbing what he later describe as the "stairway to heaven". My dad and I eventually got to Barr Camp (about 6 miles up) and decided that the weather was looking decidedly unpleasant and that we should turn around before we got stuck in a hail storm. I radioed HP and he started running down the hill to meet us. My dad and I had a nice snack of grapes that I accidentally put in my backpack instead of giving them back to him and I'm eating them as I write this. But seriously, it was an oversight and I didn't mean to steal the grapes.
Disaster struck after we had been hiking down for about a half mile. Unlike most people, I hate going down the mountain. It's a fairly painful experience because of my knee, even with a brace. I'm wondering if I might have twisted it or something (like when we were almost run over by two guys on mountain bikes) but nothing specific comes to mind. In any case, we were walking along talking about solar panels (normal people do this all the time) when suddenly my knee began to hurt as it has only hurt immediately after my surgery.
That's weird, I thought to myself, as I was also remembering that I had forgotten to bring any Tylenol with me. Then the pain got worse. It was as if someone had decided to open up a carnival in my knee. The scrambler machine was bashing into my knee cap and scraping against all the nerves in the back of my leg. The Ferris wheel seemed to be gouging my femur and then jostling against my tib/fib before ascending to do it all again. Then it seemed someone cranked up a barbecue to sell hot dogs to all the tourists who were trampling my meniscus and the heat was radiating up into my hip. My knee was starting to puff up like a big top tent being inflated.
We were 5.5 miles away from the parking lot. This is NOT good, I thought to myself. Maybe I should say a little mantra to take focus away from the pain. I started chanting my mantra in my head ("lalala my knee doesn't hurt") but it wasn't working. Then HP caught up to us. I couldn't even talk at that point because tears were running down my face and I was afraid I would start crying and never stop.
Finally I asked my dad for his walking stick. Much like a placebo, it helped for about 20 seconds. Then the pain got worse, on top of now being stuck carrying a stick that I was afraid to give back to my dad because a collapse was inevitable and I didn't want to get trail dust up my nose when I passed out. My subconscious was having an argument that any philosopher would have been proud of with my brain:
Brain: ow
S.C: it doesn't hurt
Brain: ow
The brain then decided to take drastic measures. Since no one was listening to her she shut down all systems. My vision went white and I managed to, in my usual graceful way, collapse on a rock. I looked longingly at the pine needles scattered on the ground near my feet and wished for Martha Stewart so that she could make me a pillow. But no. She's still in NY on house arrest. Bastard Manhattan attorney's office.
My dad was looking very concerned. He asked how much I weighed. I took that as a bad sign of what kind of state I must have been in. I got up, took 5 steps, and then vomited up all the Gatorade I had been drinking for the past three hours. As I put four times the recommended servings of Gatorade powder in my water it's less a liquid than a syrup and it was kind of gooey and gross, clinging to my face like an evil slime.
I managed to get down the mountain because of my dad's encouragement and HP's sarcastic remarks (e.g. "you aren't even drunk and you threw up"). Both were worried as it is usually bad when someone is in so much pain that they vomit. At one point when I didn't think I would make it my dad said "Oh look, there's a tennis court right there". No one dies in the mountains in view of a tennis court so I knew I would survive.
We finally got to the car and I figured the worst was over. We decided to get lunch, I popped 5 advils (my dad commenting to me "well, if you take those you won't be able to have a beer" at which point my brain decided that would be fine as long as someone who could have a beer hit me over the head with the empty bottle and put me out of my misery).
I drove to a parking lot and we were going to get lunch but as I stepped out of the car my knee was screaming with pain that was flooding into my foot and hip. My dad was standing at the parking pay machine getting ready to put some money in when I managed to limp over and say "wait! stop!" in my most dramatic death throes voice. He looked at me and said "It's okay. I'll pay for the parking. It's only $2." By then my brain was letting more vocabulary get through the pain waves and I told my dad that I needed to lay down immediately. We drove back to his hotel and I staggered into the room and climbed onto the bed. I thought I might pass out again from the pain. My dad ran down to the vending machine and got me a coke. He explained to HP (and this is an exact quote): "Franki has a pretty bad Coke habit." The boys went off to have a sandwich and I laid in the room sure that I was going to die.
Miraculously, after about twenty minutes of having my knee elevated, the pain carnival packed its trunks and went back to where ever it is that it had come from. I managed to join the boys for a glass of water and potato chips at the restaurant (after walking two blocks - a major accomplishment). My dad was so worried that he met me half way to the restaurant, probably to make sure I wasn't collapsing or vomiting on any strangers (if you've ever been to Manitou I think you would agree with me that the people there would not notice - they would probably put me in an art gallery, still covered in Gatorade bile).
So all is well that ends well. The best part of this story, besides my dad talking me down the mountain, is that I went to get the keys to my new place when I got back from Pike's Peak and it was clean! With two new screwdrivers as presents! And toilet paper!
So now I am going to drink some wine. I think my liver is safe now. Anyway, you only need 1/5 of it, so I have liver to spare.
In October of 2006 I did the Barr trail, walking through almost 3 feet of snow the last 2 miles. As I did it alone my dad felt the need to text me every hour to make sure I was still alive. And the honest truth is that if I had had any money I would have taken the train down rather than walking...
Just to confirm that irrationality does run in my family, my dad flew into Denver late yesterday and decided today would be the perfect day to get acclimated by climbing Pike's Peak by the hard route (24.6 miles, but very scenic and wonderful).
The day started out by me getting lost finding my dad's hotel. Then we hiked for about 30 minutes and HP decided he wanted to go up ahead of us (I somewhat suspect he was chasing after some scantily clad high school girls who would have been hard to pick up with my dad and I there to make fun of him or that he really wanted to play with a walkie talkie but that's just my opinion). HP got a little lost as he still hasn't mastered that important mountaineering skill that involves reading signs that tell you which way to go. That's how he ended up climbing what he later describe as the "stairway to heaven". My dad and I eventually got to Barr Camp (about 6 miles up) and decided that the weather was looking decidedly unpleasant and that we should turn around before we got stuck in a hail storm. I radioed HP and he started running down the hill to meet us. My dad and I had a nice snack of grapes that I accidentally put in my backpack instead of giving them back to him and I'm eating them as I write this. But seriously, it was an oversight and I didn't mean to steal the grapes.
Disaster struck after we had been hiking down for about a half mile. Unlike most people, I hate going down the mountain. It's a fairly painful experience because of my knee, even with a brace. I'm wondering if I might have twisted it or something (like when we were almost run over by two guys on mountain bikes) but nothing specific comes to mind. In any case, we were walking along talking about solar panels (normal people do this all the time) when suddenly my knee began to hurt as it has only hurt immediately after my surgery.
That's weird, I thought to myself, as I was also remembering that I had forgotten to bring any Tylenol with me. Then the pain got worse. It was as if someone had decided to open up a carnival in my knee. The scrambler machine was bashing into my knee cap and scraping against all the nerves in the back of my leg. The Ferris wheel seemed to be gouging my femur and then jostling against my tib/fib before ascending to do it all again. Then it seemed someone cranked up a barbecue to sell hot dogs to all the tourists who were trampling my meniscus and the heat was radiating up into my hip. My knee was starting to puff up like a big top tent being inflated.
We were 5.5 miles away from the parking lot. This is NOT good, I thought to myself. Maybe I should say a little mantra to take focus away from the pain. I started chanting my mantra in my head ("lalala my knee doesn't hurt") but it wasn't working. Then HP caught up to us. I couldn't even talk at that point because tears were running down my face and I was afraid I would start crying and never stop.
Finally I asked my dad for his walking stick. Much like a placebo, it helped for about 20 seconds. Then the pain got worse, on top of now being stuck carrying a stick that I was afraid to give back to my dad because a collapse was inevitable and I didn't want to get trail dust up my nose when I passed out. My subconscious was having an argument that any philosopher would have been proud of with my brain:
Brain: ow
S.C: it doesn't hurt
Brain: ow
The brain then decided to take drastic measures. Since no one was listening to her she shut down all systems. My vision went white and I managed to, in my usual graceful way, collapse on a rock. I looked longingly at the pine needles scattered on the ground near my feet and wished for Martha Stewart so that she could make me a pillow. But no. She's still in NY on house arrest. Bastard Manhattan attorney's office.
My dad was looking very concerned. He asked how much I weighed. I took that as a bad sign of what kind of state I must have been in. I got up, took 5 steps, and then vomited up all the Gatorade I had been drinking for the past three hours. As I put four times the recommended servings of Gatorade powder in my water it's less a liquid than a syrup and it was kind of gooey and gross, clinging to my face like an evil slime.
I managed to get down the mountain because of my dad's encouragement and HP's sarcastic remarks (e.g. "you aren't even drunk and you threw up"). Both were worried as it is usually bad when someone is in so much pain that they vomit. At one point when I didn't think I would make it my dad said "Oh look, there's a tennis court right there". No one dies in the mountains in view of a tennis court so I knew I would survive.
We finally got to the car and I figured the worst was over. We decided to get lunch, I popped 5 advils (my dad commenting to me "well, if you take those you won't be able to have a beer" at which point my brain decided that would be fine as long as someone who could have a beer hit me over the head with the empty bottle and put me out of my misery).
I drove to a parking lot and we were going to get lunch but as I stepped out of the car my knee was screaming with pain that was flooding into my foot and hip. My dad was standing at the parking pay machine getting ready to put some money in when I managed to limp over and say "wait! stop!" in my most dramatic death throes voice. He looked at me and said "It's okay. I'll pay for the parking. It's only $2." By then my brain was letting more vocabulary get through the pain waves and I told my dad that I needed to lay down immediately. We drove back to his hotel and I staggered into the room and climbed onto the bed. I thought I might pass out again from the pain. My dad ran down to the vending machine and got me a coke. He explained to HP (and this is an exact quote): "Franki has a pretty bad Coke habit." The boys went off to have a sandwich and I laid in the room sure that I was going to die.
Miraculously, after about twenty minutes of having my knee elevated, the pain carnival packed its trunks and went back to where ever it is that it had come from. I managed to join the boys for a glass of water and potato chips at the restaurant (after walking two blocks - a major accomplishment). My dad was so worried that he met me half way to the restaurant, probably to make sure I wasn't collapsing or vomiting on any strangers (if you've ever been to Manitou I think you would agree with me that the people there would not notice - they would probably put me in an art gallery, still covered in Gatorade bile).
So all is well that ends well. The best part of this story, besides my dad talking me down the mountain, is that I went to get the keys to my new place when I got back from Pike's Peak and it was clean! With two new screwdrivers as presents! And toilet paper!
So now I am going to drink some wine. I think my liver is safe now. Anyway, you only need 1/5 of it, so I have liver to spare.
In October of 2006 I did the Barr trail, walking through almost 3 feet of snow the last 2 miles. As I did it alone my dad felt the need to text me every hour to make sure I was still alive. And the honest truth is that if I had had any money I would have taken the train down rather than walking...
A Mountaineer Walks Into A Bar
A mountaineer walks into a bar and sits down next to President Clinton. Clinton looks over at the guy and notices his threadbare jacket, his odiferous socks, and his worn out approach shoes.
"Bartender," says Clinton, "A drink for my friend please."
The mountaineer smiles at Clinton and says, "Thanks. Due to circumstances in my life I can’t afford to buy a drink."
"Really?" says Clinton. "Why?"
"Well, I'm a pretty famous mountaineer so I shouldn't be telling you my problems. I have a public image to uphold. But since you asked… My ex-wife is trying to take half my mountaineering business because she supported me for years while I climbed and I recently dumped her for a French woman I met at Everest base camp. My employees are angry because I spend too much time in the mountains and I've done nothing to mentor them so that they might someday become famous mountaineers. My French girlfriend is pressuring me to retire from climbing because she never sees me. Finally, my mom worries about me constantly. I'm leaving for a four month trip to a third world country full of terrorists the day after tomorrow to climb the most dangerous mountain in the world and I've done nothing to solve any of these problems."
The mountaineer stares glumly into his beer.
"No one likes to upset their mother," says Clinton.
"Exactly," says the mountaineer.
"I have a suggestion to make to you."
"I normally get really pissed when people try to give me advice, because I'm a famous mountaineer, but since you're an ex-President, I will consider your opinion."
"First of all, don't give your ex-wife a damn thing. You’re a mountaineer, right? So what did she expect? As for your employees, fuck them. Don't they realize what an honor it is to work for such an amazing talent? They should be more supportive. As for your girlfriend, it's always best to eliminate those people who expect any kind of effort from you. You're much better off having flings with women that want nothing from you other than to sleep with you because you are a famous mountaineer. Finally, don't feel bad about your mother. They love to worry. Now, get out there and climb that peak. Everything else will work itself out by the time you get home. And if people are pissed because you left them to fix your problems, that’s too bad. You can always find new employees and friends. But climbing a mountain, that could be a once in a lifetime thing."
"You're exactly right!" exclaims the mountaineer. "Thanks so much for your advice!"
And with that he chugs the rest of his beer and stumbles out the door into the night. The bartender looks at Superman and sighs.
"You can be so mean when you're drunk."
"Bartender," says Clinton, "A drink for my friend please."
The mountaineer smiles at Clinton and says, "Thanks. Due to circumstances in my life I can’t afford to buy a drink."
"Really?" says Clinton. "Why?"
"Well, I'm a pretty famous mountaineer so I shouldn't be telling you my problems. I have a public image to uphold. But since you asked… My ex-wife is trying to take half my mountaineering business because she supported me for years while I climbed and I recently dumped her for a French woman I met at Everest base camp. My employees are angry because I spend too much time in the mountains and I've done nothing to mentor them so that they might someday become famous mountaineers. My French girlfriend is pressuring me to retire from climbing because she never sees me. Finally, my mom worries about me constantly. I'm leaving for a four month trip to a third world country full of terrorists the day after tomorrow to climb the most dangerous mountain in the world and I've done nothing to solve any of these problems."
The mountaineer stares glumly into his beer.
"No one likes to upset their mother," says Clinton.
"Exactly," says the mountaineer.
"I have a suggestion to make to you."
"I normally get really pissed when people try to give me advice, because I'm a famous mountaineer, but since you're an ex-President, I will consider your opinion."
"First of all, don't give your ex-wife a damn thing. You’re a mountaineer, right? So what did she expect? As for your employees, fuck them. Don't they realize what an honor it is to work for such an amazing talent? They should be more supportive. As for your girlfriend, it's always best to eliminate those people who expect any kind of effort from you. You're much better off having flings with women that want nothing from you other than to sleep with you because you are a famous mountaineer. Finally, don't feel bad about your mother. They love to worry. Now, get out there and climb that peak. Everything else will work itself out by the time you get home. And if people are pissed because you left them to fix your problems, that’s too bad. You can always find new employees and friends. But climbing a mountain, that could be a once in a lifetime thing."
"You're exactly right!" exclaims the mountaineer. "Thanks so much for your advice!"
And with that he chugs the rest of his beer and stumbles out the door into the night. The bartender looks at Superman and sighs.
"You can be so mean when you're drunk."
Holey Wars
How many people will die before it all ends?
It was a summer afternoon, a day with perfect climbing conditions, when Larry LeBouff neared the summit of the classic New Hampshire climb Dirty Underwear Puppet (5.10g[1]). He had been free soloing after a fight with his mom, but he was feeling strong, preparing to top out and then rap off a newly placed bolt. As he reached the end of the climb, though, something went wrong. Horribly wrong. As he plummeted 400 feet to his death, the last image he would remember, besides the 10-foot overhanging roof he had forgotten about right below the summit, was a chopped off bolt 15 feet away.
Larry has become the latest victim of the Holey Wars. Two million people die every day around the globe, and some of these deaths are a direct result of the climbing jihad being waged anywhere there is rock or ice to be climbed. This jihad is being run by holey extremists, headquartered in NH, but with cells all over the world. They have stated they will not rest until every person who owns a drill is dead, and every bolt that has ever been placed is chopped. The resulting bloodbath could cost climbing some of its most talented bolters, and could cost most sport climbers their ability to climb anything above a 5.6.
The holey extremists have taken a harsh stand in an effort to get their point across. Lars Fecklestein, famous for cutting bolts on all the Royal Caribbean Voyager cruise ship walls, looks no further than the greatest story ever told to present a reason for his jihad. “When Moses climbed the mountain, did he use a drill? No, he free soloed it. There isn’t any mention of bolts in the bible. They just ain’t natural.”
Non-believers seem to be supporting the movement as well. Famous climbing atheist Mack Twitt weighed in with his opinion. “I don’t believe in bolts.” He then went on to say that since he is an atheist he doesn’t believe in anything, including chopped bolts or no bolts. Once considered a top climber and self-professed anti-bolter, further investigation for this article showed that Twitt both owned a drill and was no longer climbing except in a gym. Because he has angered so many in the climbing community with his noxious rants, he now spends his days being belayed by a blow-up doll that was purportedly stolen from the third camp of a German Everest expedition. The theft caused at least two alpinists to die, and the scandal rocked the climbing community for years. To this day Twitt proclaims his innocence in the slide shows he gives at the local REI, and hopes that some day the Chinese will allow him back in base camp where he can resume his profitable drug business.
Though the extremists are starting to sway more people to change their opinions on bolting, Middle America seems intact in their beliefs, even in the face of bolting being outlawed to limit the bloodshed from the jihad. John Deau, a self-described weekend warrior who has climbed most of the hard 5.7s in Texas, sometimes with just a single rack of gear, stated, “Bolts are as American as obesity. I mean, if there were no bolts, how would your engine stay in your truck? If they outlaw climbing bolts, what’s next? Lightening bolts?”
Conspiracy theorists believe that the jihad might be the work of the United Nations. Other rumors are circulating that the Pentagon has developed an invisible climbing bolt for use by special forces, who don’t want to be seen as climbing “without style” in the third world countries they invade. The press contact for the Pentagon, Wanda Specschwartz, vehemently denies the rumors. “How would it be possible to hide such an advanced technology from the American people? If we had that capability people would know about it.” When it was pointed out to Specschwartz that, since the bolts are purportedly invisible, no one would be able to see them, she responded “There is an absence of evidence, which is evidence of absence.”
Some entrepreneurs aren’t waiting for the Pentagon technology to be developed to cash in on the jihad, however. Chris Dumass, who owns the largest call girl climbing center in North America, has begun working on bolts that look just like rocks. “For all intents and purposes,” Dumass says, “no one will even notice it’s there. It looks just like a rock, if a rock looked like a bolt.” His invention is called the Dumass Bolt. The company will charge extra for what Dumass calls “designer bolt colors”, such as Capitol Reef Red and Wonderland White. The cheapest bolt goes for $50 and looks like a petrified dog turd. “That’s the Seneca Rocks bolt,” Dumass says proudly.
Another company has come up with a drink, Red Bolt, that it hopes to market to the climbing rebels who continue to bolt. “Red Bolt is an energy drink that tastes like a mix of cat urine and pixie sticks,” says company founder Bill ‘Caution Man’ Beauford. “It’s very unique in the market because it tastes horrible and provides way too much energy.” The distinctive smell that begins to permeate the pores of those who drink Red Bolt is part of Beauford’s marketing strategy, as is the promise to “jack up the heart rate to the point where the heart monitor is about to explode. It’s kind of like climbing on a sketchy wall with a 100-foot run out from the last good pro. Except, of course, we want to bolt those climbs, and instead have climbers drink Red Bolt to get a rush.”
But bolters may soon need more than a drink to help them out. The legal profession has begun defending bolters against the rash of lawsuits resulting from the holey wars. W.H. Zaduu IV, Esq. has stepped in to provide his famous skills in court. Once an ardent defender of politicians involved in sexual harassment scandals, he now works for the bolting rebels, stating that the jihad is too broad in its statements and that the activities they rail against lack definition.
According to the current legal designation, Zaduu explained, "bolting" occurs when “[a] person knowingly engages in or causes contact with the cracks, slopers, faces or jugs with a foreign object”. Zaduu is also working on a definition of ‘penetration’ to provide legal grounds for whether a route has actually been bolted or not, based on the legal proceedings from the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal. “After all,” Zaduu explains, “there’s little difference between a cigar and a bolt.”
Though many in the climbing old guard are caught up in the holey wars, the younger generation appears to be distancing itself from the melee. “Can’t we all just get along?” asks Topher Karma, the first 4-year old to climb a 5.10z, when asked for a comment about the holey wars. Though only three feet tall, he appears wise for his age. He spends most of his days, when not in rehab, hanging out at the crag with his Siamese twin German Shepards. Their names? Bolt and Chopper.
[1] The NH climbing scale has recently been modified to account for the fact that nothing ever climbed can be harder than a 5.10. This rating system will be used in this article to describe routes consistently.
It was a summer afternoon, a day with perfect climbing conditions, when Larry LeBouff neared the summit of the classic New Hampshire climb Dirty Underwear Puppet (5.10g[1]). He had been free soloing after a fight with his mom, but he was feeling strong, preparing to top out and then rap off a newly placed bolt. As he reached the end of the climb, though, something went wrong. Horribly wrong. As he plummeted 400 feet to his death, the last image he would remember, besides the 10-foot overhanging roof he had forgotten about right below the summit, was a chopped off bolt 15 feet away.
Larry has become the latest victim of the Holey Wars. Two million people die every day around the globe, and some of these deaths are a direct result of the climbing jihad being waged anywhere there is rock or ice to be climbed. This jihad is being run by holey extremists, headquartered in NH, but with cells all over the world. They have stated they will not rest until every person who owns a drill is dead, and every bolt that has ever been placed is chopped. The resulting bloodbath could cost climbing some of its most talented bolters, and could cost most sport climbers their ability to climb anything above a 5.6.
The holey extremists have taken a harsh stand in an effort to get their point across. Lars Fecklestein, famous for cutting bolts on all the Royal Caribbean Voyager cruise ship walls, looks no further than the greatest story ever told to present a reason for his jihad. “When Moses climbed the mountain, did he use a drill? No, he free soloed it. There isn’t any mention of bolts in the bible. They just ain’t natural.”
Non-believers seem to be supporting the movement as well. Famous climbing atheist Mack Twitt weighed in with his opinion. “I don’t believe in bolts.” He then went on to say that since he is an atheist he doesn’t believe in anything, including chopped bolts or no bolts. Once considered a top climber and self-professed anti-bolter, further investigation for this article showed that Twitt both owned a drill and was no longer climbing except in a gym. Because he has angered so many in the climbing community with his noxious rants, he now spends his days being belayed by a blow-up doll that was purportedly stolen from the third camp of a German Everest expedition. The theft caused at least two alpinists to die, and the scandal rocked the climbing community for years. To this day Twitt proclaims his innocence in the slide shows he gives at the local REI, and hopes that some day the Chinese will allow him back in base camp where he can resume his profitable drug business.
Though the extremists are starting to sway more people to change their opinions on bolting, Middle America seems intact in their beliefs, even in the face of bolting being outlawed to limit the bloodshed from the jihad. John Deau, a self-described weekend warrior who has climbed most of the hard 5.7s in Texas, sometimes with just a single rack of gear, stated, “Bolts are as American as obesity. I mean, if there were no bolts, how would your engine stay in your truck? If they outlaw climbing bolts, what’s next? Lightening bolts?”
Conspiracy theorists believe that the jihad might be the work of the United Nations. Other rumors are circulating that the Pentagon has developed an invisible climbing bolt for use by special forces, who don’t want to be seen as climbing “without style” in the third world countries they invade. The press contact for the Pentagon, Wanda Specschwartz, vehemently denies the rumors. “How would it be possible to hide such an advanced technology from the American people? If we had that capability people would know about it.” When it was pointed out to Specschwartz that, since the bolts are purportedly invisible, no one would be able to see them, she responded “There is an absence of evidence, which is evidence of absence.”
Some entrepreneurs aren’t waiting for the Pentagon technology to be developed to cash in on the jihad, however. Chris Dumass, who owns the largest call girl climbing center in North America, has begun working on bolts that look just like rocks. “For all intents and purposes,” Dumass says, “no one will even notice it’s there. It looks just like a rock, if a rock looked like a bolt.” His invention is called the Dumass Bolt. The company will charge extra for what Dumass calls “designer bolt colors”, such as Capitol Reef Red and Wonderland White. The cheapest bolt goes for $50 and looks like a petrified dog turd. “That’s the Seneca Rocks bolt,” Dumass says proudly.
Another company has come up with a drink, Red Bolt, that it hopes to market to the climbing rebels who continue to bolt. “Red Bolt is an energy drink that tastes like a mix of cat urine and pixie sticks,” says company founder Bill ‘Caution Man’ Beauford. “It’s very unique in the market because it tastes horrible and provides way too much energy.” The distinctive smell that begins to permeate the pores of those who drink Red Bolt is part of Beauford’s marketing strategy, as is the promise to “jack up the heart rate to the point where the heart monitor is about to explode. It’s kind of like climbing on a sketchy wall with a 100-foot run out from the last good pro. Except, of course, we want to bolt those climbs, and instead have climbers drink Red Bolt to get a rush.”
But bolters may soon need more than a drink to help them out. The legal profession has begun defending bolters against the rash of lawsuits resulting from the holey wars. W.H. Zaduu IV, Esq. has stepped in to provide his famous skills in court. Once an ardent defender of politicians involved in sexual harassment scandals, he now works for the bolting rebels, stating that the jihad is too broad in its statements and that the activities they rail against lack definition.
According to the current legal designation, Zaduu explained, "bolting" occurs when “[a] person knowingly engages in or causes contact with the cracks, slopers, faces or jugs with a foreign object”. Zaduu is also working on a definition of ‘penetration’ to provide legal grounds for whether a route has actually been bolted or not, based on the legal proceedings from the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal. “After all,” Zaduu explains, “there’s little difference between a cigar and a bolt.”
Though many in the climbing old guard are caught up in the holey wars, the younger generation appears to be distancing itself from the melee. “Can’t we all just get along?” asks Topher Karma, the first 4-year old to climb a 5.10z, when asked for a comment about the holey wars. Though only three feet tall, he appears wise for his age. He spends most of his days, when not in rehab, hanging out at the crag with his Siamese twin German Shepards. Their names? Bolt and Chopper.
[1] The NH climbing scale has recently been modified to account for the fact that nothing ever climbed can be harder than a 5.10. This rating system will be used in this article to describe routes consistently.
Free...cheeseburger
I would like to caveat this story, which happened on my cross country trip from Baltimore to Denver, with two notes:
NOTE 1: I have occasionally been accused of "lacking common sense". While I think in general that characterization is false, when I am sleep deprived, which seems to be all the time now, I don't always do things that make sense. This includes driving 18 hours straight through, among other horrors, Kansas and a hail storm.
NOTE 2: This could all be the result of bad karma because I tried to eat a cow.
While driving through the midwest, and most specifically Kansas, you will find strange signs along the side of the highway. One sign will just have a slab of raw meat. Another will say "eat more beef". Then there will be the sign with a nicely laid out steak dinner the likes of which I couldn't cook if you held a gun to my head.
Considering I have not done a good job of eating the past couple of weeks, these signs started to make me hungry. Signs make me hungry anyway due to a peculiar habit from my childhood. For whatever reason I was under the delusion, as a young child, that highway signs were made of candy. I had a pretty good idea of what each one would taste like. For example, those yellow reflector signs with the black stripes were obviously butterscotch flavored, with a hint of root beer. Those blue service signs were blueberry. A stop sign was cherry flavored with a vanilla twist. As an adult, I am constantly trying to come up with new, unexpected flavors for highway signs while I'm driving, and due to my adult diet, which has expanded beyond coke and M&Ms, this keeps me entertained for hours. The green exit signs would obviously be lime. But what if they were green apple with white chocolate? Or maybe they would taste like sushi. Or maybe they would taste like that horrible Japanese gum we always get at Sushi King. In any case, I started wondering what flavor a sign would be if the aforementioned sign had food depicted on it. Would it actually be beef flavored with some meta-flavor underlying the beef, such as potato flavor? Or would it be like those Asian dishes where they make a food look like another food (e.g. a meatball that looks like an orchid, or a cucumber carved up to look like frog legs)? I pondered this philosophical question for miles, resulting in a craving for a cheeseburger, so I pulled off on an exit and procured one.
Now, I am a good multi-tasking driver (I can smoke, talk on my cell, shift gears and change a CD all at the same time because I have an innate ability to drive with my knees) so eating a cheeseburger should have been no problem while driving. It's all in the preparation. Before leaving the hamburger joint I got my napkins ready and fixed the paper around my cheeseburger so I could eat it and not spill it on myself. Then, for reasons that are even today inexplicable, I decided to put my cheeseburger on the dashboard. In my defense of this action, my cokes and crackers and food bars were on the passenger seat, along with maps, directions and CDs. In addition, I don't like to merge onto a highway while doing anything else because that is a fairly dangerous driving maneuver, especially since I tend to merge at great speeds so that I'm traveling with the flow of traffic. In any case, the only other thing I could have done was hold the stupid cheeseburger in my hand.
I should mention here that I had the two back windows cracked open, as well as having the driver's window completely open. I always open the driver's window all the way when I am merging onto a highway.
The cheeseburger seemed content to hang out on his little perch on my dashboard while I nailed the accelerator to the floor. But after I had gone about 100 yards on the entrance ramp something strange started happening. My cheeseburger was vibrating like a bobble head doll. In addition, a wind vortex seemed to be building in my car. That's strange, I thought to myself. Then, as I glanced away from the cheeseburger to my tachometer to see where my RPMs were, the cheeseburger made a graceful leap from the dashboard and out the window. I managed to catch the paper but the cheeseburger was gone. It reminded me of my cat Prickly Pete, who used to feign sleep on the vet's exam table, only to jump off it the second the vet turned her back. I looked in the rear view and saw one very satisfied cheeseburger sitting in the middle of the road, more or less intact except for some mustard and a pickle. You little bastard I thought to myself, now I'm going to have to eat another Clif bar. Moments later the cheeseburger was mushed by a RAV4. I will probably never order a cheeseburger again.
EPILOGUE: Yes, I have been under a lot of stress lately. Why else would I write a one page story about a cheeseburger blowing out my car window?
EPILOGUE, part 2: I would assume that I can still write my cheeseburger off on my taxes as a moving expense even though I didn't actually get to eat it. Can someone check with the IRS on this for me?
NOTE 1: I have occasionally been accused of "lacking common sense". While I think in general that characterization is false, when I am sleep deprived, which seems to be all the time now, I don't always do things that make sense. This includes driving 18 hours straight through, among other horrors, Kansas and a hail storm.
NOTE 2: This could all be the result of bad karma because I tried to eat a cow.
While driving through the midwest, and most specifically Kansas, you will find strange signs along the side of the highway. One sign will just have a slab of raw meat. Another will say "eat more beef". Then there will be the sign with a nicely laid out steak dinner the likes of which I couldn't cook if you held a gun to my head.
Considering I have not done a good job of eating the past couple of weeks, these signs started to make me hungry. Signs make me hungry anyway due to a peculiar habit from my childhood. For whatever reason I was under the delusion, as a young child, that highway signs were made of candy. I had a pretty good idea of what each one would taste like. For example, those yellow reflector signs with the black stripes were obviously butterscotch flavored, with a hint of root beer. Those blue service signs were blueberry. A stop sign was cherry flavored with a vanilla twist. As an adult, I am constantly trying to come up with new, unexpected flavors for highway signs while I'm driving, and due to my adult diet, which has expanded beyond coke and M&Ms, this keeps me entertained for hours. The green exit signs would obviously be lime. But what if they were green apple with white chocolate? Or maybe they would taste like sushi. Or maybe they would taste like that horrible Japanese gum we always get at Sushi King. In any case, I started wondering what flavor a sign would be if the aforementioned sign had food depicted on it. Would it actually be beef flavored with some meta-flavor underlying the beef, such as potato flavor? Or would it be like those Asian dishes where they make a food look like another food (e.g. a meatball that looks like an orchid, or a cucumber carved up to look like frog legs)? I pondered this philosophical question for miles, resulting in a craving for a cheeseburger, so I pulled off on an exit and procured one.
Now, I am a good multi-tasking driver (I can smoke, talk on my cell, shift gears and change a CD all at the same time because I have an innate ability to drive with my knees) so eating a cheeseburger should have been no problem while driving. It's all in the preparation. Before leaving the hamburger joint I got my napkins ready and fixed the paper around my cheeseburger so I could eat it and not spill it on myself. Then, for reasons that are even today inexplicable, I decided to put my cheeseburger on the dashboard. In my defense of this action, my cokes and crackers and food bars were on the passenger seat, along with maps, directions and CDs. In addition, I don't like to merge onto a highway while doing anything else because that is a fairly dangerous driving maneuver, especially since I tend to merge at great speeds so that I'm traveling with the flow of traffic. In any case, the only other thing I could have done was hold the stupid cheeseburger in my hand.
I should mention here that I had the two back windows cracked open, as well as having the driver's window completely open. I always open the driver's window all the way when I am merging onto a highway.
The cheeseburger seemed content to hang out on his little perch on my dashboard while I nailed the accelerator to the floor. But after I had gone about 100 yards on the entrance ramp something strange started happening. My cheeseburger was vibrating like a bobble head doll. In addition, a wind vortex seemed to be building in my car. That's strange, I thought to myself. Then, as I glanced away from the cheeseburger to my tachometer to see where my RPMs were, the cheeseburger made a graceful leap from the dashboard and out the window. I managed to catch the paper but the cheeseburger was gone. It reminded me of my cat Prickly Pete, who used to feign sleep on the vet's exam table, only to jump off it the second the vet turned her back. I looked in the rear view and saw one very satisfied cheeseburger sitting in the middle of the road, more or less intact except for some mustard and a pickle. You little bastard I thought to myself, now I'm going to have to eat another Clif bar. Moments later the cheeseburger was mushed by a RAV4. I will probably never order a cheeseburger again.
EPILOGUE: Yes, I have been under a lot of stress lately. Why else would I write a one page story about a cheeseburger blowing out my car window?
EPILOGUE, part 2: I would assume that I can still write my cheeseburger off on my taxes as a moving expense even though I didn't actually get to eat it. Can someone check with the IRS on this for me?
They Like to Run
Why limit the stress of the holidays to taking finals, driving to Ohio, and moving on Christmas Eve, when you can also throw in three days of dogsledding?
I recently joined the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) because I wanted to take some of their mountaineering seminars. I just happened to see a dogsledding trip being offered 26 – 29 December. Since my holiday plans had changed, I decided to sign up for the 26 December trip. On 22 December.
Just a note to those of you who are not familiar with the AMC, signing up late for a trip may not work out in your favor. Although there was space on the trip I didn’t get my information packet until the day I was leaving. I had planned to read it but didn’t get around to looking at it because I was busy trying to, due to my move, unpack the boxes that had my trip gear in them. Also, I had to get my new iPod set up. I didn’t think it was necessary to read the Directions section of my information packet as I had gotten directions to Redfield, NY from Mapquest and, at noon on 26 December, I left for New York.
Traffic crawled along 95 North and the Jersey turnpike. There were times when I would sit for 10 minutes without moving. A trip to NYC should take three hours at the most, instead of the 6 it was taking me. Because traffic was so bad I hit NYC at rush hour, a most unpleasant time to be in the city. My directions said something about veering off onto 80West but then they also mentioned continuing on 95 North. I followed the signs for 95 North instead of getting off on 80 West and found myself going through tunnels, over bridges, and around the most discombobulating traffic scenarios imaginable including one situation where my little Subaru was forced by some traffic cones to merge simultaneously with five pissed off semi trucks into one lane. I survived thanks to all wheel drive and the mushiness of those stupid cones.
Once the traffic and the city were behind me I started speeding a little. The next thing I knew I was in New Haven, Connecticut. That didn’t seem right at all. I looked at my Mapquest map to see if I was supposed to be in Connecticut. That’s when I noticed that it didn’t show Lake Ontario, which is where the town of Redfield is located, about 5 miles from the shore. It also didn’t show Connecticut, at least not on the highlighted route.
I stopped at a gas station on 95N to ask directions. They laughed at me. They said I was 2 hours away from NYC and 80 West. They had no idea where Redfield New York was. They wished me good luck.
I managed to make it back to NYC in an hour, speeding dangerously while also fiddling around with my iPod and smoking many cigarettes. I took the 80 West exit and then was unceremoniously dumped back on to the New Jersey Turnpike because, coming from the north, you have to take about 4 exits to actually get on 80 West. Sneaky. I finally pulled into the Vince Lombardi rest stop, my favorite on the turnpike. I looked at my directions, which indicated that I should only be an hour away from my destination, which was a relief because I had been driving since noon and it was now 8:30.
While some Jersey guy filled my car with gas I looked at the AMC packet. Under the heading Directions it said “It will take you approximately 6 hours to get to Redfield from NYC so plan accordingly”. I also noticed the zip code of the place in the AMC packet was different than the zip code on my Mapquest directions. And the directions did not match at all.
Panicking I called the Crossroads Inn, where I was supposed to be staying for the trip. Mitch, the proprietor of the inn, answered the phone. At this point it was 845 and he sounded kind of sleepy. I explained to Mitch that my Mapquest directions to his inn seemed to be wrong, that I was at a rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike, that I kept trying to get on the 80 West exit but couldn’t, and that I had no idea where I was going. Mitch informed me that my directions were wrong, the area where my directions sent me was across the state from Redfield, and that he wasn’t expecting any more people for the dog sledding trip, and that I might be confusing his Crossroads Inn with another. He stated “There must be at least 250 Crossroads Inns in New York”. Before he could hang up on me I started throwing out names, reservation numbers, my AMC number, and any other information I could think of. I stressed to him that I HAD to go on this dogsledding trip no matter what it was going to take to get to the inn. Mitch then offered to give me directions.
He told me to first take 80 West to the Delaware Water Gap, then take some route (380?) to Scranton, PA, then get off at 81 North and drive until I hit a town called Mexico, where I was to exit and then down a series of county roads that I had to navigate by landmark rather than signage, to the inn.
Oh great, I thought. This guy is an even bigger idiot than I am. Delaware, Pennsylvania, and Mexico? Wasn’t I going to upstate New York? Why was he sending me through all these other places? Were they even CLOSE to where I was going? Why couldn’t I be one of those people who knew where all the states are? I silently cursed my 5th grade geography teacher, who was a drunk with shaky hands and who never managed to get past the location of Ohio, Kentucky, and Indiana on our plastic school maps. She later had a nervous breakdown and was replaced by a nun who apparently took her vow of silence seriously. We spent the rest of the year coloring pictures of state flags and I never did get to learn any of the state capitols much less the locations of the states.
So, I decided to fly straight into the dark void of 80 west, trusting Mitch, as I had no other choice. He had warned me that I probably would not get to Redfield until 3 in the morning[1] and that he would leave a cabin open for me. I was kind of psyched about that as the AMC trip cost included lodging and involved me sharing a room with a person I didn’t know and sharing a bathroom with 3 people. I don’t particularly like to share so having my own cabin made the pain of the trip worth it.
Cruising down 80 West I decided it was time for a little snack so I started opening a bag of wheat chex, possibly the best food on earth. Of course, simultaneous to this I was also smoking a cigarette and trying to get my iPod to move to the next song while also not knocking my hastily scribbled directions onto the floor, or worse, out the window. To accomplish these many tasks I was handling the wheat chex bag opening with my teeth. I had somehow forgotten about those tricky vertical seamed bags that the cereal comes in. As I started pulling on the little hole I had made with my teeth to make it bigger the bag exploded on the seam and wheat chex flew everywhere. It was like having a ticker tape parade for myself.
Busy cursing I barely registered a car headed straight towards my driver’s side door. In fact, I didn’t notice it at all until the party lights came on. Looking down at the dash I realized that I was doing close to ninety[2]. I had no idea what the speed limit was, but realized I was about to find out.
Before the officer had completely reached my car and before he could even speak I had the window rolled down and started explaining to him the whole story of what had happened to me that day. He shone his flashlight on my Mapquest directions as well as my new, scribbled directions. I also showed him my new iPod, the FM Transmitter that went with it, my new shoes that I had purchased for the trip that were sitting on the passenger seat because I like to drive in my socks[3], my very puffy orange down jacket which was brand new and unworn, and my dog sledding packet. As I paused for a breath he immediately interjected with “Do you know how fast you were going?”
“No” I said, shaking my head to add conviction to an obviously bald faced lie. A wheat chex fell out of my hair.
“Do you know what the speed limit is?” he asked me.
“I was actually speeding up to see what it was so I wouldn’t be speeding.” That will throw him for a little loop, I thought.
“But ma’am, you just passed a sign right back there.” He pointed his flashlight in the direction of a sign that was around the place where he pulled out.
“Oh. Well I didn’t see THAT sign because of the explosion.”
“Explosion?”
“In my car.”
“In your CAR?”
“The bag seam blew.” I held up my almost empty wheat chex bag. I noticed that I had accumulated a pile of wheat chex in my lap.
“What IS that?”
“A wheat chex. Try one.” I held the bag out to him.
He put one in his mouth. “Tasty.”
“They have lots of vitamins. And minerals. And low sodium.”
I saw him staring back at his car. He wore the resigned look of one defeated by the blonde Jedi mind control trick. He sighed.
“Okay, I’m going to give you a warning. No more speeding. And you have some of that wheat stuff in your hair. Have a safe trip.”
He walked away shaking his head. They always do.
A scant 3 hours later I was on I-81 North. For a moment I thought I was going to make it to Redfield in another hour. I had to get off on exit 36 and I was at exit 139. I started to get excited about arriving at my destination when I noticed that the exit numbers were going up instead of down. I was still in Pennsylvania. I cursed New York for being so far away.
Eventually I did cross the state line and then a new worry hit me. Where was the snow? Through bleary eyes I looked around at the black fields, hills, trees, lakes, roads, houses, bushes, and grass. No snow. It was as if some malevolent force was trying to sabotage my trip. Then my iPod battery died. So on top of all my other neurotic car fidgeting I had to now add scanning for a station. The two songs I heard for the next hour and a half were the milkshake song and Here Without You. Here Without You made me a little weepy at first because it reminded me of a recent breakup. But after the 18th time I heard it, I wanted to cry because I was so sick of it and nothing else was on the radio.
Finally, I reached the exit before Mexico, which is Central Square. Literally at the exit, there was snow in an almost perfect straight dividing line. This is called “the lake effect”. Wind blows off the lake causing the temperature to drop and snow to fall. Or at least that’s what Larry, the guy who ran the dog sled trip told me. Of course, he also told me, when my lead dog was misbehaving, to bite her on the nose[4].
At 2 AM, I rolled up to the Crossroads Inn and settled into my cabin. Four hours later I was up and at breakfast with the group I would be sledding with. Janet is a bond analyst from Boston and I felt like she was a kindred spirit. Her outfit matched perfectly. She had much cooler shoes and gloves than I did. I was a little jealous. Eleanor is an English professor at Columbia, whose specialty is ancient Greek, and she happened to be reading an obscure book about the plays of Archimedes. Well, she carried the book around, but I can’t say that she really was reading it. I read the book cover and decided life was too precious to waste on such academic drivel. Mark and Alina are dentally inclined people. Alina is a dentist, who was very impressed with my veneers, and Mark is an orthodontist, who yelled at me for not wearing my retainer until I was 25. Their two kids, Chris and Marissa, were on their third dog sledding trip.
After not eating breakfast, which consisted of a fried, thick, pink piece of ham bigger than my face, and instead having some cookies that were sitting on the counter that I was not supposed to touch because they were for another group, we headed off to what I came to think of as the dog farm.
I wasn’t sure what to expect but no amount of web research could have prepared me. Imagine entering an outdoor area that contains about 60 semi-wild sled dogs. Each dog is chained to a thick metal pole. At the base of the pole is a plastic barrel filled with straw and a flattened path of snow surrounds the barrel because the dogs constantly run in a circle. Some hop over their barrels, others lunge out only to be snapped back by the chain. Urine and feces abound, as well as pink snow from bloodied paws. The howling, screeching, barking, and baying never ceases for an instant. It could have been an insane asylum for dogs, but it was in fact the place where I would be hanging out for the next three days.
Larry owns the farm and has been raising dogs his whole life. He used to race but quit because of the cost and the amount of work. Morgan was his helper, and though he has a normal job he goes on these trips because he loves to sled. Dave was the cook, but none of us got to meet him. He lives in Larry’s house but he stays in the basement, which is dark, wearing sunglasses. Dave has “multiple chemical sensitivity” as well as sensitivity to electricity. Turning a fluorescent light on over his head would send him straight to the emergency room. Larry had to move his computer and TV to another building on his farm because Dave can’t tolerate them. He does put up with the phone, although Larry said when the phone rings it hurts Dave[5]. I found out about Dave’s allergies when Larry informed me that my carefully compiled list of food allergies that I turned in to the AMC did not make it into his hands. “Is there something major that you are allergic to that might be in the food?” he asked me.
“Honey.” I said.
“Oh yeah. I’d better let Dave know about that one.”
“Well, I don’t want to be a bother.”
“It’s okay, he understands. He’s allergic to electricity.”
We were told, upon arriving at the farm, to mingle with the dogs to get to know them. As I said before, they are semi-wild. Though smaller than I expected (most were around 50 pounds) they were still big. And mean looking. And lunging at me. And peeing all over the place. And tearing up the straw and the barrels and driving deep ruts into the snow. And occasionally vomiting[6]. I decided to get to know the dogs by staying as far away from them as possible.
After about a half hour of mingling it was time to load up the dog truck so we could go sledding. The dog truck was kind of cool. It had compartments built into it for each dog and then bars across the top for the sleds. Larry had a list of dogs that got to go sledding, and what team the dogs would be on. We followed him through the farm, and he would grab a barking, squirming, jumping beast, unchain it, point it in the direction of one of us hapless sledders, and say something like “You, take Blaster to the truck.” The dog would come tearing at us full speed. Since they are trained as sled dogs, they like to run, even when there’s no place to go.
Everyone else was busy wrestling with one of the little demons so I grabbed a dog as it came racing past me. He jerked me off my feet and started dragging me towards the yellow snow. Larry yelled at me to yank him up on his hind legs and to walk him to the truck or risk being towed through the woods. Even when I pulled the dog up by his collar[7], he was still such a wriggly mass of energy that he almost toppled me twice. Then, once I got the unmanageable beast to the truck, I theoretically was supposed to lift him up into a compartment that he did not seem particularly interested in entering.
“Nice doggy.” I said, trying to pet him to calm him down.
“GRRRRR.” He responded, snapping his teeth as if he were getting paid to bite the air.
Morgan came over to me and shoveled my dog unceremoniously in the compartment. I managed to drag two more dogs to the truck, a major accomplishment. My hands had started to swell and get a rash[8] and I was feeling a little worn out from my journey up the day before. The barking and yapping of the dog farm rose into a mournful howl as the dogs not in the truck realized that they were not going to run today. As these dogs live to run this realization made them so sad that the air was soon overwhelmed with their ululating and cacophonic yowling. This better be fun dammit, I thought to myself, slipping on a patch of ice and dropping my hand warmer into a pile of poop.
We drove for about 15 minutes to the park where we would be running the dogs. Two other dog trucks were in the parking lot when we got there. One was made out of an ambulance, the other made out of an RV. Both had big husky looking dogs that looked like they would be eating small children for their mid-morning snack. It turns out some very famous sledder was there that day running his dogs. He had done the Iditarod and other races. I can’t remember his name but his pack was an impressive sight as they took off running into the woods.
“When he comes down the path, you need to get your sled out of the way” Larry warned us. I imagined that with a simple voice command to the dogs and a little steering there wouldn’t be a problem. In another hour, I would not be so naïve.
The first thing we did was unpack the dogs from their dog truck compartments and chain them to the dog truck. This is not as simple as it sounds because the chains were sometimes under the truck, now mired in mud and poop. Then, after the dogs were chained, we had to rearrange them because they fight with each other. Two dogs can stand side by side for ten minutes without a single problem and then one will suddenly launch itself at the other’s head with super-canine force. I was usually the arbitrator of these little tussles, stepping amongst snapping jaws and scratching paws, grabbing the two combatants by the collar and screaming, “You guys better knock that off NOW or you’re really going to GET IT!” I found sometimes that I could stop the fighting just by yelling. I yelled at Sarge so many times that by the end of the trip he would cower under the truck if I walked by him.
After the dogs were secured we pulled the sleds down from the truck roof and tethered them to the front of the truck. We then ran lines that would be used to tether the dogs to the front of the sleds. A snow brake was attached below the sled handle. We then rounded up for our lesson in sledding.
“You stand here,” said Larry, pointing at two very VERY thin pieces of wood jutting out the back of the sled. For my sled the rails were only about two inches wide, although on other sleds the rails were almost three inches and covered with a piece of plastic to increase friction. Considering how fat my feet are, and how much fatter they were with fleece socks and my monstrous new boots, it seemed highly unlikely I would be able to balance.
“Here’s your brake,” he said, pointing to a metal contraption hanging down from the back of the sled. It looked like an inverted U with the ends sharpened to points. “The important thing about sledding is to not brake at all. If you need to slow down, drag your foot in the snow.” I envisioned what remained of the tendons in my knee separating like rotted rope strands as I tried to stop a sled with my foot. “You can also throw this anchor.” He held up the anchor and I tried to picture myself throwing it into the snow without accidentally slipping and impaling myself on it first. Not going to use the anchor, I decided.
“Okay, any questions?” he asked.
“What are the voice commands for controlling the dogs?” I asked.
“Hike, gee, and haw. But they don’t work. The dogs just run where ever they want. Just let them go. Try not to brake. They don’t like it. And the dogs are just like kids. If you keep yelling at them they aren’t going to listen to you at all.”
“And what’s the command to stop them?”
“You can yell anything you want at them. They’ll stop when they’re ready to stop.”
“But…”
“Look. There’s only two rules you need to know about sledding. The first is never let go of the sled. The second is don’t forget the first rule.”
Janet piped up. “But won’t the dogs stop if you fall off the sled?”
“Eventually. But you could be in for a three-mile walk back to the truck.” Larry looked at the dogs, straining against the chains on the truck. “Once I had a state trooper help me track down a team that dumped me here. They were almost to Lake Ontario.” Lake Ontario was 8 miles away. He sounded so proud.
It was time to attach the dogs to the sleds so that we could start our adventure.
Since there were four sleds, half the group would go on the sleds and the other half would walk to a meeting point in the woods. The first group would ride for 5 or 6 miles, get to the meeting point, and switch with the other group. Larry suggested that Janet and I go on the sleds first because the dogs would be “fresh”, and we were the only ones who had not been sledding before. The non-riders held the lead dogs’ collars as we boarded the sled to keep the dogs from biting each other.
I climbed on the skinny rails of the sled cursing my fat blue boots, more functional, apparently, in the shoe department at Bloomingdales than in the field. The dogs were so excited that they were pulling the sled off the ground in an attempt to run forward even though the sled was still tethered to the truck. A cacophony of yowling, snapping, barking, grunting, and growling filled the air as I tried to maintain balance.
My lead dogs were Maya and Jake. Not surprisingly, female dogs make better lead dogs than males, and they are better at training other dogs to become leads. Maya was training Jake, a white husky with strange black patches on his face and colorless eyes. Jake had made quite a stir getting into the truck, and he had been continually fighting with the other dogs. At the time, I didn’t think anything of his behavior, though. To me he was just another dog, even when he peed on my leg as I put his harness on.
Larry explained that we were to follow the trail and he would ride ahead to guide us. He mentioned again that we were not to, under any circumstance, let go of the sled. Giving a final warning, which was to watch out for the first turn, he headed out, the dogs shrieking with joy as the sled was untethered from the truck. I looked up the trail and saw, about 200 yards ahead, a 90° turn lined on either side with trees. Contemplating the ease of steering my sled I failed to notice I was being untethered from the truck and I felt a sudden jolt as the dogs galloped right into the turn at warp speed. I had obviously under-estimated the strength of the little mutts because it felt as though we were going at least 60 miles an hour.
Jake began rounding the corner in tight formation. My sled swung wide and I lost my footing. The sled spilled over sideways into the snow, scraping along at a furious clip until we crashed into a tree. “STOP!!! STOP!!!” I screamed. The dogs did, but only because they couldn’t run forward anymore with the sled wedged against a huge pine.
I stood up shakily, not releasing the sled. Jake stared at me, his bratty little tongue lazing out of the side of his mouth. The whiskers on his nose twitched with delight in a silent doggy “ha ha”. “Bastard,” I said, under my breath, knowing dogs can hear really well. “GRRR,” he said back.
Just then I looked up to see other members of my party taking pictures of my wreck. Make sure you send that to AMC for next year’s catalog I thought to myself.
I got back on the sled as Larry congratulated me for not letting go. But before I was completely settled, Jake took off again, dragging me through a huge snowdrift, over some rather large rocks, and finally through a not quite frozen creek. After each obstacle Jake would slightly turn his head to see how I was faring. The little nitwitted mutt was really pissing me off.
“Knock it off Jake!” I yelled. “I can have you thrown off this team! I’ll make sure you never lead again! You’re days of racing are over buddy! One more little stunt like that…” Looking up from Jake’s bouncing behind I realized we were now headed straight for a tree. Maya went left. Jake went right. The back two dogs followed Maya, sending me into the tree.
I heard a sickening cracking noise and could not tell if it had come from the sled or me. All the dogs on my team roiled in a collective biting fur pile. Larry heard the crash and headed back my way and began untangling the dogs as soon as he arrived on the scene. He discovered that Jake had chewed through the leather strap that held his collar to Maya’s collar. That little strap of leather is highly important because it forces the two lead dogs to go in the same direction. We jerry rigged the strap with duct tape that I happened to have in my pack.
“Sorry about the sled,” I said to Larry as we got everyone straightened out and ready to go again.
“No problem. I gave you the worst one anyway.” He said, grinning. “Just a hint. You have a brake on that thing.”
As we headed along the course I started using the U shaped brake on the down hills. It seemed to irritate Jake so I was immensely pleased, and would sometimes put on the brake just to see him turn around with bared teeth.
On the uphill part of the course Larry suggested we run behind our sleds to save the energy of the dogs. I did try this but noticed as soon as my weight was off the sled rails Jake would surge forward. Figuring I was safer staying on the sled I watched him put on a big act, huffing and puffing like a doggy drama queen at having to bear my weight up the hill.
I had finally mastered the basic points of sledding when we came to the meeting place where we would switch riders. My dogs ran up to another dog team and started tussling with them while I attempted to stop my sled. I accidentally ran over the back of Alina’s sled before I finally came to a stop.
I dug in the snow anchor as a dog team belonging to one of the racing teams ran by. All of our dogs, that moments before had been laying in the snow as if on the verge of total exhaustion, jumped up and tried to run after them. A dog on Alina’s team did manage to get loose, so Morgan and Larry had to chase him around in the snow, finally catching him with a piece of granola bar.
Alina, Janet, and I started walking back to the cars as everyone else took off on the sleds. By the time we reached the cars the team was headed into the final stretch of the trail so we watched them as they came around the 90° turn where I had had my earlier wreck. No one fell.
When the snow anchors were firmly dug in Larry and Morgan got out doggy bowls and fed the dogs a soup that looked like chicken with rice. Some dogs ate the soup right out of the bowl, whereas others, like Jake, knocked it into the dirty snow before consuming it. We had lunch as well, but we were served pasta with vegetables and gingerbread. Morgan had set up a bunch of camp chairs and we sat in a circle listening to racing stories, as well as stories about Larry’s trials buying meat for the dogs. Apparently the one meat packing plant that he used to buy chicken heads and whatever else it is that he feeds the dogs went out of business and other wholesalers were wary of selling meat to him. I guess they didn’t believe that he was feeding it to dogs. My suggestion that he take the phone into the dog yard while making the call appeared to go unnoticed but not unappreciated.
After lunch we got the dogs back in their little bins and began to take the sleds apart. I got to climb up on top of the truck and bungee cord the sleds to the roof, the best cleanup job to have. Had I been on the ground I would have had to help clean up the poop.
That night I slept extremely well and woke up at 6 a.m. At first I couldn’t figure out why I was awake at such an ungodly hour, and then I heard the ear splitting whine of a snow mobile driving down the road. It sounded like a monster weed whacker. Though I have been snowmobiling before and have nothing against them in certain areas, and at certain times, I found them to be as annoying as mosquitoes in the summer on this trip. They would drive on the road going slowly so you had to drive behind them in all their ugly day-glo glory. Also, they would tear around at all hours of the night and hog the pumps at the gas stations. Larry and Morgan said they had become more of a nuisance over the years, and perhaps Redfield will be eventually over-run by them.
I decided, since I was awake, to head up to the house for breakfast. I went in and found bowls with half a grapefruit sitting on every table mat. The sections of the grapefruit were sliced out so all I had to do was add sugar to the top of the grapefruit to make it edible. The syrup was out on the table so I poured half the bottle into my thermos so I could make some syrup tea, an invention of mine that is useful on any trip involving the cold. Around that time the rest of the crew showed up and began to eat their grapefruit.
Suddenly the kitchen door swung open to reveal Mitch’s wife Brenda bearing a giant basket full of the worst food ever. I’m talking, of course, about waffles. Though I have on occasion pretended to be allergic to waffles that excuse doesn’t usually fly so I tried to think up a reason why I had to make an immediate departure from the dining room just as she was placing a big waffle on my plate. Why people enjoy eating food that is, for all intents and purposes, crust with cesspools of foamy butter and dried up gelatinous syrup I have no idea. My method for handling the scenario was to continually cut my waffle into smaller and smaller pieces, figuring it would eventually dissolve away in the 1-inch pool of syrup on my plate. This scheme seemed to work, but as I was leaving Brenda pulled me aside.
“Do you not like my cooking?” she asked sadly. “You haven’t eaten anything I’ve made other than cookies. What can I make that you’ll eat?” I felt like a jerk. What could I say?
“Well, the cookies would work.” I replied.
“No, I’m talking about breakfast.”
So was I, but apparently these upstate New Yorkers aren’t as quick at picking up on these things.
“I know! I’ll make you some muffins! That’s just like having cookies for breakfast, only better!” She smiled and gave me a hug, walking back to the kitchen. I headed out glumly to my car. I hate muffins as much as I hate waffles. There’s a reason I travel with my own personal stash of breakfast cereal.
At Larry’s place we got the truck loaded with dogs and sleds as if we were old hands at sledding. Janet and I were in the second group of sledders, so we spent the morning leisurely walking to the meeting point. Jake seemed better behaved at the beginning of the run, but as we were making that same 90 degree turn, this time from the other direction, Jake lunged into a snow bank. My sled hit the packed snow and I was almost impaled on the handle. Then he took off running in the opposite direction, knocking my sled on the side. Snow jammed behind my sunglasses so that I couldn’t see a thing and my face was dragged along the icy path, causing my ears to feel as if they were being sawed off the side of my head.
I went sliding by Larry, holding onto the sled for dear life, screaming. Larry yelled, “Hey, you’re going the wrong way!” as I flew past. I would have yelled something in return to him but by then the wind had been knocked out of me and I was unable to speak.
Maya somehow managed to wrest control from Jake, and I arrived at the clearing just as the other dogs were getting their chicken soup. Larry got bowls for my team as Jake sampled some feces left over from another sled team. After everyone had eaten we piled the dogs back into the truck and headed back to the Inn for some dinner.
The next morning was the same as the previous, except that Jake seemed to be even more wound up than the previous days. I was in the first group to sled and Jake was hopping around terrorizing the other dogs as we all waited to start sledding. Larry asked Chris to hold the strap connecting Maya and Jake’s collars together to keep Jake in line. Jake kept yanking Chris off his feet, and then chewed through Chris’ shoelace. Alina tried to help control Jake. Larry’s sled took off, and then Janet’s sled pulled away at warp speed. Around the same time Chris’ hand slipped off the strap and he fell over as Jake lunged towards Janet’s speeding sled. He was hit in the head as it flew by, and he rolled along the snow in a little ball, carrying the other dogs with him. It was like watching him get hit by a car.
I yelled that he had been hit but Morgan said, “Oh, he’s alright,” and untethered me from the truck. Maya took off but Jake was having a hard time keeping up. He kept shaking his head and running into Maya as if he had had one drink too many and was ready to call it a night. I felt horrible watching him struggle up the hills and I got off my sled and pushed it along, shouting little encouragements to him.
When we stopped at the clearing I told Larry about the accident. I felt terrible but there was nothing I could do. Larry checked and said that Jake did not have a concussion, and it looked like he had just damaged his ear. I stroked Jake’s head as foul smelling globules of saliva spilled off the sides of his mouth onto my pants. And then he licked my hand. I took it as a truce, and decided he would have done it even if I hadn’t spilled syrup on my glove earlier that morning.
I did a second ride that day with another sled team and on a better sled. Morgan was testing out a new route so it was just three teams sliding through the woods. The sensation was like skiing without the effort. The sound of the dog’s fur pads hitting the packed snow was hypnotizing and all the trees looked beautiful with the snow piled on the branches. It was thoroughly enjoyable and relaxing. But somehow it just wasn’t the same without Jake.
We had our final lunch in the clearing and began saying our goodbyes. Elinor was driving to New York, Janet to Boston, and Alina, Mark and family were headed to Pennsylvania. I stripped off my top layer of sledding clothes and tossed my jacket into my car, intending to leave as well. Somehow, though, I had managed to hook my keys onto my jacket as I was tossing it into my car, noticing only after I had locked the door. Two hours later, a mechanic showed up on snowmobile and broke into my car. Poor Morgan and Larry had stayed around to make sure I was okay (some of the dog sledders are as scary as their dogs) and we hovered around while the mechanic worked on my car.
It took 45 minutes but he was finally able to break in. I asked him what the fee was and he told me $60. At the time the only cash I had was a $20. “How about a $20 and a hug?” I asked. He stared at the ground for a minute, and then agreed. Larry laughed while I suffered a huge bear hug that practically broke my ribs, and then we watched the mechanic ride away.
Larry and Morgan walked me to my car, holding onto my keys until I was safely inside the car. “Thanks for everything guys. I learned a lot. Sorry about wrecking the sled into a tree.”
“No problem,” Larry said. I drove over to the truck and waited while they got in so I could follow them out to the highway. A dog tail was hanging out one of the bins, whipping around like a flag.
Jake. I guess it was his way of saying goodbye.
[1] The next morning at breakfast everyone told me they thought initially that I was a complete moron for waiting until 830 PM to get directions for the trip.
[2] For the sake of my parents, I will not reveal the REAL speed I was going when I was pulled over.
[3] This, by the way, is illegal. Apparently, you have to drive with shoes on.
[4] When I pointed out to him that she had just bitten through a rather thick rope with one snap of her canines and that her head was flailing around uncontrollably, he said, “Well, you have to TIME the bite just right.”
[5] So, no more making fun of my allergies…
[6] I found out from Larry they vomit from eating their own, or another dog’s, feces, or from running too much after breakfast.
[7] The first time I saw this being done, I thought it would strangle the dogs. But it doesn’t seem to bother them and they hop along on their hind legs pretty easily. They can still breathe because their collars are so loose.
[8] I have an allergy to dogs, which begs the question why I was on a dog sledding trip.
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